17670 lines
1.2 MiB
17670 lines
1.2 MiB
The
|
||
Fellowship
|
||
of
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||
the
|
||
Ring
|
||
J
|
||
R
|
||
Tolkien
|
||
FOREWORD
|
||
This
|
||
tale
|
||
grew
|
||
in
|
||
telling
|
||
until
|
||
it
|
||
became
|
||
a
|
||
history
|
||
Great
|
||
War
|
||
and
|
||
included
|
||
many
|
||
glimpses
|
||
yet
|
||
more
|
||
ancient
|
||
that
|
||
preceded
|
||
It
|
||
was
|
||
begun
|
||
soon
|
||
after
|
||
Hobbit
|
||
written
|
||
before
|
||
its
|
||
publication
|
||
but
|
||
I
|
||
did
|
||
not
|
||
go
|
||
on
|
||
with
|
||
this
|
||
sequel
|
||
for
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||
wished
|
||
first
|
||
to
|
||
complete
|
||
set
|
||
order
|
||
mythology
|
||
legends
|
||
Elder
|
||
Days
|
||
which
|
||
had
|
||
then
|
||
been
|
||
taking
|
||
shape
|
||
some
|
||
years
|
||
desired
|
||
do
|
||
my
|
||
own
|
||
satisfaction
|
||
little
|
||
hope
|
||
other
|
||
people
|
||
would
|
||
be
|
||
interested
|
||
work
|
||
especially
|
||
since
|
||
primarily
|
||
linguistic
|
||
inspiration
|
||
provide
|
||
necessary
|
||
background
|
||
Elvish
|
||
tongues
|
||
When
|
||
those
|
||
whose
|
||
advice
|
||
opinion
|
||
sought
|
||
corrected
|
||
no
|
||
went
|
||
back
|
||
encouraged
|
||
by
|
||
requests
|
||
from
|
||
readers
|
||
information
|
||
concerning
|
||
hobbits
|
||
their
|
||
adventures
|
||
But
|
||
story
|
||
drawn
|
||
irresistibly
|
||
towards
|
||
older
|
||
world
|
||
an
|
||
account
|
||
as
|
||
were
|
||
end
|
||
passing
|
||
away
|
||
beginning
|
||
middle
|
||
told
|
||
process
|
||
writing
|
||
there
|
||
already
|
||
references
|
||
matter
|
||
Elrond
|
||
Gondolin
|
||
High
|
||
elves
|
||
orcs
|
||
well
|
||
arisen
|
||
unbidden
|
||
things
|
||
higher
|
||
or
|
||
deeper
|
||
darker
|
||
than
|
||
surface
|
||
Durin
|
||
Moria
|
||
Gandalf
|
||
Necromancer
|
||
discovery
|
||
significance
|
||
these
|
||
relation
|
||
histories
|
||
revealed
|
||
Third
|
||
Age
|
||
culmination
|
||
Those
|
||
who
|
||
asked
|
||
about
|
||
eventually
|
||
got
|
||
they
|
||
wait
|
||
long
|
||
time
|
||
composition
|
||
Lord
|
||
Rings
|
||
at
|
||
intervals
|
||
during
|
||
period
|
||
duties
|
||
neglect
|
||
interests
|
||
learner
|
||
teacher
|
||
often
|
||
absorbed
|
||
me
|
||
delay
|
||
course
|
||
also
|
||
increased
|
||
outbreak
|
||
war
|
||
year
|
||
reached
|
||
Book
|
||
One
|
||
In
|
||
spite
|
||
darkness
|
||
next
|
||
five
|
||
found
|
||
could
|
||
now
|
||
wholly
|
||
abandoned
|
||
plodded
|
||
mostly
|
||
night
|
||
till
|
||
stood
|
||
Balin
|
||
s
|
||
tomb
|
||
There
|
||
halted
|
||
while
|
||
almost
|
||
later
|
||
when
|
||
so
|
||
came
|
||
Lothl
|
||
rien
|
||
River
|
||
late
|
||
wrote
|
||
drafts
|
||
stands
|
||
Three
|
||
beginnings
|
||
chapters
|
||
III
|
||
Five
|
||
beacons
|
||
flared
|
||
An
|
||
Th
|
||
oden
|
||
Harrowdale
|
||
stopped
|
||
Foresight
|
||
failed
|
||
thought
|
||
leaving
|
||
loose
|
||
ends
|
||
perplexities
|
||
task
|
||
conduct
|
||
least
|
||
report
|
||
forced
|
||
myself
|
||
tackle
|
||
journey
|
||
Frodo
|
||
Mordor
|
||
These
|
||
become
|
||
Four
|
||
sent
|
||
out
|
||
serial
|
||
son
|
||
Christopher
|
||
South
|
||
Africa
|
||
RAF
|
||
Nonetheless
|
||
took
|
||
another
|
||
brought
|
||
present
|
||
changed
|
||
house
|
||
chair
|
||
college
|
||
days
|
||
though
|
||
less
|
||
dark
|
||
laborious
|
||
Then
|
||
last
|
||
whole
|
||
revised
|
||
indeed
|
||
largely
|
||
re
|
||
backwards
|
||
And
|
||
typed
|
||
cost
|
||
professional
|
||
typing
|
||
ten
|
||
fingered
|
||
beyond
|
||
means
|
||
has
|
||
read
|
||
finally
|
||
appeared
|
||
print
|
||
should
|
||
like
|
||
say
|
||
something
|
||
here
|
||
reference
|
||
opinions
|
||
guesses
|
||
have
|
||
received
|
||
motives
|
||
meaning
|
||
prime
|
||
motive
|
||
desire
|
||
teller
|
||
try
|
||
his
|
||
hand
|
||
really
|
||
hold
|
||
attention
|
||
amuse
|
||
them
|
||
delight
|
||
times
|
||
maybe
|
||
excite
|
||
deeply
|
||
move
|
||
As
|
||
guide
|
||
only
|
||
feelings
|
||
what
|
||
is
|
||
appealing
|
||
moving
|
||
inevitably
|
||
fault
|
||
Some
|
||
book
|
||
any
|
||
rate
|
||
reviewed
|
||
boring
|
||
absurd
|
||
contemptible
|
||
cause
|
||
complain
|
||
similar
|
||
works
|
||
kinds
|
||
evidently
|
||
prefer
|
||
even
|
||
points
|
||
view
|
||
enjoyed
|
||
much
|
||
fails
|
||
please
|
||
perhaps
|
||
possible
|
||
everybody
|
||
all
|
||
nor
|
||
displease
|
||
same
|
||
find
|
||
letters
|
||
passages
|
||
are
|
||
blemish
|
||
others
|
||
specially
|
||
approved
|
||
most
|
||
critical
|
||
reader
|
||
finds
|
||
defects
|
||
minor
|
||
major
|
||
being
|
||
fortunately
|
||
under
|
||
obligation
|
||
either
|
||
review
|
||
write
|
||
again
|
||
he
|
||
will
|
||
pass
|
||
over
|
||
silence
|
||
except
|
||
one
|
||
noted
|
||
too
|
||
short
|
||
inner
|
||
message
|
||
intention
|
||
author
|
||
none
|
||
neither
|
||
allegorical
|
||
topical
|
||
put
|
||
down
|
||
roots
|
||
into
|
||
past
|
||
threw
|
||
unexpected
|
||
branches
|
||
main
|
||
theme
|
||
settled
|
||
outset
|
||
inevitable
|
||
choice
|
||
link
|
||
between
|
||
crucial
|
||
chapter
|
||
Shadow
|
||
Past
|
||
oldest
|
||
parts
|
||
foreshadow
|
||
threat
|
||
disaster
|
||
point
|
||
developed
|
||
along
|
||
essentially
|
||
lines
|
||
if
|
||
averted
|
||
Its
|
||
sources
|
||
mind
|
||
cases
|
||
nothing
|
||
modified
|
||
began
|
||
sequels
|
||
real
|
||
does
|
||
resemble
|
||
legendary
|
||
conclusion
|
||
If
|
||
inspired
|
||
directed
|
||
development
|
||
legend
|
||
certainly
|
||
seized
|
||
used
|
||
against
|
||
Sauron
|
||
annihilated
|
||
enslaved
|
||
Barad
|
||
d
|
||
r
|
||
destroyed
|
||
occupied
|
||
Saruman
|
||
failing
|
||
get
|
||
possession
|
||
m
|
||
confusion
|
||
treacheries
|
||
missing
|
||
links
|
||
researches
|
||
lore
|
||
made
|
||
challenge
|
||
self
|
||
styled
|
||
Ruler
|
||
Middle
|
||
earth
|
||
conflict
|
||
both
|
||
sides
|
||
held
|
||
hatred
|
||
contempt
|
||
survived
|
||
slaves
|
||
Other
|
||
arrangements
|
||
devised
|
||
according
|
||
tastes
|
||
views
|
||
allegory
|
||
cordially
|
||
dislike
|
||
manifestations
|
||
always
|
||
done
|
||
old
|
||
wary
|
||
enough
|
||
detect
|
||
presence
|
||
true
|
||
feigned
|
||
varied
|
||
applicability
|
||
experience
|
||
think
|
||
confuse
|
||
resides
|
||
freedom
|
||
purposed
|
||
domination
|
||
cannot
|
||
remain
|
||
unaffected
|
||
ways
|
||
germ
|
||
uses
|
||
soil
|
||
extremely
|
||
complex
|
||
attempts
|
||
define
|
||
best
|
||
evidence
|
||
inadequate
|
||
ambiguous
|
||
false
|
||
naturally
|
||
attractive
|
||
lives
|
||
critic
|
||
overlapped
|
||
suppose
|
||
movements
|
||
events
|
||
common
|
||
necessarily
|
||
powerful
|
||
influences
|
||
personally
|
||
come
|
||
shadow
|
||
feel
|
||
fully
|
||
oppression
|
||
seems
|
||
forgotten
|
||
caught
|
||
youth
|
||
hideous
|
||
involved
|
||
following
|
||
By
|
||
close
|
||
friends
|
||
dead
|
||
Or
|
||
take
|
||
grievous
|
||
supposed
|
||
Scouring
|
||
Shire
|
||
reflects
|
||
situation
|
||
England
|
||
finishing
|
||
essential
|
||
part
|
||
plot
|
||
foreseen
|
||
event
|
||
character
|
||
without
|
||
need
|
||
contemporary
|
||
political
|
||
whatsoever
|
||
basis
|
||
slender
|
||
economic
|
||
entirely
|
||
different
|
||
further
|
||
country
|
||
lived
|
||
childhood
|
||
shabbily
|
||
motor
|
||
cars
|
||
rare
|
||
objects
|
||
never
|
||
seen
|
||
men
|
||
still
|
||
building
|
||
suburban
|
||
railways
|
||
Recently
|
||
saw
|
||
paper
|
||
picture
|
||
decrepitude
|
||
once
|
||
thriving
|
||
corn
|
||
mill
|
||
beside
|
||
pool
|
||
ago
|
||
seemed
|
||
important
|
||
liked
|
||
looks
|
||
Young
|
||
miller
|
||
father
|
||
Old
|
||
black
|
||
beard
|
||
named
|
||
Sandyman
|
||
issued
|
||
new
|
||
edition
|
||
opportunity
|
||
taken
|
||
revising
|
||
A
|
||
number
|
||
errors
|
||
inconsistencies
|
||
remained
|
||
text
|
||
attempt
|
||
few
|
||
attentive
|
||
raised
|
||
considered
|
||
comments
|
||
enquiries
|
||
seem
|
||
passed
|
||
may
|
||
because
|
||
keep
|
||
notes
|
||
answered
|
||
additional
|
||
appendices
|
||
production
|
||
accessory
|
||
volume
|
||
containing
|
||
material
|
||
include
|
||
original
|
||
particular
|
||
detailed
|
||
meantime
|
||
offers
|
||
Foreword
|
||
addition
|
||
Prologue
|
||
index
|
||
names
|
||
persons
|
||
places
|
||
items
|
||
purpose
|
||
reduce
|
||
bulk
|
||
making
|
||
full
|
||
use
|
||
prepared
|
||
Mrs
|
||
N
|
||
Smith
|
||
belongs
|
||
rather
|
||
PROLOGUE
|
||
Concerning
|
||
Hobbits
|
||
concerned
|
||
pages
|
||
discover
|
||
Further
|
||
selection
|
||
Red
|
||
Westmarch
|
||
published
|
||
title
|
||
That
|
||
derived
|
||
earlier
|
||
composed
|
||
Bilbo
|
||
himself
|
||
famous
|
||
large
|
||
called
|
||
him
|
||
Back
|
||
Again
|
||
East
|
||
return
|
||
adventure
|
||
great
|
||
related
|
||
Many
|
||
however
|
||
wish
|
||
know
|
||
remarkable
|
||
possess
|
||
For
|
||
such
|
||
collected
|
||
briefly
|
||
recalled
|
||
unobtrusive
|
||
very
|
||
numerous
|
||
formerly
|
||
today
|
||
love
|
||
peace
|
||
quiet
|
||
good
|
||
tilled
|
||
ordered
|
||
farmed
|
||
countryside
|
||
favourite
|
||
haunt
|
||
They
|
||
understand
|
||
machines
|
||
complicated
|
||
forge
|
||
bellows
|
||
water
|
||
loom
|
||
skilful
|
||
tools
|
||
Even
|
||
rule
|
||
shy
|
||
Big
|
||
Folk
|
||
call
|
||
us
|
||
avoid
|
||
dismay
|
||
becoming
|
||
hard
|
||
quick
|
||
hearing
|
||
sharp
|
||
eyed
|
||
inclined
|
||
fat
|
||
hurry
|
||
unnecessarily
|
||
nonetheless
|
||
nimble
|
||
deft
|
||
possessed
|
||
art
|
||
disappearing
|
||
swiftly
|
||
silently
|
||
folk
|
||
whom
|
||
meet
|
||
blundering
|
||
Men
|
||
magical
|
||
fact
|
||
studied
|
||
magic
|
||
kind
|
||
elusiveness
|
||
due
|
||
solely
|
||
skill
|
||
heredity
|
||
practice
|
||
friendship
|
||
rendered
|
||
inimitable
|
||
bigger
|
||
clumsier
|
||
races
|
||
smaller
|
||
Dwarves
|
||
tout
|
||
stocky
|
||
actually
|
||
shorter
|
||
Their
|
||
height
|
||
variable
|
||
ranging
|
||
two
|
||
four
|
||
feet
|
||
our
|
||
measure
|
||
seldom
|
||
reach
|
||
three
|
||
hive
|
||
dwindled
|
||
taller
|
||
According
|
||
Bandobras
|
||
Took
|
||
Bullroarer
|
||
Isengrim
|
||
Second
|
||
foot
|
||
able
|
||
ride
|
||
horse
|
||
He
|
||
surpassed
|
||
records
|
||
characters
|
||
curious
|
||
dealt
|
||
tales
|
||
prosperity
|
||
merry
|
||
dressed
|
||
bright
|
||
colours
|
||
notably
|
||
fond
|
||
yellow
|
||
green
|
||
wore
|
||
shoes
|
||
tough
|
||
leathery
|
||
soles
|
||
clad
|
||
thick
|
||
curling
|
||
hair
|
||
heads
|
||
commonly
|
||
brown
|
||
Thus
|
||
craft
|
||
practised
|
||
among
|
||
shoe
|
||
fingers
|
||
make
|
||
useful
|
||
comely
|
||
faces
|
||
natured
|
||
beautiful
|
||
broad
|
||
red
|
||
cheeked
|
||
mouths
|
||
apt
|
||
laughter
|
||
eating
|
||
drinking
|
||
laugh
|
||
eat
|
||
drink
|
||
heartily
|
||
simple
|
||
jests
|
||
six
|
||
meals
|
||
day
|
||
hospitable
|
||
delighted
|
||
parties
|
||
presents
|
||
gave
|
||
freely
|
||
eagerly
|
||
accepted
|
||
plain
|
||
estrangement
|
||
relatives
|
||
ours
|
||
far
|
||
nearer
|
||
Elves
|
||
Of
|
||
spoke
|
||
languages
|
||
fashion
|
||
disliked
|
||
exactly
|
||
relationship
|
||
can
|
||
longer
|
||
discovered
|
||
lies
|
||
lost
|
||
Only
|
||
preserve
|
||
vanished
|
||
traditions
|
||
appear
|
||
mentioned
|
||
Yet
|
||
clear
|
||
quietly
|
||
aware
|
||
strange
|
||
creatures
|
||
count
|
||
importance
|
||
heir
|
||
suddenly
|
||
renowned
|
||
troubled
|
||
counsels
|
||
Wise
|
||
lands
|
||
regions
|
||
doubtless
|
||
linger
|
||
North
|
||
West
|
||
World
|
||
east
|
||
Sea
|
||
home
|
||
preserved
|
||
knowledge
|
||
learning
|
||
genealogical
|
||
general
|
||
families
|
||
books
|
||
gathered
|
||
reports
|
||
distant
|
||
settlement
|
||
hardly
|
||
looked
|
||
Wandering
|
||
peculiar
|
||
words
|
||
customs
|
||
moved
|
||
westward
|
||
earliest
|
||
glimpse
|
||
dwelt
|
||
upper
|
||
vales
|
||
Anduin
|
||
eaves
|
||
Greenwood
|
||
Misty
|
||
Mountains
|
||
Why
|
||
undertook
|
||
perilous
|
||
crossing
|
||
mountains
|
||
Eriador
|
||
certain
|
||
accounts
|
||
speak
|
||
multiplying
|
||
land
|
||
fell
|
||
forest
|
||
darkened
|
||
name
|
||
Mirkwood
|
||
Before
|
||
divided
|
||
somewhat
|
||
breeds
|
||
Harfoots
|
||
Stoors
|
||
Fallohides
|
||
browner
|
||
skin
|
||
beardless
|
||
bootless
|
||
hands
|
||
neat
|
||
preferred
|
||
highlands
|
||
hillsides
|
||
broader
|
||
heavier
|
||
build
|
||
larger
|
||
flat
|
||
riversides
|
||
fairer
|
||
slimmer
|
||
lovers
|
||
trees
|
||
woodlands
|
||
foothills
|
||
early
|
||
roamed
|
||
Weathertop
|
||
Wilderland
|
||
normal
|
||
representative
|
||
variety
|
||
settle
|
||
place
|
||
longest
|
||
ancestral
|
||
habit
|
||
living
|
||
tunnels
|
||
holes
|
||
lingered
|
||
banks
|
||
west
|
||
followed
|
||
Loudwater
|
||
southwards
|
||
Tharbad
|
||
borders
|
||
Dunland
|
||
north
|
||
northerly
|
||
branch
|
||
friendly
|
||
language
|
||
song
|
||
handicrafts
|
||
hunting
|
||
tilling
|
||
crossed
|
||
Rivendell
|
||
Hoarwell
|
||
mingled
|
||
bolder
|
||
adventurous
|
||
leaders
|
||
chieftains
|
||
clans
|
||
strong
|
||
Fallohidish
|
||
strain
|
||
greater
|
||
Tooks
|
||
Masters
|
||
Buckland
|
||
westlands
|
||
Lune
|
||
Indeed
|
||
remnant
|
||
D
|
||
nedain
|
||
kings
|
||
Westernesse
|
||
dwindling
|
||
fast
|
||
Kingdom
|
||
falling
|
||
wide
|
||
waste
|
||
room
|
||
spare
|
||
incomers
|
||
ere
|
||
communities
|
||
Most
|
||
settlements
|
||
disappeared
|
||
endured
|
||
reduced
|
||
size
|
||
Bree
|
||
Chetwood
|
||
lay
|
||
round
|
||
forty
|
||
miles
|
||
learned
|
||
manner
|
||
turn
|
||
forgot
|
||
whatever
|
||
ever
|
||
Common
|
||
Speech
|
||
Westron
|
||
current
|
||
through
|
||
Arnor
|
||
Gondor
|
||
coasts
|
||
Belfalas
|
||
kept
|
||
months
|
||
store
|
||
personal
|
||
About
|
||
becomes
|
||
reckoning
|
||
thousand
|
||
hundred
|
||
Fallohide
|
||
brothers
|
||
Marcho
|
||
Blanco
|
||
having
|
||
obtained
|
||
permission
|
||
high
|
||
king
|
||
Fornost
|
||
river
|
||
Baranduin
|
||
Bridge
|
||
Stonebows
|
||
built
|
||
power
|
||
ail
|
||
dwell
|
||
Far
|
||
Downs
|
||
All
|
||
demanded
|
||
repair
|
||
bridges
|
||
roads
|
||
speed
|
||
messengers
|
||
acknowledge
|
||
lordship
|
||
Brandywine
|
||
turned
|
||
Year
|
||
dates
|
||
reckoned
|
||
At
|
||
western
|
||
While
|
||
subjects
|
||
ruled
|
||
meddled
|
||
outside
|
||
To
|
||
battle
|
||
Witch
|
||
lord
|
||
Angmar
|
||
bowmen
|
||
aid
|
||
maintained
|
||
record
|
||
ended
|
||
chose
|
||
chiefs
|
||
Thain
|
||
authority
|
||
gone
|
||
wars
|
||
prospered
|
||
multiplied
|
||
Dark
|
||
Plague
|
||
S
|
||
Long
|
||
Winter
|
||
famine
|
||
thousands
|
||
perished
|
||
Dearth
|
||
accustomed
|
||
plenty
|
||
rich
|
||
kindly
|
||
deserted
|
||
entered
|
||
farms
|
||
cornlands
|
||
vineyards
|
||
woods
|
||
Forty
|
||
leagues
|
||
stretched
|
||
fifty
|
||
northern
|
||
moors
|
||
marshes
|
||
south
|
||
region
|
||
district
|
||
business
|
||
pleasant
|
||
comer
|
||
plied
|
||
heeded
|
||
where
|
||
right
|
||
sensible
|
||
ignored
|
||
known
|
||
Guardians
|
||
labours
|
||
sheltered
|
||
ceased
|
||
remember
|
||
warlike
|
||
fought
|
||
themselves
|
||
olden
|
||
obliged
|
||
fight
|
||
maintain
|
||
opens
|
||
within
|
||
memory
|
||
Battle
|
||
Greenfields
|
||
routed
|
||
invasion
|
||
Orcs
|
||
weathers
|
||
grown
|
||
milder
|
||
wolves
|
||
ravening
|
||
bitter
|
||
white
|
||
winters
|
||
grandfather
|
||
So
|
||
weapons
|
||
trophies
|
||
hanging
|
||
above
|
||
hearths
|
||
walls
|
||
museum
|
||
Michel
|
||
Delving
|
||
Mathom
|
||
anything
|
||
immediate
|
||
unwilling
|
||
throw
|
||
mathom
|
||
dwellings
|
||
crowded
|
||
mathoms
|
||
sort
|
||
ease
|
||
left
|
||
curiously
|
||
difficult
|
||
daunt
|
||
kill
|
||
unwearyingly
|
||
survive
|
||
rough
|
||
handling
|
||
grief
|
||
foe
|
||
weather
|
||
way
|
||
astonished
|
||
bellies
|
||
fed
|
||
Though
|
||
slow
|
||
quarrel
|
||
sport
|
||
killing
|
||
doughty
|
||
bay
|
||
handle
|
||
arms
|
||
shot
|
||
bow
|
||
keen
|
||
sure
|
||
mark
|
||
Not
|
||
bows
|
||
arrows
|
||
stooped
|
||
stone
|
||
quickly
|
||
cover
|
||
trespassing
|
||
beasts
|
||
knew
|
||
originally
|
||
ground
|
||
believed
|
||
felt
|
||
adopt
|
||
forms
|
||
abode
|
||
Actually
|
||
richest
|
||
poorest
|
||
custom
|
||
burrows
|
||
primitive
|
||
mere
|
||
window
|
||
constructed
|
||
luxurious
|
||
versions
|
||
diggings
|
||
suitable
|
||
sites
|
||
ramifying
|
||
smials
|
||
everywhere
|
||
flats
|
||
low
|
||
lying
|
||
districts
|
||
hilly
|
||
villages
|
||
Hobbiton
|
||
Tuckborough
|
||
chief
|
||
township
|
||
White
|
||
houses
|
||
wood
|
||
brick
|
||
favoured
|
||
millers
|
||
smiths
|
||
ropers
|
||
cartwrights
|
||
live
|
||
sheds
|
||
workshops
|
||
farmhouses
|
||
barns
|
||
said
|
||
inhabitants
|
||
Marish
|
||
quarter
|
||
Eastfarthing
|
||
heavy
|
||
legged
|
||
dwarf
|
||
boots
|
||
muddy
|
||
blood
|
||
shown
|
||
chins
|
||
No
|
||
Harfoot
|
||
trace
|
||
afterwards
|
||
up
|
||
elsewhere
|
||
probable
|
||
crafts
|
||
direct
|
||
teachers
|
||
Kindred
|
||
forsaken
|
||
Grey
|
||
Havens
|
||
Elf
|
||
towers
|
||
immemorial
|
||
age
|
||
Tower
|
||
Hills
|
||
marches
|
||
shone
|
||
off
|
||
moonlight
|
||
tallest
|
||
furthest
|
||
standing
|
||
alone
|
||
upon
|
||
mound
|
||
Westfarthing
|
||
see
|
||
lop
|
||
tower
|
||
climb
|
||
sailed
|
||
fewer
|
||
returned
|
||
regarded
|
||
rivers
|
||
small
|
||
boats
|
||
deep
|
||
misgivings
|
||
swim
|
||
lengthened
|
||
afraid
|
||
distrustful
|
||
dealings
|
||
word
|
||
fear
|
||
token
|
||
death
|
||
hills
|
||
usually
|
||
comfortable
|
||
imitations
|
||
thatched
|
||
dry
|
||
grass
|
||
straw
|
||
roofed
|
||
turves
|
||
bulged
|
||
stage
|
||
belonged
|
||
hobbit
|
||
altered
|
||
improved
|
||
devices
|
||
preference
|
||
windows
|
||
doors
|
||
remaining
|
||
peculiarity
|
||
architecture
|
||
inhabited
|
||
Baggins
|
||
bachelors
|
||
exceptional
|
||
Sometimes
|
||
case
|
||
Smials
|
||
Brandybucks
|
||
Brandy
|
||
Hall
|
||
generations
|
||
comparative
|
||
together
|
||
tunnelled
|
||
mansion
|
||
clannish
|
||
relationships
|
||
care
|
||
drew
|
||
elaborate
|
||
family
|
||
innumerable
|
||
dealing
|
||
degree
|
||
impossible
|
||
tree
|
||
members
|
||
tell
|
||
exceedingly
|
||
dull
|
||
accurate
|
||
filled
|
||
fair
|
||
square
|
||
contradictions
|
||
Pipe
|
||
weed
|
||
astonishing
|
||
thing
|
||
must
|
||
imbibed
|
||
inhaled
|
||
pipes
|
||
clay
|
||
smoke
|
||
burning
|
||
leaves
|
||
herb
|
||
pipe
|
||
leaf
|
||
probably
|
||
Nicotiana
|
||
deal
|
||
mystery
|
||
surrounds
|
||
origin
|
||
antiquity
|
||
Meriadoc
|
||
Brandybuck
|
||
Master
|
||
tobacco
|
||
Southfarthing
|
||
play
|
||
follows
|
||
remarks
|
||
introduction
|
||
Herblore
|
||
quoted
|
||
says
|
||
we
|
||
claim
|
||
invention
|
||
granted
|
||
ages
|
||
smoked
|
||
various
|
||
herbs
|
||
fouler
|
||
sweeter
|
||
agree
|
||
Tobold
|
||
Hornblower
|
||
Longbottom
|
||
gardens
|
||
comes
|
||
varieties
|
||
Leaf
|
||
Toby
|
||
Southern
|
||
Star
|
||
How
|
||
plant
|
||
recorded
|
||
dying
|
||
traveller
|
||
thus
|
||
quite
|
||
grows
|
||
slopes
|
||
hill
|
||
actual
|
||
smokers
|
||
everything
|
||
refer
|
||
colonists
|
||
likely
|
||
smoking
|
||
genuine
|
||
spread
|
||
recent
|
||
centuries
|
||
Rangers
|
||
Wizards
|
||
wanderers
|
||
fro
|
||
road
|
||
meeting
|
||
centre
|
||
inn
|
||
Prancing
|
||
Pony
|
||
Butterbur
|
||
observations
|
||
journeys
|
||
convinced
|
||
itself
|
||
native
|
||
northward
|
||
lower
|
||
whither
|
||
suspect
|
||
abundantly
|
||
richer
|
||
wild
|
||
flourishes
|
||
warm
|
||
sweet
|
||
galenas
|
||
esteem
|
||
fragrance
|
||
flowers
|
||
From
|
||
carried
|
||
Greenway
|
||
coming
|
||
Elendil
|
||
allow
|
||
credit
|
||
Wizard
|
||
Ordering
|
||
quarters
|
||
Farthings
|
||
referred
|
||
each
|
||
folklands
|
||
bore
|
||
leading
|
||
although
|
||
proper
|
||
Nearly
|
||
Tookland
|
||
Bagginses
|
||
Boffins
|
||
Outside
|
||
Marches
|
||
Chapter
|
||
V
|
||
added
|
||
government
|
||
Families
|
||
managed
|
||
affairs
|
||
Growing
|
||
food
|
||
matters
|
||
generous
|
||
greedy
|
||
contented
|
||
moderate
|
||
estates
|
||
trades
|
||
tended
|
||
unchanged
|
||
tradition
|
||
Norbury
|
||
nearly
|
||
ruins
|
||
Kings
|
||
covered
|
||
wicked
|
||
trolls
|
||
heard
|
||
attributed
|
||
laws
|
||
free
|
||
Rules
|
||
just
|
||
pre
|
||
eminent
|
||
office
|
||
Oldbucks
|
||
borne
|
||
master
|
||
moot
|
||
captain
|
||
muster
|
||
Hobbitry
|
||
emergency
|
||
occurred
|
||
Thainship
|
||
nominal
|
||
dignity
|
||
accorded
|
||
special
|
||
respect
|
||
wealthy
|
||
liable
|
||
produce
|
||
every
|
||
generation
|
||
habits
|
||
temperament
|
||
latter
|
||
qualities
|
||
tolerated
|
||
generally
|
||
referring
|
||
head
|
||
adding
|
||
required
|
||
instance
|
||
official
|
||
date
|
||
Mayor
|
||
elected
|
||
seven
|
||
Free
|
||
Fair
|
||
Lithe
|
||
Midsummer
|
||
mayor
|
||
duty
|
||
preside
|
||
banquets
|
||
given
|
||
holidays
|
||
frequent
|
||
offices
|
||
Postmaster
|
||
First
|
||
Shirriff
|
||
attached
|
||
mayoralty
|
||
Messenger
|
||
Service
|
||
Watch
|
||
services
|
||
Messengers
|
||
busier
|
||
lettered
|
||
constantly
|
||
relations
|
||
afternoon
|
||
walk
|
||
Shirriffs
|
||
police
|
||
nearest
|
||
equivalent
|
||
uniforms
|
||
unknown
|
||
feather
|
||
caps
|
||
haywards
|
||
policemen
|
||
strayings
|
||
twelve
|
||
Farthing
|
||
Inside
|
||
Work
|
||
body
|
||
varying
|
||
employed
|
||
beat
|
||
bounds
|
||
Outsiders
|
||
nuisance
|
||
begins
|
||
Bounders
|
||
greatly
|
||
complaints
|
||
prowling
|
||
sign
|
||
Few
|
||
notion
|
||
portended
|
||
Sixty
|
||
memorable
|
||
considerable
|
||
wealth
|
||
how
|
||
nephew
|
||
secret
|
||
ring
|
||
bad
|
||
Finding
|
||
door
|
||
thirteen
|
||
dwarves
|
||
Thorin
|
||
Oakenshield
|
||
descendant
|
||
companions
|
||
exile
|
||
With
|
||
lasting
|
||
astonishment
|
||
morning
|
||
April
|
||
quest
|
||
treasure
|
||
hoards
|
||
Mountain
|
||
beneath
|
||
Erebor
|
||
Dale
|
||
successful
|
||
Dragon
|
||
guarded
|
||
hoard
|
||
won
|
||
Armies
|
||
slain
|
||
deeds
|
||
renown
|
||
scarcely
|
||
earned
|
||
note
|
||
annals
|
||
accident
|
||
party
|
||
assailed
|
||
happened
|
||
orc
|
||
mines
|
||
groped
|
||
vain
|
||
floor
|
||
tunnel
|
||
pocket
|
||
luck
|
||
Trying
|
||
bottom
|
||
cold
|
||
lake
|
||
light
|
||
island
|
||
rock
|
||
Gollum
|
||
loathsome
|
||
creature
|
||
paddled
|
||
boat
|
||
peering
|
||
pale
|
||
luminous
|
||
eyes
|
||
catching
|
||
blind
|
||
fish
|
||
raw
|
||
ate
|
||
catch
|
||
strangle
|
||
struggle
|
||
gold
|
||
wearer
|
||
invisible
|
||
loved
|
||
precious
|
||
talked
|
||
hidden
|
||
safe
|
||
hole
|
||
spying
|
||
ores
|
||
Maybe
|
||
attacked
|
||
met
|
||
knife
|
||
served
|
||
sword
|
||
gain
|
||
challenged
|
||
Riddle
|
||
game
|
||
saying
|
||
riddle
|
||
guess
|
||
defeated
|
||
lead
|
||
Since
|
||
riddles
|
||
wits
|
||
stumped
|
||
ask
|
||
cried
|
||
lad
|
||
picked
|
||
What
|
||
haw
|
||
answer
|
||
Authorities
|
||
differ
|
||
whether
|
||
question
|
||
strict
|
||
rules
|
||
Game
|
||
accepting
|
||
trying
|
||
bound
|
||
promise
|
||
pressed
|
||
slimy
|
||
might
|
||
prove
|
||
promises
|
||
sacred
|
||
wickedest
|
||
feared
|
||
break
|
||
heart
|
||
treachery
|
||
slipped
|
||
hungry
|
||
angry
|
||
weapon
|
||
His
|
||
screech
|
||
shiver
|
||
leaped
|
||
pocketses
|
||
flame
|
||
sped
|
||
murder
|
||
recover
|
||
Just
|
||
peril
|
||
fled
|
||
blindly
|
||
passage
|
||
saved
|
||
ran
|
||
finger
|
||
seeing
|
||
guard
|
||
lest
|
||
thief
|
||
escape
|
||
Warily
|
||
cursing
|
||
talking
|
||
talk
|
||
guessed
|
||
truth
|
||
marvellous
|
||
chance
|
||
length
|
||
halt
|
||
unseen
|
||
opening
|
||
led
|
||
gates
|
||
eastward
|
||
side
|
||
crouched
|
||
smelling
|
||
listening
|
||
tempted
|
||
slay
|
||
pity
|
||
stayed
|
||
help
|
||
wretched
|
||
disadvantage
|
||
gathering
|
||
courage
|
||
pursued
|
||
enemy
|
||
cries
|
||
hate
|
||
despair
|
||
Thief
|
||
We
|
||
hates
|
||
Now
|
||
promised
|
||
give
|
||
fetch
|
||
birthday
|
||
tight
|
||
show
|
||
reward
|
||
instead
|
||
memoirs
|
||
Council
|
||
Evidently
|
||
several
|
||
copies
|
||
abstracts
|
||
contain
|
||
alternative
|
||
doubt
|
||
Samwise
|
||
delete
|
||
disbelieved
|
||
continued
|
||
Eventually
|
||
questioning
|
||
strained
|
||
wizard
|
||
disturbing
|
||
contrary
|
||
idea
|
||
hobbitlike
|
||
suggested
|
||
confessed
|
||
overheard
|
||
suspicious
|
||
escaped
|
||
guards
|
||
gate
|
||
rejoined
|
||
chiefly
|
||
After
|
||
anyone
|
||
save
|
||
else
|
||
existence
|
||
Journey
|
||
Sting
|
||
hung
|
||
fireplace
|
||
coat
|
||
mail
|
||
gift
|
||
lent
|
||
drawer
|
||
Bag
|
||
End
|
||
cloak
|
||
hood
|
||
worn
|
||
travels
|
||
secured
|
||
fine
|
||
chain
|
||
June
|
||
nd
|
||
second
|
||
notable
|
||
Mr
|
||
preparations
|
||
celebration
|
||
eleventh
|
||
History
|
||
played
|
||
inclusion
|
||
Reunited
|
||
awakened
|
||
widespread
|
||
interest
|
||
mainly
|
||
oral
|
||
Written
|
||
century
|
||
Fourth
|
||
libraries
|
||
contained
|
||
historical
|
||
largest
|
||
collections
|
||
Undertowers
|
||
source
|
||
Fairbairns
|
||
Wardens
|
||
private
|
||
diary
|
||
annexed
|
||
single
|
||
volumes
|
||
leather
|
||
parting
|
||
fifth
|
||
commentaries
|
||
genealogies
|
||
descendants
|
||
children
|
||
copy
|
||
Condor
|
||
request
|
||
grandson
|
||
Peregrin
|
||
completed
|
||
F
|
||
southern
|
||
scribe
|
||
appended
|
||
Findegil
|
||
King
|
||
Writer
|
||
finished
|
||
IV
|
||
exact
|
||
details
|
||
Minas
|
||
Tirith
|
||
Elessar
|
||
Periannath
|
||
retired
|
||
omitted
|
||
annotation
|
||
corrections
|
||
quotations
|
||
abbreviated
|
||
version
|
||
Tale
|
||
Aragorn
|
||
Arwen
|
||
lie
|
||
stated
|
||
Barahir
|
||
Steward
|
||
Faramir
|
||
contains
|
||
Translations
|
||
available
|
||
connexions
|
||
Rohan
|
||
Bucklebury
|
||
remembered
|
||
Reckoning
|
||
Years
|
||
discussed
|
||
calendars
|
||
treatise
|
||
Words
|
||
Names
|
||
discovering
|
||
kinship
|
||
Rohirrim
|
||
shire
|
||
elements
|
||
None
|
||
successors
|
||
manuscripts
|
||
scribes
|
||
summaries
|
||
relating
|
||
heirs
|
||
extensive
|
||
materials
|
||
menor
|
||
arising
|
||
assistance
|
||
conjectural
|
||
deserve
|
||
visited
|
||
departed
|
||
sons
|
||
elven
|
||
Celeborn
|
||
departure
|
||
Galadriel
|
||
LONG
|
||
EXPECTED
|
||
PARTY
|
||
announced
|
||
shortly
|
||
celebrating
|
||
eleventy
|
||
magnificence
|
||
excitement
|
||
wonder
|
||
sixty
|
||
disappearance
|
||
riches
|
||
local
|
||
popularly
|
||
Hill
|
||
stuffed
|
||
fame
|
||
prolonged
|
||
vigour
|
||
marvel
|
||
Time
|
||
effect
|
||
ninety
|
||
nine
|
||
shook
|
||
unfair
|
||
apparently
|
||
perpetual
|
||
reputedly
|
||
inexhaustible
|
||
paid
|
||
isn
|
||
t
|
||
natural
|
||
trouble
|
||
money
|
||
willing
|
||
forgive
|
||
oddities
|
||
fortune
|
||
visiting
|
||
terms
|
||
Sackville
|
||
devoted
|
||
admirers
|
||
poor
|
||
unimportant
|
||
younger
|
||
cousins
|
||
grow
|
||
eldest
|
||
young
|
||
adopted
|
||
hopes
|
||
dashed
|
||
September
|
||
You
|
||
better
|
||
celebrate
|
||
comfortably
|
||
tweens
|
||
irresponsible
|
||
twenties
|
||
thirty
|
||
Twelve
|
||
Each
|
||
lively
|
||
combined
|
||
understood
|
||
planned
|
||
autumn
|
||
going
|
||
respectable
|
||
Tongues
|
||
wag
|
||
Bywater
|
||
rumour
|
||
travelled
|
||
topic
|
||
conversation
|
||
reminiscences
|
||
welcome
|
||
demand
|
||
audience
|
||
Ham
|
||
Gamgee
|
||
Gaffer
|
||
forth
|
||
Ivy
|
||
Bush
|
||
garden
|
||
helped
|
||
Holman
|
||
job
|
||
growing
|
||
stiff
|
||
joints
|
||
youngest
|
||
Sam
|
||
Both
|
||
Number
|
||
Bagshot
|
||
Row
|
||
below
|
||
nice
|
||
spoken
|
||
gentlehobbit
|
||
ve
|
||
declared
|
||
perfect
|
||
polite
|
||
calling
|
||
Hamfast
|
||
consulting
|
||
vegetables
|
||
potatoes
|
||
recognized
|
||
neighbourhood
|
||
including
|
||
Noakes
|
||
half
|
||
beats
|
||
why
|
||
looking
|
||
wife
|
||
folks
|
||
queer
|
||
Daddy
|
||
Twofoot
|
||
neighbour
|
||
wrong
|
||
agin
|
||
Forest
|
||
Dad
|
||
Buck
|
||
breed
|
||
seemingly
|
||
fool
|
||
big
|
||
Small
|
||
you
|
||
Very
|
||
decent
|
||
Drogo
|
||
drownded
|
||
Drownded
|
||
voices
|
||
rumours
|
||
passion
|
||
ready
|
||
hear
|
||
Well
|
||
married
|
||
Miss
|
||
Primula
|
||
She
|
||
cousin
|
||
mother
|
||
her
|
||
daughters
|
||
removed
|
||
follow
|
||
staying
|
||
law
|
||
Gorbadoc
|
||
marriage
|
||
partial
|
||
vittles
|
||
keeping
|
||
mighty
|
||
table
|
||
boating
|
||
child
|
||
dinner
|
||
weight
|
||
sunk
|
||
she
|
||
pushed
|
||
pulled
|
||
shouldn
|
||
listen
|
||
pushing
|
||
pulling
|
||
Boats
|
||
tricky
|
||
sit
|
||
Anyway
|
||
orphan
|
||
stranded
|
||
Bucklanders
|
||
anyhow
|
||
regular
|
||
warren
|
||
couple
|
||
kinder
|
||
deed
|
||
reckon
|
||
nasty
|
||
shock
|
||
orders
|
||
goes
|
||
bless
|
||
produces
|
||
papers
|
||
inside
|
||
hoped
|
||
tidy
|
||
bit
|
||
tucked
|
||
stranger
|
||
visitor
|
||
top
|
||
your
|
||
packed
|
||
chests
|
||
silver
|
||
jools
|
||
lack
|
||
prentice
|
||
dad
|
||
helping
|
||
trampling
|
||
trapessing
|
||
sale
|
||
pony
|
||
bags
|
||
don
|
||
foreign
|
||
wasn
|
||
fill
|
||
Crazy
|
||
stories
|
||
listens
|
||
harm
|
||
Dragons
|
||
Cabbages
|
||
Don
|
||
getting
|
||
mixed
|
||
betters
|
||
ll
|
||
look
|
||
convince
|
||
firmly
|
||
fixed
|
||
minds
|
||
Ah
|
||
argued
|
||
voicing
|
||
outlandish
|
||
visit
|
||
wandering
|
||
conjuror
|
||
queerer
|
||
retorted
|
||
disliking
|
||
usual
|
||
queerness
|
||
wouldn
|
||
offer
|
||
pint
|
||
beer
|
||
friend
|
||
golden
|
||
Our
|
||
everyone
|
||
invited
|
||
month
|
||
started
|
||
knowledgeable
|
||
fireworks
|
||
nigh
|
||
died
|
||
Day
|
||
odd
|
||
waggon
|
||
laden
|
||
packages
|
||
rolled
|
||
evening
|
||
toiled
|
||
startled
|
||
peered
|
||
lamplit
|
||
gape
|
||
driven
|
||
singing
|
||
songs
|
||
beards
|
||
hoods
|
||
week
|
||
cart
|
||
direction
|
||
daylight
|
||
man
|
||
driving
|
||
tall
|
||
pointed
|
||
blue
|
||
hat
|
||
grey
|
||
scarf
|
||
bushy
|
||
eyebrows
|
||
stuck
|
||
brim
|
||
cargo
|
||
rightly
|
||
front
|
||
unload
|
||
bundles
|
||
sorts
|
||
shapes
|
||
labelled
|
||
G
|
||
elf
|
||
rune
|
||
fires
|
||
smokes
|
||
lights
|
||
dangerous
|
||
attractions
|
||
Party
|
||
Hence
|
||
Grand
|
||
shouted
|
||
smiled
|
||
sight
|
||
occasionally
|
||
elders
|
||
firework
|
||
displays
|
||
unloading
|
||
pennies
|
||
squib
|
||
cracker
|
||
forthcoming
|
||
disappointment
|
||
onlookers
|
||
Run
|
||
shut
|
||
stared
|
||
feeling
|
||
sitting
|
||
open
|
||
peaceful
|
||
glowed
|
||
snap
|
||
dragons
|
||
sun
|
||
nasturtiums
|
||
trailing
|
||
turf
|
||
peeping
|
||
Yes
|
||
am
|
||
dear
|
||
holiday
|
||
mean
|
||
plan
|
||
haven
|
||
Stick
|
||
enjoy
|
||
Thursday
|
||
joke
|
||
Who
|
||
shaking
|
||
shall
|
||
carts
|
||
grumbling
|
||
locally
|
||
pour
|
||
provision
|
||
commodity
|
||
luxury
|
||
anywhere
|
||
People
|
||
enthusiastic
|
||
tick
|
||
calendar
|
||
watched
|
||
postman
|
||
hoping
|
||
invitations
|
||
pouring
|
||
post
|
||
blocked
|
||
snowed
|
||
voluntary
|
||
assistant
|
||
postmen
|
||
constant
|
||
stream
|
||
carrying
|
||
hundreds
|
||
variations
|
||
Thank
|
||
notice
|
||
admittance
|
||
pretended
|
||
Business
|
||
allowed
|
||
busy
|
||
ticking
|
||
answers
|
||
packing
|
||
arrival
|
||
woke
|
||
field
|
||
ropes
|
||
poles
|
||
tents
|
||
pavilions
|
||
entrance
|
||
cut
|
||
bank
|
||
steps
|
||
adjoining
|
||
intensely
|
||
envied
|
||
pretending
|
||
pavilion
|
||
proudly
|
||
near
|
||
Lanterns
|
||
More
|
||
promising
|
||
enormous
|
||
air
|
||
kitchen
|
||
erected
|
||
corner
|
||
draught
|
||
cooks
|
||
around
|
||
arrived
|
||
supplement
|
||
quartered
|
||
Excitement
|
||
rose
|
||
clouded
|
||
Wednesday
|
||
eve
|
||
Anxiety
|
||
intense
|
||
dawned
|
||
clouds
|
||
flags
|
||
unfurled
|
||
fun
|
||
entertainments
|
||
Practically
|
||
overlooked
|
||
guests
|
||
additions
|
||
person
|
||
sundry
|
||
birthdays
|
||
expensive
|
||
ones
|
||
lavishly
|
||
occasion
|
||
system
|
||
somebody
|
||
tired
|
||
On
|
||
unusually
|
||
excited
|
||
toys
|
||
obviously
|
||
guest
|
||
welcomed
|
||
dances
|
||
music
|
||
games
|
||
lunch
|
||
tea
|
||
supper
|
||
marked
|
||
merely
|
||
lots
|
||
continuously
|
||
elevenses
|
||
designed
|
||
effects
|
||
pieces
|
||
flights
|
||
rockets
|
||
let
|
||
distribution
|
||
squibs
|
||
crackers
|
||
backarappers
|
||
sparklers
|
||
torches
|
||
candles
|
||
fountains
|
||
goblin
|
||
barkers
|
||
thunder
|
||
claps
|
||
superb
|
||
flight
|
||
scintillating
|
||
birds
|
||
trunks
|
||
opened
|
||
spring
|
||
unfolding
|
||
moment
|
||
shining
|
||
dropped
|
||
glowing
|
||
scent
|
||
touched
|
||
upturned
|
||
butterflies
|
||
flew
|
||
glittering
|
||
pillars
|
||
coloured
|
||
eagles
|
||
sailing
|
||
ships
|
||
phalanx
|
||
flying
|
||
swans
|
||
thunderstorm
|
||
shower
|
||
rain
|
||
spears
|
||
sprang
|
||
yell
|
||
embattled
|
||
army
|
||
Water
|
||
hiss
|
||
hot
|
||
snakes
|
||
surprise
|
||
honour
|
||
intended
|
||
shaped
|
||
mountain
|
||
distance
|
||
glow
|
||
summit
|
||
spouted
|
||
scarlet
|
||
flames
|
||
Out
|
||
dragon
|
||
life
|
||
terribly
|
||
fire
|
||
jaws
|
||
glared
|
||
roar
|
||
whizzed
|
||
crowd
|
||
ducked
|
||
express
|
||
train
|
||
somersault
|
||
burst
|
||
deafening
|
||
explosion
|
||
signal
|
||
pain
|
||
alarm
|
||
prostrate
|
||
splendid
|
||
limited
|
||
dozen
|
||
Gross
|
||
selected
|
||
unrelated
|
||
parental
|
||
easy
|
||
meal
|
||
Bringing
|
||
lot
|
||
provender
|
||
Grubbs
|
||
grandmother
|
||
Chubbs
|
||
Burrowses
|
||
Bolgers
|
||
Bracegirdles
|
||
Brockhouses
|
||
Goodbodies
|
||
Hornblowers
|
||
Proudfoots
|
||
distantly
|
||
connected
|
||
remote
|
||
corners
|
||
Otho
|
||
Lobelia
|
||
detested
|
||
magnificent
|
||
invitation
|
||
card
|
||
ink
|
||
refuse
|
||
Besides
|
||
specializing
|
||
reputation
|
||
expected
|
||
feast
|
||
dreaded
|
||
speech
|
||
host
|
||
item
|
||
drag
|
||
bits
|
||
poetry
|
||
sometimes
|
||
glass
|
||
allude
|
||
mysterious
|
||
disappointed
|
||
engrossing
|
||
entertainment
|
||
abundant
|
||
purchase
|
||
provisions
|
||
throughout
|
||
ensuing
|
||
weeks
|
||
catering
|
||
depleted
|
||
stocks
|
||
stores
|
||
cellars
|
||
warehouses
|
||
company
|
||
tolerant
|
||
mood
|
||
delightful
|
||
filling
|
||
sipping
|
||
drinks
|
||
nibbling
|
||
dainties
|
||
fears
|
||
cheer
|
||
stop
|
||
My
|
||
rising
|
||
Hear
|
||
repeating
|
||
chorus
|
||
seeming
|
||
reluctant
|
||
illuminated
|
||
lanterns
|
||
beaming
|
||
face
|
||
buttons
|
||
embroidered
|
||
silk
|
||
waistcoat
|
||
waving
|
||
trouser
|
||
ProudFEET
|
||
elderly
|
||
Proudfoot
|
||
merited
|
||
exceptionally
|
||
furry
|
||
repeated
|
||
Also
|
||
Today
|
||
Hurray
|
||
Happy
|
||
Returns
|
||
hammered
|
||
joyously
|
||
tables
|
||
doing
|
||
splendidly
|
||
stuff
|
||
obvious
|
||
enjoying
|
||
yourselves
|
||
Deafening
|
||
cheers
|
||
Cries
|
||
Noises
|
||
trumpets
|
||
horns
|
||
flutes
|
||
musical
|
||
instruments
|
||
Hundreds
|
||
dale
|
||
convey
|
||
agreed
|
||
enchanting
|
||
tones
|
||
supposing
|
||
Uncle
|
||
plainly
|
||
impromptu
|
||
orchestra
|
||
dance
|
||
tune
|
||
Everard
|
||
Melilot
|
||
bells
|
||
Springle
|
||
pretty
|
||
vigorous
|
||
Seizing
|
||
horn
|
||
youngster
|
||
blew
|
||
loud
|
||
hoots
|
||
noise
|
||
subsided
|
||
Cheers
|
||
assembly
|
||
Purpose
|
||
Something
|
||
impression
|
||
pricked
|
||
ears
|
||
Purposes
|
||
immensely
|
||
excellent
|
||
admirable
|
||
Tremendous
|
||
outburst
|
||
approval
|
||
scattered
|
||
clapping
|
||
compliment
|
||
Secondly
|
||
OUR
|
||
inheritance
|
||
perfunctory
|
||
shouts
|
||
Jolly
|
||
juniors
|
||
scowled
|
||
wondered
|
||
meant
|
||
Together
|
||
score
|
||
Your
|
||
numbers
|
||
chosen
|
||
fit
|
||
total
|
||
expression
|
||
ridiculous
|
||
insulted
|
||
goods
|
||
package
|
||
Vulgar
|
||
anniversary
|
||
barrel
|
||
Esgaroth
|
||
Lake
|
||
banquet
|
||
thag
|
||
buch
|
||
repeat
|
||
correctly
|
||
Obstinate
|
||
imminent
|
||
bored
|
||
couldn
|
||
health
|
||
sing
|
||
recite
|
||
paused
|
||
Thirdly
|
||
ANNOUNCEMENT
|
||
loudly
|
||
sat
|
||
regret
|
||
announce
|
||
spend
|
||
END
|
||
NOW
|
||
GOOD
|
||
BYE
|
||
stepped
|
||
blinding
|
||
flash
|
||
blinked
|
||
nowhere
|
||
flabbergasted
|
||
speechless
|
||
Odo
|
||
stamped
|
||
breaths
|
||
Boffin
|
||
Grubb
|
||
Chubb
|
||
Burrows
|
||
Bolger
|
||
Bracegirdle
|
||
Brockhouse
|
||
Goodbody
|
||
taste
|
||
needed
|
||
cure
|
||
annoyance
|
||
mad
|
||
popular
|
||
comment
|
||
exceptions
|
||
behaviour
|
||
prank
|
||
Rory
|
||
Neither
|
||
daughter
|
||
Esmeralda
|
||
fishy
|
||
believe
|
||
Silly
|
||
worry
|
||
hasn
|
||
send
|
||
wine
|
||
silent
|
||
empty
|
||
questions
|
||
difficulty
|
||
indignant
|
||
realized
|
||
dearly
|
||
discussing
|
||
wrath
|
||
want
|
||
drained
|
||
fingering
|
||
walked
|
||
briskly
|
||
smile
|
||
din
|
||
sounds
|
||
merrymaking
|
||
clothes
|
||
folded
|
||
wrapped
|
||
tissue
|
||
untidy
|
||
garments
|
||
fastened
|
||
waist
|
||
belt
|
||
battered
|
||
scabbard
|
||
locked
|
||
moth
|
||
balls
|
||
patched
|
||
weatherstained
|
||
colour
|
||
study
|
||
box
|
||
bundle
|
||
cloths
|
||
manuscript
|
||
bulky
|
||
envelope
|
||
bag
|
||
Into
|
||
sealed
|
||
addressed
|
||
mantelpiece
|
||
Hullo
|
||
glad
|
||
visible
|
||
replied
|
||
wanted
|
||
final
|
||
surprising
|
||
wisely
|
||
explain
|
||
sudden
|
||
vanishment
|
||
spoil
|
||
interfering
|
||
busybody
|
||
laughed
|
||
expect
|
||
affair
|
||
alarmed
|
||
offended
|
||
Are
|
||
Probably
|
||
permanent
|
||
hearts
|
||
snorted
|
||
thin
|
||
butter
|
||
scraped
|
||
bread
|
||
change
|
||
closely
|
||
thoughtfully
|
||
anyway
|
||
somewhere
|
||
rest
|
||
prying
|
||
string
|
||
confounded
|
||
visitors
|
||
bell
|
||
finish
|
||
ending
|
||
happily
|
||
nobody
|
||
Oh
|
||
eye
|
||
offered
|
||
die
|
||
fields
|
||
ought
|
||
oddments
|
||
happy
|
||
gets
|
||
Everything
|
||
er
|
||
yes
|
||
stammered
|
||
Where
|
||
impatiently
|
||
Here
|
||
hesitated
|
||
Isn
|
||
softly
|
||
stay
|
||
gleam
|
||
leave
|
||
behind
|
||
voice
|
||
suspicion
|
||
badgering
|
||
bothered
|
||
badger
|
||
Magic
|
||
rings
|
||
professionally
|
||
unless
|
||
mistaken
|
||
flushed
|
||
yours
|
||
mine
|
||
grave
|
||
flicker
|
||
showed
|
||
sternly
|
||
clearer
|
||
Let
|
||
yourself
|
||
choose
|
||
obstinately
|
||
owe
|
||
Come
|
||
Do
|
||
strayed
|
||
hilt
|
||
flashed
|
||
uncloaked
|
||
step
|
||
menacing
|
||
backed
|
||
wall
|
||
breathing
|
||
clutching
|
||
facing
|
||
tingled
|
||
bent
|
||
Slowly
|
||
relaxed
|
||
tremble
|
||
killed
|
||
hadn
|
||
rob
|
||
trust
|
||
dwindle
|
||
sorry
|
||
relief
|
||
lately
|
||
wanting
|
||
disappear
|
||
wondering
|
||
tried
|
||
locking
|
||
Go
|
||
Stop
|
||
possessing
|
||
Give
|
||
tense
|
||
undecided
|
||
Presently
|
||
sighed
|
||
effort
|
||
shrugged
|
||
shoulders
|
||
ruefully
|
||
somehow
|
||
easier
|
||
breath
|
||
starting
|
||
bye
|
||
bear
|
||
documents
|
||
deliver
|
||
safest
|
||
Put
|
||
clock
|
||
jerked
|
||
packet
|
||
pick
|
||
spasm
|
||
anger
|
||
Suddenly
|
||
hall
|
||
stick
|
||
stand
|
||
whistled
|
||
rooms
|
||
Is
|
||
start
|
||
sky
|
||
dotted
|
||
stars
|
||
sniffing
|
||
Road
|
||
longing
|
||
Good
|
||
bowing
|
||
Take
|
||
wise
|
||
swept
|
||
sang
|
||
Down
|
||
ahead
|
||
Pursuing
|
||
eager
|
||
Until
|
||
joins
|
||
paths
|
||
errands
|
||
trotted
|
||
sloping
|
||
path
|
||
jumped
|
||
hedge
|
||
meadows
|
||
rustle
|
||
wind
|
||
staring
|
||
Goodbye
|
||
indoors
|
||
Has
|
||
serious
|
||
sooner
|
||
slipping
|
||
glanced
|
||
fancy
|
||
exclaimed
|
||
Still
|
||
bed
|
||
painful
|
||
Rumours
|
||
cleared
|
||
midnight
|
||
carriages
|
||
unsatisfied
|
||
Gardeners
|
||
arrangement
|
||
wheel
|
||
barrows
|
||
inadvertently
|
||
Night
|
||
slowly
|
||
Morning
|
||
chairs
|
||
spoons
|
||
knives
|
||
bottles
|
||
plates
|
||
flowering
|
||
shrubs
|
||
boxes
|
||
crumbs
|
||
gloves
|
||
handkerchiefs
|
||
uneaten
|
||
mid
|
||
uninvited
|
||
waiting
|
||
smiling
|
||
worried
|
||
callers
|
||
reply
|
||
inquiries
|
||
simply
|
||
messages
|
||
piled
|
||
assortment
|
||
parcels
|
||
articles
|
||
furniture
|
||
label
|
||
tied
|
||
labels
|
||
ADELARD
|
||
TOOK
|
||
VERY
|
||
OWN
|
||
umbrella
|
||
Adelard
|
||
unlabelled
|
||
DORA
|
||
BAGGINS
|
||
correspondence
|
||
basket
|
||
Dora
|
||
sister
|
||
surviving
|
||
female
|
||
relative
|
||
reams
|
||
MILO
|
||
BURROWS
|
||
B
|
||
pen
|
||
bottle
|
||
Milo
|
||
ANGELICA
|
||
convex
|
||
mirror
|
||
shapely
|
||
collection
|
||
HUGO
|
||
BRACEGIRDLE
|
||
contributor
|
||
Hugo
|
||
borrower
|
||
worse
|
||
returning
|
||
LOBELIA
|
||
SACKVILLE
|
||
PRESENT
|
||
acquired
|
||
former
|
||
assembled
|
||
residence
|
||
cluttered
|
||
tendency
|
||
giving
|
||
responsible
|
||
circulated
|
||
Every
|
||
gifts
|
||
poorer
|
||
sacks
|
||
spade
|
||
woollen
|
||
ointment
|
||
creaking
|
||
hospitality
|
||
Winyards
|
||
mature
|
||
laid
|
||
forgave
|
||
voted
|
||
capital
|
||
fellow
|
||
treasures
|
||
pictures
|
||
mention
|
||
jewellery
|
||
penny
|
||
piece
|
||
bead
|
||
household
|
||
distributed
|
||
wildfire
|
||
Labels
|
||
torn
|
||
quarrels
|
||
broke
|
||
swaps
|
||
deals
|
||
unwanted
|
||
unwatched
|
||
handcarts
|
||
commotion
|
||
Merry
|
||
bowed
|
||
politely
|
||
indisposed
|
||
resting
|
||
Hiding
|
||
improve
|
||
tempers
|
||
fidgeting
|
||
offensive
|
||
offering
|
||
bargain
|
||
prices
|
||
valuable
|
||
insist
|
||
adoption
|
||
carefully
|
||
unfortunately
|
||
correct
|
||
legal
|
||
signatures
|
||
witnesses
|
||
Foiled
|
||
Spoons
|
||
Fiddlesticks
|
||
snapped
|
||
nose
|
||
slumped
|
||
easily
|
||
rid
|
||
investigating
|
||
nooks
|
||
comers
|
||
tapping
|
||
floors
|
||
escorted
|
||
premises
|
||
relieved
|
||
fallen
|
||
Her
|
||
throes
|
||
thinking
|
||
crushing
|
||
remark
|
||
turning
|
||
didn
|
||
belong
|
||
Did
|
||
insult
|
||
evicted
|
||
knocking
|
||
tussle
|
||
Sancho
|
||
excavation
|
||
pantry
|
||
echo
|
||
curiosity
|
||
mysteriously
|
||
positively
|
||
ill
|
||
gotten
|
||
knows
|
||
finding
|
||
search
|
||
interrupted
|
||
overcome
|
||
collapsed
|
||
shop
|
||
Lock
|
||
bring
|
||
battering
|
||
ram
|
||
revive
|
||
belated
|
||
cup
|
||
soft
|
||
knock
|
||
louder
|
||
blow
|
||
Half
|
||
minute
|
||
running
|
||
trap
|
||
curdled
|
||
milk
|
||
Honestly
|
||
longed
|
||
careful
|
||
partly
|
||
Which
|
||
pestered
|
||
secrets
|
||
interesting
|
||
inventing
|
||
altering
|
||
unlike
|
||
happen
|
||
warning
|
||
powers
|
||
vanish
|
||
beg
|
||
rouse
|
||
forward
|
||
Expect
|
||
slip
|
||
shan
|
||
openly
|
||
unpopular
|
||
disturber
|
||
accusing
|
||
spiriting
|
||
abominable
|
||
tramping
|
||
begin
|
||
Look
|
||
unlikely
|
||
wave
|
||
pace
|
||
closing
|
||
cloaked
|
||
figure
|
||
twilight
|
||
THE
|
||
SHADOW
|
||
OF
|
||
PAST
|
||
fireside
|
||
Mad
|
||
bang
|
||
reappear
|
||
jewels
|
||
cracked
|
||
run
|
||
Blue
|
||
undoubtedly
|
||
tragic
|
||
untimely
|
||
blame
|
||
dratted
|
||
sense
|
||
appearance
|
||
growth
|
||
noticeable
|
||
carry
|
||
oddity
|
||
refused
|
||
mourning
|
||
twelfth
|
||
Hundred
|
||
Feast
|
||
twenty
|
||
rained
|
||
shocked
|
||
Birthday
|
||
Folco
|
||
Fredegar
|
||
closest
|
||
Pippin
|
||
wandered
|
||
amazement
|
||
walking
|
||
starlight
|
||
suspected
|
||
signs
|
||
preservation
|
||
outwardly
|
||
retained
|
||
robust
|
||
energetic
|
||
approached
|
||
sober
|
||
future
|
||
steadily
|
||
visions
|
||
dreams
|
||
Perhaps
|
||
cross
|
||
forties
|
||
fiftieth
|
||
drawing
|
||
significant
|
||
ominous
|
||
befallen
|
||
restless
|
||
trodden
|
||
maps
|
||
edges
|
||
spaces
|
||
afield
|
||
anxiously
|
||
Often
|
||
wayfarers
|
||
happening
|
||
news
|
||
troubles
|
||
unusual
|
||
countries
|
||
seeking
|
||
refuge
|
||
whispers
|
||
Enemy
|
||
Land
|
||
memories
|
||
disquieting
|
||
evil
|
||
strength
|
||
strongholds
|
||
rebuilt
|
||
spreading
|
||
Trolls
|
||
abroad
|
||
witted
|
||
cunning
|
||
armed
|
||
dreadful
|
||
murmured
|
||
hints
|
||
terrible
|
||
Little
|
||
ordinary
|
||
deafest
|
||
Green
|
||
opposite
|
||
Ted
|
||
rustic
|
||
Queer
|
||
daresay
|
||
invented
|
||
thank
|
||
ee
|
||
laughing
|
||
Tree
|
||
giants
|
||
Moors
|
||
Hal
|
||
Overhill
|
||
Northfarthing
|
||
Says
|
||
sees
|
||
ain
|
||
elm
|
||
yards
|
||
stride
|
||
inch
|
||
bet
|
||
scored
|
||
deny
|
||
besides
|
||
Halfast
|
||
harbours
|
||
Towers
|
||
waved
|
||
arm
|
||
vaguely
|
||
sail
|
||
chanting
|
||
sadly
|
||
solemnly
|
||
warrant
|
||
fragments
|
||
Leastways
|
||
cracking
|
||
moonshine
|
||
mug
|
||
noisily
|
||
tomorrow
|
||
gardening
|
||
clearing
|
||
cool
|
||
fading
|
||
whistling
|
||
reappeared
|
||
absence
|
||
brief
|
||
During
|
||
fairly
|
||
unexpectedly
|
||
dusk
|
||
sunrise
|
||
discuss
|
||
doings
|
||
visits
|
||
familiar
|
||
tap
|
||
eh
|
||
secretly
|
||
careworn
|
||
Next
|
||
breakfast
|
||
hearth
|
||
fresh
|
||
Spring
|
||
shimmering
|
||
tips
|
||
eighty
|
||
handkerchief
|
||
whiter
|
||
lined
|
||
wisdom
|
||
tidings
|
||
Last
|
||
dared
|
||
utterly
|
||
mortal
|
||
race
|
||
Eregion
|
||
Elven
|
||
potent
|
||
lesser
|
||
essays
|
||
trifles
|
||
mortals
|
||
Power
|
||
keeps
|
||
obtain
|
||
continues
|
||
weariness
|
||
fades
|
||
permanently
|
||
walks
|
||
devour
|
||
terrifying
|
||
sound
|
||
cutting
|
||
lawn
|
||
danger
|
||
worrying
|
||
shrank
|
||
expanded
|
||
warned
|
||
letter
|
||
proud
|
||
uneasy
|
||
Thin
|
||
control
|
||
Known
|
||
test
|
||
mused
|
||
searching
|
||
drove
|
||
Much
|
||
alike
|
||
comfort
|
||
Clearly
|
||
unwholesome
|
||
keeper
|
||
unused
|
||
resented
|
||
watch
|
||
consulted
|
||
concern
|
||
pride
|
||
takes
|
||
meddling
|
||
province
|
||
debated
|
||
reveal
|
||
slept
|
||
uneasily
|
||
waited
|
||
touch
|
||
Wait
|
||
allay
|
||
deadly
|
||
spent
|
||
Be
|
||
Among
|
||
obscure
|
||
surprises
|
||
Soft
|
||
resist
|
||
influence
|
||
wear
|
||
Otherwise
|
||
parted
|
||
accord
|
||
Ever
|
||
charming
|
||
helpless
|
||
overcame
|
||
jolly
|
||
stupid
|
||
shuddered
|
||
hitherto
|
||
thankful
|
||
safety
|
||
servants
|
||
forget
|
||
miserable
|
||
malice
|
||
revenge
|
||
Revenge
|
||
breeches
|
||
clasped
|
||
unfastened
|
||
handed
|
||
pure
|
||
solid
|
||
Can
|
||
markings
|
||
shows
|
||
scratch
|
||
distress
|
||
cry
|
||
tongs
|
||
commanding
|
||
bristling
|
||
brows
|
||
apparent
|
||
closed
|
||
shutters
|
||
curtains
|
||
clack
|
||
shears
|
||
faintly
|
||
gasped
|
||
shrinking
|
||
palm
|
||
thicker
|
||
Hold
|
||
finer
|
||
finest
|
||
strokes
|
||
form
|
||
flowing
|
||
script
|
||
piercingly
|
||
depth
|
||
fiery
|
||
quavering
|
||
mode
|
||
utter
|
||
Tongue
|
||
bind
|
||
verse
|
||
Seven
|
||
Dwarf
|
||
lords
|
||
halls
|
||
Nine
|
||
Mortal
|
||
doomed
|
||
throne
|
||
Shadows
|
||
weakening
|
||
desires
|
||
motionless
|
||
Fear
|
||
stretch
|
||
vast
|
||
cloud
|
||
looming
|
||
engulf
|
||
Black
|
||
masters
|
||
fastness
|
||
Always
|
||
defeat
|
||
respite
|
||
decide
|
||
plans
|
||
ripe
|
||
ripening
|
||
lacks
|
||
resistance
|
||
defences
|
||
fairest
|
||
hid
|
||
sullied
|
||
recovered
|
||
consumed
|
||
ensnared
|
||
dominion
|
||
Ringwraiths
|
||
shadows
|
||
needs
|
||
recovers
|
||
command
|
||
wherever
|
||
wrought
|
||
bare
|
||
stronger
|
||
lose
|
||
clutched
|
||
stretching
|
||
seize
|
||
estranged
|
||
recall
|
||
sorrow
|
||
valour
|
||
Gil
|
||
galad
|
||
overthrew
|
||
Isildur
|
||
vanquished
|
||
spirit
|
||
marching
|
||
Gladden
|
||
Fields
|
||
waylaid
|
||
waters
|
||
swam
|
||
pools
|
||
amid
|
||
edge
|
||
clever
|
||
footed
|
||
akin
|
||
fathers
|
||
reeds
|
||
repute
|
||
wealthier
|
||
stern
|
||
inquisitive
|
||
minded
|
||
Sm
|
||
agol
|
||
dived
|
||
burrowed
|
||
plants
|
||
mounds
|
||
tops
|
||
downward
|
||
sharper
|
||
beds
|
||
iris
|
||
nosing
|
||
fished
|
||
hook
|
||
dragged
|
||
line
|
||
holding
|
||
grabbed
|
||
spluttering
|
||
weeds
|
||
handful
|
||
mud
|
||
behold
|
||
washed
|
||
glittered
|
||
watching
|
||
gloated
|
||
shoulder
|
||
Because
|
||
wants
|
||
afford
|
||
throat
|
||
strangled
|
||
murdered
|
||
cunningly
|
||
wearing
|
||
pleased
|
||
concealed
|
||
crooked
|
||
malicious
|
||
eared
|
||
hurtful
|
||
stature
|
||
shunned
|
||
kicked
|
||
thieving
|
||
muttering
|
||
gurgling
|
||
cursed
|
||
desiring
|
||
expelled
|
||
loneliness
|
||
weeping
|
||
hardness
|
||
journeyed
|
||
flowed
|
||
bending
|
||
dazzling
|
||
pained
|
||
wet
|
||
Sun
|
||
fist
|
||
lowered
|
||
shady
|
||
buried
|
||
cave
|
||
wormed
|
||
maggot
|
||
maker
|
||
learn
|
||
sad
|
||
heat
|
||
origins
|
||
suggests
|
||
remarkably
|
||
Orc
|
||
Think
|
||
cheat
|
||
amused
|
||
wickedness
|
||
providing
|
||
victim
|
||
hurt
|
||
ruined
|
||
proved
|
||
tougher
|
||
chink
|
||
bringing
|
||
angrier
|
||
conquered
|
||
Unless
|
||
cured
|
||
Alas
|
||
Certainly
|
||
faded
|
||
torment
|
||
unbearable
|
||
worth
|
||
furtive
|
||
resentful
|
||
remembering
|
||
altogether
|
||
hated
|
||
Surely
|
||
cared
|
||
treacherously
|
||
abandons
|
||
plays
|
||
handing
|
||
someone
|
||
grip
|
||
playing
|
||
cast
|
||
aside
|
||
decided
|
||
Wouldn
|
||
suited
|
||
strangest
|
||
putting
|
||
betrayed
|
||
devoured
|
||
awake
|
||
sending
|
||
imaginable
|
||
Behind
|
||
design
|
||
plainer
|
||
encouraging
|
||
guessing
|
||
glinted
|
||
apart
|
||
interrupting
|
||
sharply
|
||
proof
|
||
Making
|
||
fitting
|
||
gap
|
||
clearly
|
||
reported
|
||
liar
|
||
sift
|
||
matriarch
|
||
grain
|
||
haunted
|
||
defence
|
||
gnawed
|
||
bones
|
||
previously
|
||
desperately
|
||
harsh
|
||
wrung
|
||
snivelling
|
||
snarling
|
||
misunderstood
|
||
muttered
|
||
gel
|
||
robbed
|
||
pay
|
||
foolishly
|
||
devouring
|
||
timid
|
||
mortally
|
||
Light
|
||
Moon
|
||
hide
|
||
frightened
|
||
unwary
|
||
trail
|
||
curses
|
||
threats
|
||
cheated
|
||
squeezed
|
||
sample
|
||
weary
|
||
snarls
|
||
padding
|
||
streets
|
||
track
|
||
daunted
|
||
hunted
|
||
Wood
|
||
tracked
|
||
Through
|
||
Woodmen
|
||
terror
|
||
ghost
|
||
drank
|
||
climbed
|
||
nests
|
||
crept
|
||
cradles
|
||
ken
|
||
mistake
|
||
worst
|
||
trusted
|
||
greatest
|
||
huntsman
|
||
success
|
||
chase
|
||
perils
|
||
wept
|
||
cruel
|
||
gollum
|
||
whined
|
||
cringed
|
||
rubbed
|
||
licking
|
||
torture
|
||
sneaking
|
||
mile
|
||
beating
|
||
draws
|
||
gather
|
||
summons
|
||
whispering
|
||
Wretched
|
||
lurked
|
||
pried
|
||
examination
|
||
errand
|
||
mischief
|
||
alas
|
||
endure
|
||
accounted
|
||
unnoticed
|
||
imagined
|
||
warnings
|
||
O
|
||
stab
|
||
vile
|
||
Pity
|
||
Mercy
|
||
strike
|
||
rewarded
|
||
ownership
|
||
horrible
|
||
deserves
|
||
Deserves
|
||
judgement
|
||
dies
|
||
fate
|
||
tells
|
||
prison
|
||
treat
|
||
kindness
|
||
destroy
|
||
Make
|
||
Haven
|
||
throwing
|
||
Worst
|
||
exerting
|
||
draw
|
||
stake
|
||
risk
|
||
watchful
|
||
Would
|
||
Have
|
||
hammer
|
||
melt
|
||
Try
|
||
smooth
|
||
device
|
||
roundness
|
||
fling
|
||
hottest
|
||
weighed
|
||
hesitating
|
||
forcing
|
||
movement
|
||
grimly
|
||
Already
|
||
damage
|
||
force
|
||
breaking
|
||
useless
|
||
struck
|
||
sledge
|
||
dint
|
||
unmade
|
||
unscathed
|
||
unheated
|
||
smith
|
||
anvils
|
||
furnaces
|
||
consume
|
||
Ancalagon
|
||
harmed
|
||
Ruling
|
||
Cracks
|
||
Doom
|
||
depths
|
||
Orodruin
|
||
Fire
|
||
grasp
|
||
quests
|
||
Such
|
||
merit
|
||
therefore
|
||
Will
|
||
springing
|
||
lit
|
||
tempt
|
||
weakness
|
||
dare
|
||
wield
|
||
Sunlight
|
||
streamed
|
||
decision
|
||
burden
|
||
puffed
|
||
lids
|
||
intently
|
||
gazed
|
||
fixedly
|
||
embers
|
||
vision
|
||
profound
|
||
wells
|
||
fabled
|
||
Fiery
|
||
sunlit
|
||
Whatever
|
||
meanwhile
|
||
earthquake
|
||
bearable
|
||
firm
|
||
foothold
|
||
series
|
||
uprooted
|
||
desperate
|
||
speaking
|
||
flamed
|
||
amazing
|
||
pinch
|
||
choosing
|
||
sake
|
||
Wild
|
||
travelling
|
||
Underhill
|
||
companion
|
||
spies
|
||
dart
|
||
sill
|
||
thrust
|
||
downwards
|
||
squawk
|
||
curly
|
||
hauled
|
||
ear
|
||
Lor
|
||
sir
|
||
Nothing
|
||
trimming
|
||
border
|
||
exhibited
|
||
eavesdropping
|
||
Eavesdropping
|
||
begging
|
||
pardon
|
||
bristles
|
||
quaking
|
||
unnatural
|
||
puzzled
|
||
straight
|
||
dithering
|
||
listened
|
||
Couldn
|
||
lifted
|
||
clippings
|
||
eyeing
|
||
flickering
|
||
choked
|
||
upset
|
||
partings
|
||
farewell
|
||
comforts
|
||
See
|
||
breathe
|
||
spotted
|
||
toad
|
||
knees
|
||
trembling
|
||
Get
|
||
mouth
|
||
punish
|
||
properly
|
||
Me
|
||
dog
|
||
Hooray
|
||
tears
|
||
THREE
|
||
IS
|
||
COMPANY
|
||
Two
|
||
objected
|
||
mustn
|
||
instantly
|
||
desirable
|
||
savour
|
||
summer
|
||
journeying
|
||
season
|
||
privately
|
||
eighth
|
||
Following
|
||
uppermost
|
||
thoughts
|
||
anxious
|
||
hint
|
||
address
|
||
steer
|
||
Towards
|
||
rashly
|
||
lightly
|
||
Halfelven
|
||
valley
|
||
Giants
|
||
portents
|
||
selling
|
||
sold
|
||
loo
|
||
price
|
||
Mistress
|
||
buyer
|
||
debatable
|
||
theory
|
||
supported
|
||
nods
|
||
proceeds
|
||
immeasurable
|
||
harder
|
||
reason
|
||
unreason
|
||
suggest
|
||
unrevealed
|
||
hiding
|
||
removal
|
||
designs
|
||
wizardry
|
||
bought
|
||
Crickhollow
|
||
eastwards
|
||
eastern
|
||
credible
|
||
arranged
|
||
idle
|
||
immediately
|
||
impress
|
||
dawn
|
||
latest
|
||
disturbed
|
||
uneasiness
|
||
apples
|
||
honey
|
||
dripping
|
||
combs
|
||
Autumn
|
||
Between
|
||
upside
|
||
th
|
||
conveying
|
||
helpers
|
||
spirits
|
||
cheerful
|
||
dining
|
||
happens
|
||
claws
|
||
drop
|
||
sung
|
||
toasted
|
||
sniff
|
||
remainder
|
||
luggage
|
||
charge
|
||
Fatty
|
||
Someone
|
||
arrive
|
||
sleep
|
||
nightfall
|
||
urgently
|
||
pleasure
|
||
Ferry
|
||
training
|
||
dusty
|
||
strenuous
|
||
reflection
|
||
flabby
|
||
sandy
|
||
haired
|
||
Lotho
|
||
Ours
|
||
strictly
|
||
forgiven
|
||
seventy
|
||
keys
|
||
satisfy
|
||
inventory
|
||
key
|
||
Gamgees
|
||
capable
|
||
plundering
|
||
officially
|
||
console
|
||
prospect
|
||
washing
|
||
strapped
|
||
packs
|
||
porch
|
||
stroll
|
||
gloomy
|
||
dishevelled
|
||
sunset
|
||
fade
|
||
creep
|
||
striding
|
||
aloud
|
||
slopped
|
||
unpleasant
|
||
shrill
|
||
Went
|
||
yonder
|
||
Footsteps
|
||
sick
|
||
inquirer
|
||
pack
|
||
Coming
|
||
wiping
|
||
cellar
|
||
aboard
|
||
lane
|
||
village
|
||
tonight
|
||
Too
|
||
pricking
|
||
shouldered
|
||
sticks
|
||
blank
|
||
hurried
|
||
grasses
|
||
narrow
|
||
adjusted
|
||
straps
|
||
trotting
|
||
hoisted
|
||
shapeless
|
||
gloom
|
||
heaviest
|
||
snails
|
||
homes
|
||
backs
|
||
stoutly
|
||
untruthfully
|
||
slack
|
||
willow
|
||
wand
|
||
nonsense
|
||
share
|
||
westwards
|
||
file
|
||
hedgerows
|
||
coppices
|
||
cloaks
|
||
noticed
|
||
plank
|
||
bridge
|
||
winding
|
||
ribbon
|
||
bordered
|
||
leaning
|
||
alder
|
||
hastily
|
||
Country
|
||
lamps
|
||
twinkling
|
||
gentle
|
||
Soon
|
||
folds
|
||
farm
|
||
hours
|
||
rested
|
||
starry
|
||
wisps
|
||
mist
|
||
creeping
|
||
streams
|
||
birches
|
||
swaying
|
||
net
|
||
frugal
|
||
rolling
|
||
Woodhall
|
||
Stock
|
||
wound
|
||
skirts
|
||
Woody
|
||
plunged
|
||
cloven
|
||
rustled
|
||
hummed
|
||
marched
|
||
lag
|
||
steep
|
||
slope
|
||
yawned
|
||
sleepy
|
||
fall
|
||
legs
|
||
expects
|
||
spot
|
||
snug
|
||
fir
|
||
limit
|
||
geography
|
||
patch
|
||
Leaving
|
||
resin
|
||
scented
|
||
cones
|
||
crackle
|
||
nod
|
||
angle
|
||
curled
|
||
blankets
|
||
asleep
|
||
fox
|
||
minutes
|
||
sniffed
|
||
sleeping
|
||
clammy
|
||
root
|
||
neck
|
||
Walking
|
||
drive
|
||
expedition
|
||
Wake
|
||
blanket
|
||
Gel
|
||
bath
|
||
bleary
|
||
stripped
|
||
Away
|
||
mists
|
||
Touched
|
||
rootless
|
||
shadowy
|
||
sea
|
||
steeply
|
||
hollow
|
||
pockets
|
||
setting
|
||
cups
|
||
camping
|
||
kettle
|
||
outcrop
|
||
icy
|
||
spluttered
|
||
bathed
|
||
trussed
|
||
o
|
||
across
|
||
gear
|
||
march
|
||
tiring
|
||
roll
|
||
zig
|
||
zagging
|
||
clumps
|
||
melted
|
||
woodland
|
||
haze
|
||
horizon
|
||
gazing
|
||
rhyming
|
||
reminds
|
||
springs
|
||
doorstep
|
||
tributary
|
||
knowing
|
||
realize
|
||
Lonely
|
||
sweep
|
||
hour
|
||
unslinging
|
||
example
|
||
soul
|
||
traffic
|
||
jogging
|
||
level
|
||
sprinkled
|
||
outliers
|
||
approaching
|
||
prevented
|
||
rider
|
||
apologetically
|
||
afterthought
|
||
struggling
|
||
hoofs
|
||
overshadowed
|
||
cautiously
|
||
Round
|
||
sized
|
||
crouch
|
||
saddle
|
||
stirrups
|
||
shadowed
|
||
riding
|
||
elusive
|
||
unreasoning
|
||
reins
|
||
trot
|
||
crawled
|
||
described
|
||
Begging
|
||
yesterday
|
||
Hello
|
||
customer
|
||
asking
|
||
Hissed
|
||
shudder
|
||
aver
|
||
funny
|
||
heed
|
||
blamed
|
||
inquiring
|
||
connexion
|
||
chap
|
||
bite
|
||
sup
|
||
riders
|
||
noses
|
||
unsettled
|
||
hindered
|
||
tussocky
|
||
uneven
|
||
thickets
|
||
lowlands
|
||
Yale
|
||
branched
|
||
oak
|
||
huge
|
||
hulk
|
||
alive
|
||
broken
|
||
stumps
|
||
limbs
|
||
crack
|
||
decayed
|
||
Twilight
|
||
sighing
|
||
Leaves
|
||
gently
|
||
star
|
||
darkening
|
||
abreast
|
||
brighter
|
||
disquiet
|
||
hum
|
||
taught
|
||
lanes
|
||
Adventure
|
||
Upon
|
||
Beneath
|
||
roof
|
||
flower
|
||
Pass
|
||
Tomorrow
|
||
Apple
|
||
thorn
|
||
nut
|
||
sloe
|
||
Sand
|
||
dell
|
||
Fare
|
||
Home
|
||
tread
|
||
alight
|
||
wander
|
||
Mist
|
||
shade
|
||
lamp
|
||
meat
|
||
Hush
|
||
Quickly
|
||
Rider
|
||
bole
|
||
Above
|
||
dim
|
||
moon
|
||
lighter
|
||
space
|
||
swayed
|
||
snuffling
|
||
crawl
|
||
Once
|
||
groping
|
||
Clear
|
||
starlit
|
||
straightened
|
||
retreated
|
||
breathed
|
||
hoarse
|
||
whisper
|
||
crawling
|
||
Listen
|
||
tongue
|
||
blending
|
||
melody
|
||
Snow
|
||
Lady
|
||
Queen
|
||
Western
|
||
Seas
|
||
Amid
|
||
woven
|
||
Gilthoniel
|
||
Elbereth
|
||
thy
|
||
thee
|
||
Sunless
|
||
sawn
|
||
windy
|
||
blossom
|
||
blown
|
||
Thy
|
||
wayside
|
||
glimmering
|
||
shimmer
|
||
rim
|
||
rises
|
||
Hail
|
||
wonderful
|
||
Gildor
|
||
leader
|
||
hailed
|
||
Inglorion
|
||
House
|
||
Finrod
|
||
Exiles
|
||
kindred
|
||
tarrying
|
||
kinsfolk
|
||
Tell
|
||
Riders
|
||
overtaken
|
||
twice
|
||
lodge
|
||
Elen
|
||
la
|
||
l
|
||
menn
|
||
omentielvo
|
||
shines
|
||
Speak
|
||
scholar
|
||
Ancient
|
||
join
|
||
stray
|
||
shorten
|
||
faint
|
||
footfall
|
||
staggered
|
||
dream
|
||
joy
|
||
denser
|
||
fold
|
||
brakes
|
||
hazel
|
||
wooded
|
||
Beyond
|
||
Nearer
|
||
twinkled
|
||
drowsiness
|
||
stole
|
||
pillowed
|
||
hillock
|
||
swung
|
||
Remmirath
|
||
Netted
|
||
Stars
|
||
Borgil
|
||
jewel
|
||
shift
|
||
airs
|
||
veil
|
||
leaned
|
||
Swordsman
|
||
Sky
|
||
Menelvagor
|
||
merriment
|
||
shivered
|
||
greensward
|
||
formed
|
||
boughs
|
||
blazing
|
||
bearing
|
||
heaped
|
||
dishes
|
||
fare
|
||
lodging
|
||
greenwood
|
||
waking
|
||
surpassing
|
||
loaf
|
||
starving
|
||
fruits
|
||
wildberries
|
||
fragrant
|
||
fountain
|
||
describe
|
||
gardener
|
||
thanked
|
||
bower
|
||
nodded
|
||
questioned
|
||
happenings
|
||
Twice
|
||
concerns
|
||
seek
|
||
accomplish
|
||
intend
|
||
faithful
|
||
snoring
|
||
pursuing
|
||
perceive
|
||
warn
|
||
haste
|
||
protection
|
||
imagine
|
||
Others
|
||
fence
|
||
footsteps
|
||
dogged
|
||
counsel
|
||
pursuers
|
||
assail
|
||
makes
|
||
expecting
|
||
nights
|
||
Should
|
||
bode
|
||
meddle
|
||
subtle
|
||
unguarded
|
||
courses
|
||
advise
|
||
trusty
|
||
grateful
|
||
gladly
|
||
sorrows
|
||
theirs
|
||
pursues
|
||
Flee
|
||
Ask
|
||
forbodes
|
||
May
|
||
protect
|
||
Courage
|
||
Sleep
|
||
Companies
|
||
shine
|
||
Seldom
|
||
strangers
|
||
lips
|
||
dreamless
|
||
slumber
|
||
SHORT
|
||
CUT
|
||
TO
|
||
MUSHROOMS
|
||
refreshed
|
||
laced
|
||
drooping
|
||
fern
|
||
strangely
|
||
fluttering
|
||
studying
|
||
fruit
|
||
insisted
|
||
cheerfully
|
||
Under
|
||
troop
|
||
alarming
|
||
liking
|
||
reminder
|
||
evasively
|
||
heavens
|
||
banished
|
||
pursuit
|
||
pondered
|
||
hunger
|
||
Leave
|
||
climbs
|
||
Rulers
|
||
denying
|
||
Wonderful
|
||
closer
|
||
likes
|
||
dislikes
|
||
gay
|
||
outward
|
||
thoughtful
|
||
content
|
||
fly
|
||
straighter
|
||
curves
|
||
bend
|
||
causeway
|
||
Short
|
||
cuts
|
||
delays
|
||
bogs
|
||
difficulties
|
||
bog
|
||
ditch
|
||
counted
|
||
Golden
|
||
Perch
|
||
sundown
|
||
tasted
|
||
settles
|
||
inns
|
||
costs
|
||
misgiving
|
||
toil
|
||
briar
|
||
scrambled
|
||
slanting
|
||
clustered
|
||
ditches
|
||
fences
|
||
eighteen
|
||
thicket
|
||
tangled
|
||
undergrowth
|
||
struggled
|
||
dug
|
||
slippery
|
||
overhung
|
||
brambles
|
||
inconveniently
|
||
jump
|
||
scratched
|
||
check
|
||
Beside
|
||
bushes
|
||
Whew
|
||
Going
|
||
ridge
|
||
stuffy
|
||
sank
|
||
levels
|
||
shallower
|
||
brook
|
||
waded
|
||
rush
|
||
treeless
|
||
oaks
|
||
ash
|
||
upwards
|
||
gusts
|
||
spots
|
||
overcast
|
||
streaming
|
||
trudged
|
||
patches
|
||
drifts
|
||
pattered
|
||
trickled
|
||
glancing
|
||
longwise
|
||
widest
|
||
zags
|
||
mend
|
||
gleamed
|
||
ragged
|
||
lessened
|
||
wonderfully
|
||
refreshing
|
||
snapping
|
||
propped
|
||
trunk
|
||
Ho
|
||
heal
|
||
drown
|
||
woe
|
||
Rain
|
||
wail
|
||
lonely
|
||
piercing
|
||
frozen
|
||
fainter
|
||
chilling
|
||
bird
|
||
beast
|
||
moments
|
||
Wide
|
||
Creeping
|
||
shelter
|
||
breakfasted
|
||
horseman
|
||
escaping
|
||
brightly
|
||
tame
|
||
hedges
|
||
dikes
|
||
drainage
|
||
phantoms
|
||
turnip
|
||
stout
|
||
rutted
|
||
clump
|
||
Bamfurlong
|
||
Farmer
|
||
Maggot
|
||
slot
|
||
den
|
||
bucks
|
||
trespassers
|
||
ferocious
|
||
dogs
|
||
shamefaced
|
||
terrified
|
||
avoided
|
||
mushrooms
|
||
lads
|
||
varmint
|
||
sets
|
||
chased
|
||
fright
|
||
Especially
|
||
roofs
|
||
buildings
|
||
Maggots
|
||
Puddifoots
|
||
dwellers
|
||
wooden
|
||
terrific
|
||
baying
|
||
barking
|
||
shouting
|
||
Grip
|
||
Fang
|
||
Wolf
|
||
paces
|
||
pelting
|
||
travellers
|
||
fiercely
|
||
wolvish
|
||
suspiciously
|
||
snarled
|
||
growling
|
||
Hallo
|
||
farmer
|
||
changing
|
||
scowl
|
||
grin
|
||
lucky
|
||
ale
|
||
em
|
||
Heel
|
||
introduced
|
||
glance
|
||
stolen
|
||
aroused
|
||
jug
|
||
mugs
|
||
brew
|
||
compensated
|
||
sipped
|
||
mistrust
|
||
disposed
|
||
beaten
|
||
agricultural
|
||
prospects
|
||
Were
|
||
recollect
|
||
rascals
|
||
relish
|
||
hooded
|
||
quickest
|
||
yelp
|
||
slung
|
||
tail
|
||
bolted
|
||
howling
|
||
pointing
|
||
bold
|
||
passes
|
||
double
|
||
spurred
|
||
rode
|
||
bolt
|
||
mixing
|
||
stirred
|
||
unfriendly
|
||
reckless
|
||
Mark
|
||
shrewd
|
||
disconcerting
|
||
fellows
|
||
avoiding
|
||
ideas
|
||
missed
|
||
gratefully
|
||
mended
|
||
hustled
|
||
belonging
|
||
fourteen
|
||
dish
|
||
bacon
|
||
farmhouse
|
||
rinds
|
||
lantern
|
||
yard
|
||
board
|
||
seat
|
||
whipped
|
||
ponies
|
||
arguing
|
||
foreigners
|
||
stirring
|
||
chill
|
||
dike
|
||
climbing
|
||
banked
|
||
strands
|
||
creak
|
||
wheels
|
||
clop
|
||
slower
|
||
snail
|
||
nodding
|
||
forwards
|
||
fog
|
||
posts
|
||
loomed
|
||
creaked
|
||
lo
|
||
scramble
|
||
dreading
|
||
Clip
|
||
clip
|
||
sounded
|
||
foggy
|
||
rightabouts
|
||
Clop
|
||
advancing
|
||
dimly
|
||
muffled
|
||
uncovered
|
||
diminish
|
||
swathed
|
||
chin
|
||
greet
|
||
blest
|
||
duck
|
||
pond
|
||
excuse
|
||
worriting
|
||
produced
|
||
forgetting
|
||
compliments
|
||
thanks
|
||
CONSPIRACY
|
||
UNMASKED
|
||
ourselves
|
||
edged
|
||
stones
|
||
landing
|
||
ferry
|
||
moored
|
||
bollards
|
||
glimmered
|
||
steam
|
||
gangway
|
||
pole
|
||
Lamps
|
||
shrouds
|
||
Gorhendad
|
||
Oldbuck
|
||
boundary
|
||
excavated
|
||
virtually
|
||
independent
|
||
dependants
|
||
burrow
|
||
thickly
|
||
strip
|
||
colony
|
||
clustering
|
||
acknowledged
|
||
farmers
|
||
Rushey
|
||
Except
|
||
unprotected
|
||
Hay
|
||
planted
|
||
loop
|
||
curving
|
||
Haysend
|
||
Withywindle
|
||
shore
|
||
member
|
||
tying
|
||
sway
|
||
crouching
|
||
shrouded
|
||
goodness
|
||
horses
|
||
swimming
|
||
outskirts
|
||
circle
|
||
surrounded
|
||
outer
|
||
fashioned
|
||
countrified
|
||
storey
|
||
lip
|
||
shuttered
|
||
knocked
|
||
load
|
||
reminded
|
||
welcoming
|
||
wishing
|
||
retirement
|
||
Firelight
|
||
puff
|
||
blessed
|
||
Eldest
|
||
Trust
|
||
arrange
|
||
baths
|
||
tubs
|
||
copper
|
||
boiling
|
||
towels
|
||
mats
|
||
soap
|
||
busied
|
||
Snatches
|
||
competing
|
||
bathroom
|
||
splashing
|
||
wallowing
|
||
Sing
|
||
hey
|
||
washes
|
||
loon
|
||
Hot
|
||
noble
|
||
Sweet
|
||
leaps
|
||
rippling
|
||
steams
|
||
thirsty
|
||
Beer
|
||
poured
|
||
splash
|
||
shout
|
||
Whoa
|
||
imitated
|
||
drying
|
||
Lawks
|
||
mop
|
||
Hurry
|
||
Given
|
||
queen
|
||
wives
|
||
serve
|
||
greediest
|
||
likings
|
||
explains
|
||
expeditions
|
||
injured
|
||
standards
|
||
heaved
|
||
sigh
|
||
scared
|
||
pause
|
||
figures
|
||
supporting
|
||
exclamations
|
||
Cousin
|
||
exchanged
|
||
glances
|
||
whispered
|
||
straightening
|
||
comical
|
||
Dear
|
||
thrown
|
||
dust
|
||
planning
|
||
haunts
|
||
Shall
|
||
beloved
|
||
talks
|
||
conspirators
|
||
hinder
|
||
trip
|
||
hunt
|
||
completely
|
||
amazed
|
||
inquisitiveness
|
||
conspiracy
|
||
downfall
|
||
slowed
|
||
presto
|
||
glint
|
||
confess
|
||
spied
|
||
admit
|
||
intriguing
|
||
teens
|
||
rapid
|
||
proceeded
|
||
scrupulous
|
||
investigator
|
||
masked
|
||
sinister
|
||
cupboard
|
||
Step
|
||
collector
|
||
regard
|
||
parole
|
||
dried
|
||
unable
|
||
foolish
|
||
unhappily
|
||
depends
|
||
horribly
|
||
hounds
|
||
grinning
|
||
snore
|
||
kick
|
||
deceitful
|
||
scoundrels
|
||
happier
|
||
Captain
|
||
danced
|
||
model
|
||
Farewell
|
||
glades
|
||
misty
|
||
moor
|
||
foes
|
||
dread
|
||
unsafe
|
||
advised
|
||
preparation
|
||
practically
|
||
stable
|
||
extra
|
||
perishable
|
||
efficient
|
||
Hedge
|
||
runs
|
||
determined
|
||
attack
|
||
safer
|
||
possibly
|
||
horrified
|
||
nightmare
|
||
vote
|
||
counts
|
||
stopping
|
||
turns
|
||
Fond
|
||
Budgeford
|
||
Bridgefields
|
||
pretence
|
||
Excellent
|
||
otherwise
|
||
searched
|
||
fort
|
||
decides
|
||
touches
|
||
ached
|
||
vague
|
||
smell
|
||
heath
|
||
salt
|
||
Looking
|
||
OLD
|
||
FOREST
|
||
candle
|
||
banging
|
||
shaken
|
||
bewildered
|
||
baggage
|
||
carrier
|
||
sluggard
|
||
yawning
|
||
spinney
|
||
glistening
|
||
twig
|
||
dew
|
||
noises
|
||
fowls
|
||
chattering
|
||
shed
|
||
sturdy
|
||
speedy
|
||
mounted
|
||
reluctantly
|
||
forbiddingly
|
||
netted
|
||
cobwebs
|
||
Follow
|
||
inwards
|
||
arched
|
||
rescuing
|
||
damp
|
||
iron
|
||
bars
|
||
unlocked
|
||
clang
|
||
lock
|
||
clicked
|
||
bogey
|
||
nurses
|
||
goblins
|
||
lasts
|
||
Occasionally
|
||
trailer
|
||
plots
|
||
unintelligible
|
||
surround
|
||
hem
|
||
bonfire
|
||
burned
|
||
Whenever
|
||
tracks
|
||
Bonfire
|
||
Glade
|
||
stems
|
||
sizes
|
||
twisted
|
||
squat
|
||
gnarled
|
||
moss
|
||
shaggy
|
||
growths
|
||
writhing
|
||
interlacing
|
||
occasional
|
||
drip
|
||
moisture
|
||
uncomfortable
|
||
disapproval
|
||
deepening
|
||
enmity
|
||
bar
|
||
Oi
|
||
curtain
|
||
uncertain
|
||
whistle
|
||
circular
|
||
lifting
|
||
greener
|
||
glade
|
||
enclosing
|
||
stalky
|
||
hemlocks
|
||
parsley
|
||
seeding
|
||
fluffy
|
||
ashes
|
||
rampant
|
||
nettles
|
||
thistles
|
||
dreary
|
||
hopefully
|
||
broadening
|
||
Up
|
||
quicker
|
||
relented
|
||
unhindered
|
||
pressing
|
||
rustling
|
||
stumbling
|
||
thud
|
||
encourage
|
||
murmur
|
||
Wanderers
|
||
fail
|
||
Fail
|
||
wearisome
|
||
overhanging
|
||
crash
|
||
rousing
|
||
anxiety
|
||
depressed
|
||
settling
|
||
regretted
|
||
challenging
|
||
menace
|
||
propose
|
||
bald
|
||
encircling
|
||
directly
|
||
dipped
|
||
hillside
|
||
shaven
|
||
crown
|
||
gleaming
|
||
hazy
|
||
Near
|
||
hollows
|
||
flows
|
||
midst
|
||
queerest
|
||
eleven
|
||
directions
|
||
Northward
|
||
veiled
|
||
shores
|
||
noon
|
||
glimpsed
|
||
cheered
|
||
Barrow
|
||
downs
|
||
descend
|
||
rapidly
|
||
heading
|
||
discussion
|
||
misleading
|
||
drier
|
||
thinner
|
||
pines
|
||
firs
|
||
replaced
|
||
nameless
|
||
whenever
|
||
unaccountably
|
||
veered
|
||
ruts
|
||
giant
|
||
moats
|
||
sunken
|
||
disused
|
||
scrambling
|
||
troublesome
|
||
matted
|
||
yield
|
||
clambered
|
||
headed
|
||
stumbled
|
||
wider
|
||
boggy
|
||
babbled
|
||
weedy
|
||
noisy
|
||
downhill
|
||
gully
|
||
sunlight
|
||
cleft
|
||
cliff
|
||
sunshine
|
||
drowsy
|
||
lazily
|
||
willows
|
||
flecked
|
||
breeze
|
||
blowing
|
||
explore
|
||
footpath
|
||
benefit
|
||
filed
|
||
Everywhere
|
||
lush
|
||
picking
|
||
sounder
|
||
rills
|
||
gullies
|
||
brushwood
|
||
armies
|
||
flies
|
||
buzzing
|
||
Sleepiness
|
||
Must
|
||
nap
|
||
Less
|
||
blinking
|
||
stupidly
|
||
overwhelming
|
||
stir
|
||
hoary
|
||
Enormous
|
||
sprawling
|
||
reaching
|
||
knotted
|
||
gaping
|
||
fissures
|
||
dazzled
|
||
toppled
|
||
cracks
|
||
gaped
|
||
receive
|
||
spell
|
||
fighting
|
||
overpowering
|
||
compelling
|
||
bathe
|
||
riverward
|
||
dragonets
|
||
straining
|
||
straddled
|
||
cavern
|
||
sleepiness
|
||
uncanny
|
||
Hark
|
||
snick
|
||
closes
|
||
rushed
|
||
gripped
|
||
jacket
|
||
Almost
|
||
coughed
|
||
beastly
|
||
tipped
|
||
dreaming
|
||
click
|
||
trapped
|
||
pair
|
||
pincers
|
||
lain
|
||
frantically
|
||
pull
|
||
foul
|
||
wildly
|
||
heedless
|
||
perceptible
|
||
stem
|
||
axe
|
||
hatchet
|
||
chopping
|
||
firewood
|
||
doubtfully
|
||
succeed
|
||
roasting
|
||
frighten
|
||
gnaw
|
||
tinder
|
||
bark
|
||
pile
|
||
twigs
|
||
chopped
|
||
prisoners
|
||
spark
|
||
kindled
|
||
flurry
|
||
crackled
|
||
licked
|
||
rind
|
||
scorched
|
||
tremor
|
||
scream
|
||
squeeze
|
||
rushing
|
||
begged
|
||
violently
|
||
outwards
|
||
ripples
|
||
sparks
|
||
crying
|
||
drowned
|
||
clamour
|
||
witless
|
||
carelessly
|
||
Hey
|
||
dol
|
||
dong
|
||
dillo
|
||
hop
|
||
fal
|
||
lal
|
||
Tom
|
||
Bom
|
||
Bombadillo
|
||
hopeful
|
||
dot
|
||
derry
|
||
darling
|
||
feathered
|
||
starling
|
||
Waiting
|
||
lady
|
||
woman
|
||
Slender
|
||
Bombadil
|
||
lilies
|
||
Comes
|
||
hopping
|
||
Goldberry
|
||
berry
|
||
Poor
|
||
Willow
|
||
tuck
|
||
Evening
|
||
enchanted
|
||
dancing
|
||
band
|
||
slumping
|
||
charging
|
||
rushes
|
||
cow
|
||
apple
|
||
creased
|
||
wrinkles
|
||
tray
|
||
Help
|
||
steady
|
||
puffing
|
||
crush
|
||
breathlessly
|
||
leaping
|
||
Man
|
||
Naught
|
||
freeze
|
||
marrow
|
||
behave
|
||
Setting
|
||
sticking
|
||
smote
|
||
Eat
|
||
Dig
|
||
Drink
|
||
widening
|
||
tearing
|
||
split
|
||
tip
|
||
stooping
|
||
cream
|
||
honeycomb
|
||
beckoning
|
||
nonsensically
|
||
surprised
|
||
floating
|
||
halloo
|
||
Hop
|
||
kindle
|
||
sinks
|
||
panes
|
||
twinkle
|
||
Heed
|
||
bough
|
||
sink
|
||
threatening
|
||
rise
|
||
curl
|
||
arose
|
||
leaden
|
||
Strange
|
||
knobbly
|
||
gloomed
|
||
leered
|
||
unreal
|
||
awakening
|
||
slowing
|
||
standstill
|
||
glimmer
|
||
foam
|
||
welling
|
||
swift
|
||
merrily
|
||
glinting
|
||
mown
|
||
clipped
|
||
trim
|
||
grassy
|
||
knoll
|
||
beam
|
||
stalked
|
||
hearties
|
||
Ponies
|
||
cloudy
|
||
budding
|
||
Wind
|
||
heather
|
||
Reeds
|
||
threshold
|
||
IN
|
||
HOUSE
|
||
TOM
|
||
BOMBADIL
|
||
swinging
|
||
beams
|
||
polished
|
||
rippled
|
||
gown
|
||
beads
|
||
flag
|
||
nots
|
||
vessels
|
||
earthenware
|
||
enthroned
|
||
Enter
|
||
awkward
|
||
cottage
|
||
lily
|
||
bowls
|
||
Laugh
|
||
untame
|
||
lofty
|
||
reed
|
||
waterfall
|
||
Welcome
|
||
tongued
|
||
Sit
|
||
tending
|
||
seated
|
||
herself
|
||
grace
|
||
ding
|
||
Bright
|
||
questioningly
|
||
wading
|
||
crowned
|
||
clothed
|
||
girdle
|
||
cheese
|
||
berries
|
||
clapped
|
||
refresh
|
||
clean
|
||
grimy
|
||
wash
|
||
comb
|
||
tangles
|
||
penthouse
|
||
flagged
|
||
strewn
|
||
mattresses
|
||
Against
|
||
bench
|
||
basins
|
||
ewers
|
||
steaming
|
||
slippers
|
||
famished
|
||
commanded
|
||
footstool
|
||
chimney
|
||
shelf
|
||
nightly
|
||
eyelids
|
||
Eh
|
||
Nay
|
||
singer
|
||
mazes
|
||
winter
|
||
tilt
|
||
snows
|
||
Nor
|
||
withy
|
||
upright
|
||
pillow
|
||
grasping
|
||
pillows
|
||
wool
|
||
covers
|
||
pierced
|
||
arch
|
||
pinnacle
|
||
hang
|
||
glistened
|
||
wings
|
||
staff
|
||
wielded
|
||
eagle
|
||
wailed
|
||
yammered
|
||
galloping
|
||
wakened
|
||
echoing
|
||
unremembered
|
||
pleasantly
|
||
groaned
|
||
waked
|
||
squeak
|
||
fretting
|
||
scraping
|
||
shoreless
|
||
gurgled
|
||
surely
|
||
flagstone
|
||
logs
|
||
leapt
|
||
pocked
|
||
hoof
|
||
prints
|
||
screened
|
||
beans
|
||
soiled
|
||
stained
|
||
deeps
|
||
channel
|
||
plumes
|
||
billows
|
||
drops
|
||
rainy
|
||
hilltops
|
||
underfoot
|
||
nought
|
||
wakes
|
||
wake
|
||
Forget
|
||
del
|
||
Needless
|
||
clattering
|
||
stairs
|
||
dripped
|
||
joined
|
||
unbroken
|
||
showers
|
||
delayed
|
||
departing
|
||
awoke
|
||
wetter
|
||
spill
|
||
chalky
|
||
bubbling
|
||
warding
|
||
cleaning
|
||
bees
|
||
Moving
|
||
gnawing
|
||
biting
|
||
hacking
|
||
destroyers
|
||
usurpers
|
||
survivor
|
||
ageing
|
||
countless
|
||
rooted
|
||
rotten
|
||
winds
|
||
threads
|
||
waterfalls
|
||
pebbles
|
||
rocks
|
||
crannies
|
||
Barrows
|
||
Sheep
|
||
bleating
|
||
flocks
|
||
fortresses
|
||
heights
|
||
kingdoms
|
||
metal
|
||
swords
|
||
victory
|
||
Gold
|
||
biers
|
||
queens
|
||
wights
|
||
clink
|
||
chains
|
||
Stone
|
||
grinned
|
||
teeth
|
||
nestled
|
||
thread
|
||
shifted
|
||
limes
|
||
seas
|
||
Shore
|
||
sires
|
||
withdrawn
|
||
Whether
|
||
remembers
|
||
raindrop
|
||
acorn
|
||
arriving
|
||
graves
|
||
fearless
|
||
framed
|
||
shielding
|
||
shell
|
||
hopped
|
||
caperings
|
||
weave
|
||
hindering
|
||
boards
|
||
blazed
|
||
Supper
|
||
fishes
|
||
stockings
|
||
eaten
|
||
rang
|
||
mirth
|
||
silences
|
||
owed
|
||
wagged
|
||
Show
|
||
unfastening
|
||
skinned
|
||
candlelight
|
||
spun
|
||
trinket
|
||
juggler
|
||
weigh
|
||
prompted
|
||
trifle
|
||
annoyed
|
||
perilously
|
||
badgers
|
||
checked
|
||
exclamation
|
||
blankly
|
||
teach
|
||
aught
|
||
Keep
|
||
Wights
|
||
falter
|
||
chanced
|
||
rhyme
|
||
harken
|
||
bedroom
|
||
FOG
|
||
ON
|
||
BARROW
|
||
DOWNS
|
||
frisky
|
||
restlessly
|
||
bidding
|
||
brow
|
||
dismounted
|
||
distressed
|
||
shimmered
|
||
dewy
|
||
hastened
|
||
breathless
|
||
bade
|
||
ridges
|
||
russet
|
||
swellings
|
||
featureless
|
||
Eastward
|
||
eyesight
|
||
skip
|
||
strides
|
||
fainthearted
|
||
crumpled
|
||
lusty
|
||
stepping
|
||
Speed
|
||
blessing
|
||
jogged
|
||
warmer
|
||
Turning
|
||
valleys
|
||
springy
|
||
mould
|
||
cap
|
||
flattened
|
||
shallow
|
||
saucer
|
||
mounded
|
||
northwards
|
||
distances
|
||
deceptive
|
||
Due
|
||
Splendid
|
||
jagged
|
||
gums
|
||
casting
|
||
landmark
|
||
guarding
|
||
provided
|
||
unburdened
|
||
Riding
|
||
However
|
||
uncomfortably
|
||
watery
|
||
central
|
||
pillar
|
||
chilled
|
||
colder
|
||
damper
|
||
lank
|
||
foreheads
|
||
bedewed
|
||
mounting
|
||
steering
|
||
prevent
|
||
separated
|
||
endlessly
|
||
bewilderment
|
||
towering
|
||
slightly
|
||
headless
|
||
reared
|
||
Hoy
|
||
uphill
|
||
trailed
|
||
clinging
|
||
sweating
|
||
miserably
|
||
shreds
|
||
tatters
|
||
appearing
|
||
overhead
|
||
hurrying
|
||
unveiled
|
||
barrow
|
||
Trembling
|
||
froze
|
||
imprisoned
|
||
hopelessly
|
||
wight
|
||
spells
|
||
breast
|
||
seed
|
||
fattest
|
||
wailing
|
||
hardened
|
||
stiffening
|
||
limp
|
||
prey
|
||
greenish
|
||
deathly
|
||
unlovely
|
||
circlets
|
||
waists
|
||
Swords
|
||
shields
|
||
necks
|
||
naked
|
||
immeasurably
|
||
moan
|
||
formless
|
||
strings
|
||
grim
|
||
heartless
|
||
railing
|
||
bereaved
|
||
warmth
|
||
hungered
|
||
perceived
|
||
incantation
|
||
Cold
|
||
bone
|
||
mare
|
||
stony
|
||
lifts
|
||
withered
|
||
Raising
|
||
miss
|
||
grieving
|
||
wavered
|
||
resolve
|
||
kneeling
|
||
bodies
|
||
hewed
|
||
wrist
|
||
splintered
|
||
shriek
|
||
chamber
|
||
echoed
|
||
drum
|
||
trumpet
|
||
answering
|
||
faster
|
||
rumbling
|
||
sickly
|
||
hue
|
||
Wight
|
||
Vanish
|
||
Shrivel
|
||
barren
|
||
Lost
|
||
unguessable
|
||
severed
|
||
wriggling
|
||
wounded
|
||
spider
|
||
heap
|
||
thumping
|
||
stamping
|
||
bronze
|
||
jewelled
|
||
ornaments
|
||
tads
|
||
Warm
|
||
limb
|
||
flown
|
||
Gate
|
||
rags
|
||
belted
|
||
jingling
|
||
trinkets
|
||
circlet
|
||
Carn
|
||
worsted
|
||
spear
|
||
Dressed
|
||
flung
|
||
helplessly
|
||
bounding
|
||
horror
|
||
Clothes
|
||
loss
|
||
drowning
|
||
Cast
|
||
hoy
|
||
Whither
|
||
Sharp
|
||
Swish
|
||
Bumpkin
|
||
socks
|
||
Lumpkin
|
||
tossing
|
||
basking
|
||
wafted
|
||
clime
|
||
bedridden
|
||
obedient
|
||
fatter
|
||
burdens
|
||
oncoming
|
||
animal
|
||
wanders
|
||
smelt
|
||
losing
|
||
considering
|
||
circumstances
|
||
sparkled
|
||
finders
|
||
brooch
|
||
shaded
|
||
flax
|
||
toy
|
||
dagger
|
||
workmanship
|
||
damasked
|
||
serpent
|
||
sheaths
|
||
virtue
|
||
blades
|
||
untouched
|
||
unrusted
|
||
forged
|
||
expanse
|
||
strode
|
||
lading
|
||
belts
|
||
jackets
|
||
Fighting
|
||
gaily
|
||
girth
|
||
kingdom
|
||
lime
|
||
quickened
|
||
sinking
|
||
galloped
|
||
furlongs
|
||
pot
|
||
hesitatingly
|
||
halting
|
||
Barliman
|
||
worthy
|
||
tossed
|
||
caution
|
||
naught
|
||
homelike
|
||
Please
|
||
Darkness
|
||
barring
|
||
mass
|
||
flank
|
||
AT
|
||
SIGN
|
||
PRANCING
|
||
PONY
|
||
Staddle
|
||
Combe
|
||
Archet
|
||
Lying
|
||
tamed
|
||
turmoils
|
||
rarely
|
||
afar
|
||
claimed
|
||
founded
|
||
colonized
|
||
minding
|
||
regarding
|
||
Nowhere
|
||
travel
|
||
Bucklander
|
||
Inn
|
||
uncouth
|
||
tramps
|
||
dig
|
||
prosperous
|
||
nestling
|
||
Over
|
||
barred
|
||
lodges
|
||
gatekeepers
|
||
News
|
||
descending
|
||
Northern
|
||
Lands
|
||
desolate
|
||
innkeeper
|
||
talkative
|
||
resort
|
||
fetched
|
||
gruffly
|
||
gatekeeper
|
||
darkly
|
||
tone
|
||
offence
|
||
Harry
|
||
oat
|
||
Could
|
||
street
|
||
detached
|
||
storeys
|
||
pictured
|
||
saddled
|
||
aren
|
||
pans
|
||
recommended
|
||
rear
|
||
courtyard
|
||
doorway
|
||
signboard
|
||
hind
|
||
painted
|
||
prancing
|
||
barliman
|
||
butterbur
|
||
bumped
|
||
apron
|
||
bustling
|
||
babel
|
||
Beds
|
||
stabling
|
||
service
|
||
forehead
|
||
remind
|
||
Might
|
||
nowadays
|
||
rains
|
||
pours
|
||
Hi
|
||
Nob
|
||
woolly
|
||
coach
|
||
cheery
|
||
bobbed
|
||
Bob
|
||
landlord
|
||
Double
|
||
stabled
|
||
wink
|
||
drives
|
||
weren
|
||
wing
|
||
parlour
|
||
suit
|
||
Excuse
|
||
Off
|
||
endless
|
||
cosy
|
||
cloth
|
||
servant
|
||
ringing
|
||
bedrooms
|
||
soup
|
||
meats
|
||
blackberry
|
||
tart
|
||
loaves
|
||
slabs
|
||
dispel
|
||
excellence
|
||
hovered
|
||
supped
|
||
unnecessary
|
||
Mind
|
||
Ps
|
||
Qs
|
||
log
|
||
benches
|
||
landers
|
||
newcomers
|
||
botanical
|
||
Rushlight
|
||
Goatleaf
|
||
Heathertoes
|
||
Appledore
|
||
Thistlewool
|
||
Ferny
|
||
Mugworts
|
||
Banks
|
||
Longholes
|
||
Sandheaver
|
||
Tunnelly
|
||
Underhills
|
||
Saddle
|
||
sharing
|
||
explanation
|
||
wagging
|
||
dialect
|
||
collect
|
||
list
|
||
communicative
|
||
flews
|
||
sympathetic
|
||
squint
|
||
foretelling
|
||
lodgings
|
||
chatting
|
||
roused
|
||
collapse
|
||
Town
|
||
Hole
|
||
Whitfoot
|
||
chalk
|
||
floured
|
||
dumpling
|
||
tankard
|
||
stemmed
|
||
carved
|
||
showing
|
||
supple
|
||
fitted
|
||
caked
|
||
Him
|
||
cocking
|
||
disappears
|
||
pops
|
||
Strider
|
||
Goes
|
||
shanks
|
||
accounting
|
||
Funny
|
||
unexplained
|
||
necked
|
||
stiffly
|
||
stare
|
||
wry
|
||
gaze
|
||
comic
|
||
imitation
|
||
Disappearance
|
||
harmless
|
||
vanishing
|
||
fidgeted
|
||
forgetful
|
||
disastrous
|
||
silly
|
||
suggestion
|
||
resisted
|
||
temptation
|
||
gratified
|
||
reception
|
||
venture
|
||
renew
|
||
ties
|
||
Everyone
|
||
desperation
|
||
ostler
|
||
tipsy
|
||
cat
|
||
stringed
|
||
fiddle
|
||
squeaking
|
||
purring
|
||
sawing
|
||
jokes
|
||
cocks
|
||
laughs
|
||
chokes
|
||
horned
|
||
tufted
|
||
rows
|
||
Sunday
|
||
polish
|
||
Saturday
|
||
afternoons
|
||
spoon
|
||
madly
|
||
pranced
|
||
dozed
|
||
dreamed
|
||
Till
|
||
neigh
|
||
champ
|
||
diddle
|
||
jig
|
||
squeaked
|
||
sawed
|
||
bundled
|
||
capering
|
||
deer
|
||
deedle
|
||
dum
|
||
bounded
|
||
ping
|
||
pong
|
||
applause
|
||
tickled
|
||
Barley
|
||
capered
|
||
vigorously
|
||
clatter
|
||
bump
|
||
slap
|
||
magician
|
||
swarthy
|
||
lander
|
||
mocking
|
||
southerner
|
||
unmoved
|
||
jerk
|
||
trick
|
||
response
|
||
Worse
|
||
uproar
|
||
ignoring
|
||
advantage
|
||
unconcerned
|
||
Meanwhile
|
||
argument
|
||
conflicting
|
||
leastways
|
||
Mugwort
|
||
pays
|
||
crockery
|
||
firelight
|
||
perturbed
|
||
satisfied
|
||
huff
|
||
thoroughly
|
||
Frightening
|
||
customers
|
||
crocks
|
||
acrobatics
|
||
caused
|
||
unintentional
|
||
assure
|
||
unfortunate
|
||
tumbling
|
||
conjuring
|
||
beforehand
|
||
eight
|
||
amiss
|
||
league
|
||
concealing
|
||
STRIDER
|
||
blaze
|
||
faggots
|
||
calmly
|
||
Several
|
||
pray
|
||
rascal
|
||
rogue
|
||
senses
|
||
careless
|
||
grant
|
||
lowering
|
||
Downlands
|
||
honest
|
||
angrily
|
||
horsemen
|
||
Monday
|
||
greeted
|
||
press
|
||
vagabonds
|
||
rascally
|
||
sheer
|
||
Accident
|
||
position
|
||
Hardly
|
||
Bill
|
||
sneering
|
||
Southerners
|
||
sell
|
||
anybody
|
||
amusement
|
||
performance
|
||
clenched
|
||
unseeing
|
||
confused
|
||
frowned
|
||
warns
|
||
puts
|
||
disguise
|
||
lesson
|
||
wavering
|
||
cans
|
||
withdrew
|
||
bid
|
||
knowingly
|
||
description
|
||
fits
|
||
unwisely
|
||
cheeks
|
||
chuckled
|
||
perky
|
||
sour
|
||
block
|
||
hasty
|
||
undone
|
||
impatient
|
||
unravelling
|
||
pausing
|
||
producing
|
||
reading
|
||
valued
|
||
FRODO
|
||
BAG
|
||
HOBBITON
|
||
SHIRE
|
||
yammering
|
||
geese
|
||
screaming
|
||
Uncanny
|
||
slammed
|
||
Ranger
|
||
Tried
|
||
popping
|
||
plight
|
||
goings
|
||
Save
|
||
faltered
|
||
helps
|
||
pate
|
||
uptake
|
||
spooks
|
||
Breakfast
|
||
Right
|
||
doubtful
|
||
shake
|
||
seal
|
||
graceful
|
||
BREE
|
||
Midyear
|
||
Bad
|
||
July
|
||
lean
|
||
Yours
|
||
GANDALF
|
||
PS
|
||
NOT
|
||
PPS
|
||
glitter
|
||
wither
|
||
Deep
|
||
frost
|
||
woken
|
||
Renewed
|
||
blade
|
||
crownless
|
||
PPPS
|
||
sends
|
||
promptly
|
||
lumber
|
||
roam
|
||
forgets
|
||
roast
|
||
Really
|
||
mess
|
||
writes
|
||
postscript
|
||
persuade
|
||
proofs
|
||
traps
|
||
wearies
|
||
distrust
|
||
longs
|
||
handsome
|
||
sterner
|
||
dubiously
|
||
speaks
|
||
acting
|
||
spy
|
||
Throwing
|
||
mouthed
|
||
dumbly
|
||
softened
|
||
Arathorn
|
||
hesitation
|
||
verses
|
||
apply
|
||
anew
|
||
commands
|
||
dangers
|
||
Ford
|
||
slam
|
||
lamplight
|
||
slid
|
||
noticing
|
||
brave
|
||
hissing
|
||
swear
|
||
lilting
|
||
roadside
|
||
hare
|
||
ugly
|
||
Breath
|
||
Southerner
|
||
strongest
|
||
clutch
|
||
wretches
|
||
enemies
|
||
Stay
|
||
pondering
|
||
ruffled
|
||
bolster
|
||
mat
|
||
penetrated
|
||
Peering
|
||
Sickle
|
||
Jumped
|
||
worthies
|
||
hence
|
||
KNIFE
|
||
DARK
|
||
dells
|
||
brooding
|
||
Terror
|
||
deepened
|
||
stealth
|
||
shades
|
||
cock
|
||
crowed
|
||
unsheathed
|
||
Open
|
||
yielded
|
||
timbers
|
||
nearby
|
||
rent
|
||
perish
|
||
babbling
|
||
Horn
|
||
Fell
|
||
gallop
|
||
hammering
|
||
gale
|
||
alert
|
||
crowing
|
||
lustily
|
||
flapping
|
||
bolsters
|
||
slashed
|
||
Never
|
||
raising
|
||
Guests
|
||
crushed
|
||
weighing
|
||
defiantly
|
||
hire
|
||
buy
|
||
animals
|
||
rout
|
||
crumb
|
||
starved
|
||
thrice
|
||
placed
|
||
tracking
|
||
increasing
|
||
profits
|
||
value
|
||
bony
|
||
underfed
|
||
dispirited
|
||
pence
|
||
compensation
|
||
sore
|
||
treated
|
||
astir
|
||
raid
|
||
Suspicion
|
||
supplies
|
||
robbing
|
||
stables
|
||
uneventful
|
||
Any
|
||
tramped
|
||
downhearted
|
||
awe
|
||
dejected
|
||
fortunes
|
||
chewing
|
||
Apples
|
||
peeped
|
||
popped
|
||
sallow
|
||
sly
|
||
boldly
|
||
scornful
|
||
sneer
|
||
spat
|
||
Longshanks
|
||
Found
|
||
Sammie
|
||
treating
|
||
Pah
|
||
flick
|
||
lightning
|
||
hit
|
||
Waste
|
||
regretfully
|
||
escort
|
||
stragglers
|
||
Passing
|
||
rounded
|
||
gentler
|
||
Midgewater
|
||
Marshes
|
||
pan
|
||
leafy
|
||
wholesome
|
||
guided
|
||
confidently
|
||
doublings
|
||
match
|
||
squirrels
|
||
third
|
||
manage
|
||
pathless
|
||
wilderness
|
||
Midge
|
||
stretches
|
||
warbling
|
||
fan
|
||
progress
|
||
bewildering
|
||
treacherous
|
||
shifting
|
||
quagmires
|
||
tiny
|
||
midges
|
||
sleeves
|
||
scratching
|
||
insects
|
||
haunting
|
||
tussocks
|
||
cricket
|
||
neek
|
||
breek
|
||
unceasingly
|
||
frantic
|
||
fourth
|
||
comfortless
|
||
Neekerbreekers
|
||
risen
|
||
flashes
|
||
straggling
|
||
highest
|
||
conical
|
||
fearing
|
||
hawks
|
||
hovering
|
||
lonesome
|
||
vapours
|
||
melancholy
|
||
piping
|
||
stagnant
|
||
marshland
|
||
lasted
|
||
camp
|
||
stunted
|
||
Ahead
|
||
dusky
|
||
bleak
|
||
waxing
|
||
commons
|
||
barely
|
||
tightening
|
||
thinning
|
||
indefinitely
|
||
wraith
|
||
earnestness
|
||
undulating
|
||
clefts
|
||
Along
|
||
crest
|
||
remains
|
||
camped
|
||
October
|
||
hugged
|
||
flatter
|
||
boulders
|
||
hewn
|
||
avenues
|
||
wightish
|
||
defended
|
||
forts
|
||
Amon
|
||
tumbled
|
||
Alliance
|
||
harpers
|
||
realm
|
||
lance
|
||
helm
|
||
heaven
|
||
mirrored
|
||
shield
|
||
dwelleth
|
||
blushing
|
||
Fall
|
||
translated
|
||
shivers
|
||
Concealment
|
||
observing
|
||
bowl
|
||
plodding
|
||
rocky
|
||
stonework
|
||
crumbling
|
||
cairn
|
||
blackened
|
||
shrivelled
|
||
Standing
|
||
sombre
|
||
peaks
|
||
cheerless
|
||
uninviting
|
||
presses
|
||
examined
|
||
handled
|
||
recently
|
||
marks
|
||
scratches
|
||
stroke
|
||
runes
|
||
scorching
|
||
result
|
||
wearily
|
||
measured
|
||
Forsaken
|
||
Bruinen
|
||
crosses
|
||
fortnight
|
||
southward
|
||
homelessness
|
||
bitterly
|
||
hateful
|
||
specks
|
||
alongside
|
||
assembling
|
||
keener
|
||
Hastily
|
||
explored
|
||
surrounding
|
||
footprints
|
||
traces
|
||
neatly
|
||
stacked
|
||
Whoever
|
||
discoveries
|
||
examine
|
||
trampled
|
||
spoilt
|
||
newer
|
||
booted
|
||
viewed
|
||
Hadn
|
||
destroys
|
||
hating
|
||
Senses
|
||
keenly
|
||
lowest
|
||
hunter
|
||
tighten
|
||
huddled
|
||
garment
|
||
Kingdoms
|
||
Starlight
|
||
win
|
||
Tin
|
||
viel
|
||
aright
|
||
lift
|
||
chant
|
||
hemlock
|
||
umbels
|
||
raiment
|
||
Beren
|
||
sorrowing
|
||
mantle
|
||
Enchantment
|
||
healed
|
||
fleet
|
||
grasped
|
||
moonbeams
|
||
Elvenhome
|
||
tightly
|
||
oft
|
||
linden
|
||
underground
|
||
sheaves
|
||
Whispering
|
||
beechen
|
||
wintry
|
||
ray
|
||
frosty
|
||
shivering
|
||
quivering
|
||
released
|
||
Like
|
||
lark
|
||
melting
|
||
untroubling
|
||
elvish
|
||
doom
|
||
Within
|
||
skies
|
||
Immortal
|
||
maiden
|
||
darkling
|
||
nightshade
|
||
morrowless
|
||
Sundering
|
||
sorrowless
|
||
ann
|
||
thennath
|
||
render
|
||
L
|
||
thien
|
||
Thingol
|
||
loveliness
|
||
Angband
|
||
regain
|
||
Silmarils
|
||
aided
|
||
victorious
|
||
Neldoreth
|
||
beheld
|
||
Esgalduin
|
||
Nightingale
|
||
befell
|
||
rescued
|
||
dungeons
|
||
brightest
|
||
bride
|
||
mortality
|
||
confines
|
||
lineage
|
||
descended
|
||
foremother
|
||
Kin
|
||
born
|
||
Dior
|
||
Elwing
|
||
E
|
||
rendil
|
||
wedded
|
||
ship
|
||
Silmaril
|
||
moonrise
|
||
jutting
|
||
durstn
|
||
encircled
|
||
venomous
|
||
advanced
|
||
swallowed
|
||
disregard
|
||
forefinger
|
||
Immediately
|
||
wrappings
|
||
merciless
|
||
mantles
|
||
robes
|
||
hairs
|
||
helms
|
||
haggard
|
||
steel
|
||
Desperate
|
||
flickered
|
||
firebrand
|
||
poisoned
|
||
ice
|
||
pierce
|
||
swooned
|
||
swirling
|
||
flaming
|
||
brand
|
||
dropping
|
||
FLIGHT
|
||
FORD
|
||
overjoyed
|
||
doubts
|
||
knelt
|
||
kettles
|
||
accomplished
|
||
subdue
|
||
hinted
|
||
Guard
|
||
warming
|
||
bathing
|
||
Dawn
|
||
slash
|
||
unharmed
|
||
notched
|
||
accursed
|
||
healing
|
||
pouch
|
||
pungent
|
||
fortunate
|
||
Athelas
|
||
sparsely
|
||
virtues
|
||
unhurt
|
||
calmed
|
||
lessen
|
||
raise
|
||
foolishness
|
||
reproached
|
||
obeyed
|
||
maimed
|
||
continue
|
||
weak
|
||
affection
|
||
treatment
|
||
southerly
|
||
fuel
|
||
sloped
|
||
dense
|
||
scanty
|
||
coarse
|
||
grieved
|
||
hearted
|
||
scene
|
||
pairs
|
||
stalking
|
||
ambush
|
||
sixth
|
||
huddle
|
||
sweeping
|
||
Mitheithel
|
||
Ettenmoors
|
||
troll
|
||
fells
|
||
Greyflood
|
||
judged
|
||
beryl
|
||
brings
|
||
arches
|
||
ravine
|
||
sullen
|
||
Troll
|
||
Trees
|
||
cliffs
|
||
pine
|
||
encumbered
|
||
dales
|
||
drenching
|
||
soaked
|
||
burn
|
||
steeper
|
||
stock
|
||
raining
|
||
scoop
|
||
ache
|
||
fearfully
|
||
stealthy
|
||
chinks
|
||
rattling
|
||
loosened
|
||
smother
|
||
hunched
|
||
strips
|
||
reassuring
|
||
Ettendales
|
||
blunted
|
||
dismount
|
||
despaired
|
||
burdened
|
||
exhausted
|
||
lifeless
|
||
dreadfully
|
||
appealingly
|
||
poison
|
||
pit
|
||
quarried
|
||
moaning
|
||
imagining
|
||
survey
|
||
comforting
|
||
beset
|
||
developing
|
||
talent
|
||
sparing
|
||
jolts
|
||
windings
|
||
overgrown
|
||
easiest
|
||
crookedly
|
||
ajar
|
||
hinge
|
||
jars
|
||
pots
|
||
coining
|
||
warily
|
||
panted
|
||
unconcernedly
|
||
gasp
|
||
quarrelling
|
||
cook
|
||
scare
|
||
nest
|
||
ornament
|
||
reviving
|
||
heartening
|
||
Won
|
||
stored
|
||
images
|
||
school
|
||
munched
|
||
mumbled
|
||
Done
|
||
Gum
|
||
Said
|
||
Pray
|
||
yon
|
||
shin
|
||
nuncle
|
||
Tim
|
||
lyin
|
||
graveyard
|
||
Caveyard
|
||
Paveyard
|
||
lump
|
||
Afore
|
||
shinbone
|
||
Tinbone
|
||
Thinbone
|
||
Without
|
||
axin
|
||
makin
|
||
shank
|
||
kin
|
||
Rover
|
||
Trover
|
||
pins
|
||
grins
|
||
shins
|
||
Hee
|
||
skins
|
||
dine
|
||
boot
|
||
larn
|
||
Warn
|
||
Darn
|
||
flesh
|
||
sits
|
||
Peel
|
||
Heal
|
||
groan
|
||
toes
|
||
leg
|
||
lame
|
||
boned
|
||
owner
|
||
Doner
|
||
Boner
|
||
inaudible
|
||
conspirator
|
||
jester
|
||
warrior
|
||
clung
|
||
roughly
|
||
weathered
|
||
robbers
|
||
westering
|
||
rollings
|
||
bilberry
|
||
hazels
|
||
clippety
|
||
clippely
|
||
tinkling
|
||
Clearer
|
||
jingled
|
||
headstall
|
||
studded
|
||
gems
|
||
reined
|
||
Ai
|
||
na
|
||
vedui
|
||
nadan
|
||
Mae
|
||
govannen
|
||
beckoned
|
||
Glorfindel
|
||
dwells
|
||
joyfully
|
||
astray
|
||
guidance
|
||
Wilderness
|
||
Briefly
|
||
wounds
|
||
urge
|
||
graver
|
||
disquieted
|
||
steeds
|
||
rival
|
||
persuaded
|
||
mount
|
||
tireless
|
||
sag
|
||
liquor
|
||
flask
|
||
flow
|
||
Eaten
|
||
stale
|
||
urged
|
||
halts
|
||
lagged
|
||
guides
|
||
dizzy
|
||
redoubled
|
||
ghostly
|
||
hobbled
|
||
moist
|
||
Echoes
|
||
footfalls
|
||
incline
|
||
threaded
|
||
peak
|
||
Fly
|
||
Another
|
||
Ride
|
||
obey
|
||
reluctance
|
||
Checking
|
||
statues
|
||
receded
|
||
bridle
|
||
noro
|
||
lim
|
||
Asfaloth
|
||
lap
|
||
converged
|
||
robed
|
||
mane
|
||
harness
|
||
spurt
|
||
speeding
|
||
foremost
|
||
foamed
|
||
heave
|
||
surge
|
||
neighing
|
||
quailed
|
||
uplifted
|
||
Hatred
|
||
brandished
|
||
stricken
|
||
dumb
|
||
cleave
|
||
labouring
|
||
roaring
|
||
Dimly
|
||
plumed
|
||
cavalry
|
||
waves
|
||
crests
|
||
fancied
|
||
frothing
|
||
manes
|
||
overwhelmed
|
||
madness
|
||
flood
|
||
II
|
||
MANY
|
||
MEETINGS
|
||
ceiling
|
||
richly
|
||
argue
|
||
puffs
|
||
overcoming
|
||
feat
|
||
ruin
|
||
explaining
|
||
captive
|
||
Morgul
|
||
preparing
|
||
Servants
|
||
Breelanders
|
||
thinks
|
||
twentieth
|
||
improvement
|
||
touching
|
||
mending
|
||
fragment
|
||
splinter
|
||
working
|
||
warriors
|
||
seventeen
|
||
succeeded
|
||
weaker
|
||
tormented
|
||
shave
|
||
gravest
|
||
nothingness
|
||
howl
|
||
bred
|
||
chattels
|
||
wraiths
|
||
wargs
|
||
werewolves
|
||
daily
|
||
Eldar
|
||
Blessed
|
||
Realm
|
||
worlds
|
||
Seen
|
||
Unseen
|
||
Was
|
||
Firstborn
|
||
princes
|
||
withstand
|
||
islands
|
||
siege
|
||
wire
|
||
bedside
|
||
transparency
|
||
coverlet
|
||
foretell
|
||
ridden
|
||
overtake
|
||
oppose
|
||
Close
|
||
brands
|
||
Caught
|
||
dismayed
|
||
assault
|
||
hurled
|
||
crippled
|
||
grinding
|
||
fierce
|
||
tremendous
|
||
feasting
|
||
reasons
|
||
bearer
|
||
finder
|
||
sleepily
|
||
Homely
|
||
mixture
|
||
Merely
|
||
sadness
|
||
excellently
|
||
uncle
|
||
awkwardly
|
||
shyly
|
||
stroked
|
||
blushed
|
||
Meaning
|
||
glory
|
||
joking
|
||
Evil
|
||
fortress
|
||
summoned
|
||
dais
|
||
aged
|
||
snowy
|
||
coals
|
||
leap
|
||
ageless
|
||
sorrowful
|
||
Venerable
|
||
hale
|
||
fulness
|
||
canopy
|
||
womanhood
|
||
braids
|
||
flawless
|
||
cloudless
|
||
queenly
|
||
lace
|
||
likeness
|
||
Und
|
||
miel
|
||
Evenstar
|
||
Elladan
|
||
Elrohir
|
||
errantry
|
||
dens
|
||
abashed
|
||
cushions
|
||
neighbours
|
||
forked
|
||
snow
|
||
diamonds
|
||
Gl
|
||
scattering
|
||
Am
|
||
Quite
|
||
courteously
|
||
assisting
|
||
kinsman
|
||
Allow
|
||
congratulate
|
||
recovery
|
||
inquire
|
||
casual
|
||
equally
|
||
summon
|
||
Throughout
|
||
Grimbeorn
|
||
Beorn
|
||
wolf
|
||
lndeed
|
||
Beornings
|
||
valiant
|
||
Carrock
|
||
tolls
|
||
Bardings
|
||
Bard
|
||
Bowman
|
||
Brand
|
||
Bain
|
||
reaches
|
||
handiwork
|
||
embarked
|
||
listener
|
||
subject
|
||
venerable
|
||
fabulously
|
||
Dwalin
|
||
Dori
|
||
Nori
|
||
Bifur
|
||
Bofur
|
||
Bombur
|
||
couch
|
||
Ori
|
||
merrier
|
||
metalwork
|
||
armour
|
||
mining
|
||
waterways
|
||
paved
|
||
cavernous
|
||
terraces
|
||
changes
|
||
Desolation
|
||
Smaug
|
||
palaces
|
||
carven
|
||
minstrels
|
||
stool
|
||
Awake
|
||
recognition
|
||
judge
|
||
oblivious
|
||
aimlessly
|
||
steered
|
||
doesn
|
||
Fancy
|
||
causing
|
||
disturbance
|
||
mincemeat
|
||
tottering
|
||
Odd
|
||
frightfully
|
||
peep
|
||
wrinkled
|
||
shred
|
||
felling
|
||
pranks
|
||
smallest
|
||
n
|
||
udan
|
||
menorean
|
||
lessons
|
||
gravely
|
||
unlooked
|
||
urgent
|
||
forlorn
|
||
intent
|
||
beauty
|
||
melodies
|
||
interwoven
|
||
attend
|
||
firelit
|
||
margins
|
||
enchantment
|
||
dreamlike
|
||
swelling
|
||
multitudinous
|
||
pattern
|
||
comprehended
|
||
throbbing
|
||
drenched
|
||
Swiftly
|
||
Faint
|
||
mariner
|
||
tarried
|
||
Arvernien
|
||
timber
|
||
felled
|
||
Nimbrethil
|
||
sails
|
||
wove
|
||
prow
|
||
swan
|
||
banners
|
||
panoply
|
||
armoured
|
||
ward
|
||
shorn
|
||
ebony
|
||
habergeon
|
||
chalcedony
|
||
adamant
|
||
helmet
|
||
plume
|
||
emerald
|
||
gnashing
|
||
Narrow
|
||
Ice
|
||
nether
|
||
heats
|
||
roving
|
||
starless
|
||
errandless
|
||
unheralded
|
||
homeward
|
||
diamond
|
||
carcanet
|
||
dauntless
|
||
Otherworld
|
||
storm
|
||
Tarmenel
|
||
Evernight
|
||
unlit
|
||
foundered
|
||
pearl
|
||
foaming
|
||
wan
|
||
Valinor
|
||
Eldamar
|
||
wanderer
|
||
Ilmarin
|
||
Tirion
|
||
Shadowmere
|
||
sages
|
||
marvels
|
||
harps
|
||
Calacirian
|
||
unto
|
||
timeless
|
||
reigns
|
||
unheard
|
||
forbid
|
||
therein
|
||
mithril
|
||
oar
|
||
mast
|
||
banner
|
||
thereon
|
||
thither
|
||
immortal
|
||
undying
|
||
Evereven
|
||
Wall
|
||
yearned
|
||
Norland
|
||
women
|
||
maids
|
||
yore
|
||
gut
|
||
orb
|
||
tarry
|
||
Hither
|
||
Shores
|
||
herald
|
||
Flammifer
|
||
listeners
|
||
applauding
|
||
flattered
|
||
Lindir
|
||
reciting
|
||
difference
|
||
Nonsense
|
||
distinguish
|
||
peas
|
||
sheep
|
||
shepherds
|
||
Mortals
|
||
needn
|
||
cheek
|
||
acquire
|
||
appetite
|
||
tug
|
||
silivren
|
||
penna
|
||
riel
|
||
menel
|
||
aglar
|
||
elenath
|
||
Na
|
||
chaered
|
||
palan
|
||
galadhremmin
|
||
ennorath
|
||
Fanuilos
|
||
le
|
||
linnathon
|
||
nef
|
||
aear
|
||
aearon
|
||
syllables
|
||
blended
|
||
gar
|
||
encompassed
|
||
Bless
|
||
COUNCIL
|
||
ELROND
|
||
Slanting
|
||
nets
|
||
gossamer
|
||
bush
|
||
Feel
|
||
council
|
||
Birds
|
||
presented
|
||
hither
|
||
Gimli
|
||
counsellors
|
||
Erestor
|
||
Galdor
|
||
C
|
||
rdan
|
||
Shipwright
|
||
Legolas
|
||
messenger
|
||
Thranduil
|
||
horseback
|
||
fur
|
||
collar
|
||
locks
|
||
baldric
|
||
Boromir
|
||
seeks
|
||
bidden
|
||
attentively
|
||
splendour
|
||
Whence
|
||
hemmed
|
||
Khazad
|
||
Wonder
|
||
delved
|
||
mansions
|
||
Thr
|
||
resolved
|
||
willingly
|
||
sweetened
|
||
asks
|
||
fancies
|
||
earnest
|
||
Find
|
||
Refuse
|
||
yea
|
||
nay
|
||
consider
|
||
Consider
|
||
Heavy
|
||
deceit
|
||
unanswered
|
||
crave
|
||
purposes
|
||
deem
|
||
Called
|
||
nick
|
||
Believe
|
||
forging
|
||
eagerness
|
||
whereas
|
||
Celebrimbor
|
||
traced
|
||
recounted
|
||
Tall
|
||
rion
|
||
hosts
|
||
mustered
|
||
Thereupon
|
||
Beleriand
|
||
captains
|
||
Thangorodrim
|
||
deemed
|
||
sire
|
||
Doriath
|
||
defeats
|
||
fruitless
|
||
victories
|
||
Dagorlad
|
||
mastery
|
||
Spear
|
||
Sword
|
||
Aiglos
|
||
Narsil
|
||
combat
|
||
overthrown
|
||
shard
|
||
contest
|
||
weregild
|
||
brother
|
||
Bane
|
||
Ohtar
|
||
esquire
|
||
shards
|
||
Valandil
|
||
extinguished
|
||
Fruitless
|
||
achieve
|
||
diminished
|
||
foundations
|
||
multiply
|
||
decrease
|
||
kindreds
|
||
span
|
||
slaughter
|
||
city
|
||
Ann
|
||
minas
|
||
Evendim
|
||
Deadmen
|
||
Dike
|
||
recalling
|
||
havens
|
||
winged
|
||
Osgiliath
|
||
Citadel
|
||
Ithil
|
||
Rising
|
||
Anor
|
||
courts
|
||
Eress
|
||
Uttermost
|
||
Meneldil
|
||
menoreans
|
||
Gorgoroth
|
||
Sorcery
|
||
cities
|
||
Lords
|
||
defying
|
||
Argonath
|
||
verily
|
||
restrained
|
||
bulwark
|
||
Nameless
|
||
Smoke
|
||
Mount
|
||
Ithilien
|
||
domain
|
||
outnumbered
|
||
allied
|
||
Easterlings
|
||
Haradrim
|
||
Wherever
|
||
boldest
|
||
destroying
|
||
praise
|
||
allies
|
||
Seek
|
||
Imladris
|
||
Stronger
|
||
waken
|
||
Halfling
|
||
Denethor
|
||
Therefore
|
||
Loth
|
||
Broken
|
||
Chief
|
||
ordained
|
||
Bring
|
||
hush
|
||
shame
|
||
loathing
|
||
Behold
|
||
treasured
|
||
heirlooms
|
||
boon
|
||
behalf
|
||
snort
|
||
majesty
|
||
plains
|
||
Rh
|
||
Harad
|
||
hunters
|
||
stalwart
|
||
Peace
|
||
houseless
|
||
sunless
|
||
Travellers
|
||
countrymen
|
||
town
|
||
ceaselessly
|
||
reforged
|
||
strengthen
|
||
briefer
|
||
sidelong
|
||
displeased
|
||
omit
|
||
suffices
|
||
halfling
|
||
trove
|
||
debate
|
||
Nazg
|
||
Dol
|
||
Guldur
|
||
dissuaded
|
||
foresaw
|
||
governing
|
||
flee
|
||
earnestly
|
||
lulled
|
||
vigilance
|
||
misgave
|
||
cares
|
||
treason
|
||
doubled
|
||
counselled
|
||
labour
|
||
hopeless
|
||
unneeded
|
||
gem
|
||
unadorned
|
||
skilled
|
||
forsook
|
||
City
|
||
grudgingly
|
||
permitted
|
||
hoarded
|
||
scrolls
|
||
scripts
|
||
unread
|
||
scroll
|
||
instructing
|
||
committed
|
||
sapling
|
||
heirloom
|
||
glede
|
||
cooled
|
||
seemeth
|
||
shrink
|
||
loseth
|
||
fadeth
|
||
saith
|
||
misseth
|
||
Vale
|
||
Dead
|
||
Lurking
|
||
slime
|
||
halter
|
||
gagged
|
||
stank
|
||
profit
|
||
mattered
|
||
aloft
|
||
Ash
|
||
nazg
|
||
durbatul
|
||
k
|
||
gimbatul
|
||
thrakatul
|
||
agh
|
||
burzum
|
||
ishi
|
||
krimpatul
|
||
astounding
|
||
trembled
|
||
fraught
|
||
Smiths
|
||
Know
|
||
loth
|
||
unclear
|
||
suffered
|
||
safely
|
||
gives
|
||
Escaped
|
||
rue
|
||
watchfulness
|
||
kindliness
|
||
prisoner
|
||
wearied
|
||
tender
|
||
imprisonment
|
||
interrupt
|
||
regrettable
|
||
misunderstanding
|
||
grievances
|
||
abandon
|
||
moonless
|
||
unawares
|
||
rescue
|
||
contrived
|
||
recapture
|
||
foreboding
|
||
fugitives
|
||
grazing
|
||
Radagast
|
||
Brown
|
||
Rhosgobel
|
||
guise
|
||
chieftain
|
||
sorcerer
|
||
wields
|
||
arts
|
||
forestall
|
||
wasted
|
||
Send
|
||
bears
|
||
Orthanc
|
||
dwelling
|
||
Isengard
|
||
Gap
|
||
vale
|
||
northmost
|
||
Ered
|
||
Nimrais
|
||
enclose
|
||
Late
|
||
strongly
|
||
keepers
|
||
awaited
|
||
stair
|
||
scoffed
|
||
deceived
|
||
require
|
||
union
|
||
import
|
||
lurking
|
||
scorn
|
||
Bird
|
||
tamer
|
||
Simple
|
||
Fool
|
||
wit
|
||
Colours
|
||
sneered
|
||
serves
|
||
dyed
|
||
page
|
||
overwritten
|
||
breaks
|
||
fools
|
||
instructed
|
||
declaim
|
||
rehearsed
|
||
Younger
|
||
helper
|
||
softer
|
||
policies
|
||
avail
|
||
patience
|
||
bide
|
||
deploring
|
||
evils
|
||
approving
|
||
ultimate
|
||
Knowledge
|
||
Rule
|
||
Order
|
||
striven
|
||
speeches
|
||
emissaries
|
||
deceive
|
||
ignorant
|
||
commend
|
||
lust
|
||
conceal
|
||
unmasked
|
||
choices
|
||
submit
|
||
aiding
|
||
saving
|
||
despite
|
||
devise
|
||
hindrance
|
||
insolence
|
||
descent
|
||
pits
|
||
forges
|
||
Wolves
|
||
housed
|
||
mustering
|
||
rivalry
|
||
assured
|
||
calls
|
||
misfortune
|
||
web
|
||
spiders
|
||
faith
|
||
undoing
|
||
Eagles
|
||
waned
|
||
Gwaihir
|
||
Windlord
|
||
swiftest
|
||
pursue
|
||
steed
|
||
surpassingly
|
||
Edoras
|
||
Riddermark
|
||
Horse
|
||
tribute
|
||
yearly
|
||
yoke
|
||
grieves
|
||
levies
|
||
True
|
||
foaled
|
||
vie
|
||
Shadowfax
|
||
glistens
|
||
speedily
|
||
gained
|
||
forces
|
||
invaded
|
||
shortcomings
|
||
owners
|
||
abide
|
||
Changes
|
||
amidst
|
||
ants
|
||
comforted
|
||
barked
|
||
embraced
|
||
mistaking
|
||
behaved
|
||
wilful
|
||
Ass
|
||
Thrice
|
||
midsummer
|
||
foiled
|
||
besieged
|
||
folly
|
||
heels
|
||
tryst
|
||
falls
|
||
betrayals
|
||
singular
|
||
outlier
|
||
squirrel
|
||
Iarwain
|
||
Ben
|
||
adar
|
||
fatherless
|
||
Forn
|
||
Orald
|
||
Say
|
||
alter
|
||
guardian
|
||
postpone
|
||
unguessed
|
||
unmarked
|
||
defied
|
||
defy
|
||
Cirdan
|
||
learns
|
||
unhorsed
|
||
swifter
|
||
waning
|
||
assailing
|
||
hereafter
|
||
lengthening
|
||
wanes
|
||
unmake
|
||
unforeseen
|
||
Silence
|
||
frowning
|
||
traitor
|
||
Wielding
|
||
Valour
|
||
holds
|
||
deadlier
|
||
corrupts
|
||
overthrow
|
||
using
|
||
Mayhap
|
||
tide
|
||
inherited
|
||
sinews
|
||
realms
|
||
Gates
|
||
strengths
|
||
conquest
|
||
understanding
|
||
unstained
|
||
regains
|
||
rulers
|
||
hurts
|
||
belief
|
||
Despair
|
||
recognize
|
||
necessity
|
||
cling
|
||
weighs
|
||
nicety
|
||
scales
|
||
judges
|
||
enter
|
||
trod
|
||
attempted
|
||
frightful
|
||
hero
|
||
jest
|
||
recorder
|
||
Finish
|
||
unaltered
|
||
Exactly
|
||
thrive
|
||
downcast
|
||
awaiting
|
||
pronouncement
|
||
vainly
|
||
keenness
|
||
appointed
|
||
arise
|
||
Hador
|
||
H
|
||
rin
|
||
T
|
||
jumping
|
||
separate
|
||
pickle
|
||
landed
|
||
RING
|
||
GOES
|
||
SOUTH
|
||
Later
|
||
Instead
|
||
rewards
|
||
Rewards
|
||
severe
|
||
punishment
|
||
condemned
|
||
Yesterday
|
||
envying
|
||
intelligence
|
||
Talking
|
||
opener
|
||
inattentive
|
||
openers
|
||
scouts
|
||
scour
|
||
gloomily
|
||
insisting
|
||
honouring
|
||
letting
|
||
tis
|
||
announcement
|
||
Books
|
||
endings
|
||
Health
|
||
lingering
|
||
Hunter
|
||
waxed
|
||
brink
|
||
November
|
||
December
|
||
Dimrill
|
||
Stair
|
||
Silverlode
|
||
flooded
|
||
rapids
|
||
searchers
|
||
tattered
|
||
Eight
|
||
rash
|
||
foresee
|
||
achieved
|
||
disguised
|
||
contrive
|
||
miscarry
|
||
allows
|
||
secrecy
|
||
Had
|
||
arouse
|
||
Company
|
||
Walkers
|
||
represent
|
||
Peoples
|
||
shamed
|
||
unhappy
|
||
forebode
|
||
sack
|
||
depart
|
||
crescent
|
||
rayed
|
||
redly
|
||
ril
|
||
Flame
|
||
storied
|
||
figured
|
||
winning
|
||
Jewel
|
||
incomplete
|
||
scraps
|
||
lid
|
||
fumbled
|
||
shabby
|
||
leathern
|
||
parcel
|
||
unwound
|
||
shirt
|
||
linen
|
||
moonlit
|
||
crystal
|
||
mementoes
|
||
tunic
|
||
appears
|
||
kindnesses
|
||
slapping
|
||
Ow
|
||
spared
|
||
meadow
|
||
summers
|
||
autumns
|
||
seething
|
||
Ragged
|
||
discomfiture
|
||
beware
|
||
rusty
|
||
Loud
|
||
Putting
|
||
blast
|
||
echoes
|
||
Slow
|
||
dire
|
||
thereafter
|
||
bladed
|
||
quiver
|
||
girt
|
||
Glamdring
|
||
mate
|
||
Orcrist
|
||
furnished
|
||
Spare
|
||
worked
|
||
glossy
|
||
declaring
|
||
farewells
|
||
sucking
|
||
moodily
|
||
roared
|
||
stonily
|
||
ebb
|
||
oughtn
|
||
et
|
||
hay
|
||
swished
|
||
eased
|
||
stowed
|
||
cooking
|
||
refilled
|
||
supply
|
||
flint
|
||
hose
|
||
belongings
|
||
triumph
|
||
Rope
|
||
rope
|
||
Quest
|
||
withdraw
|
||
oath
|
||
bond
|
||
Faithless
|
||
darkens
|
||
vow
|
||
sworn
|
||
stuttering
|
||
hissed
|
||
rougher
|
||
range
|
||
rearguard
|
||
lighting
|
||
turbulent
|
||
Paths
|
||
swamps
|
||
holly
|
||
tooth
|
||
precipice
|
||
slanted
|
||
Hollin
|
||
crow
|
||
Dangerous
|
||
bends
|
||
map
|
||
image
|
||
Baraz
|
||
Zirak
|
||
Shath
|
||
Dwarrowdelf
|
||
Pit
|
||
Yonder
|
||
Barazinbar
|
||
Redhorn
|
||
Caradhras
|
||
Silvertine
|
||
Cloudyhead
|
||
Celebdil
|
||
Fanuidhol
|
||
zigil
|
||
Bundushath
|
||
divide
|
||
Azanulbizar
|
||
Nanduhirion
|
||
Mirrormere
|
||
Kheled
|
||
z
|
||
Kibil
|
||
trembles
|
||
befall
|
||
silvan
|
||
lament
|
||
builded
|
||
posed
|
||
seasons
|
||
sleepers
|
||
swish
|
||
Flocks
|
||
wheeling
|
||
circling
|
||
traversing
|
||
Lie
|
||
regiment
|
||
throng
|
||
croak
|
||
Regiments
|
||
crows
|
||
natives
|
||
crebain
|
||
Fangorn
|
||
fleeing
|
||
Luckily
|
||
plague
|
||
feasts
|
||
jaw
|
||
Maps
|
||
conveyed
|
||
Guided
|
||
ruinous
|
||
wisp
|
||
towered
|
||
snuffed
|
||
deepens
|
||
Tonight
|
||
watchers
|
||
continuing
|
||
delaying
|
||
marshals
|
||
add
|
||
faggot
|
||
mournfully
|
||
twisting
|
||
swirled
|
||
flanks
|
||
gulf
|
||
Laboriously
|
||
flakes
|
||
sleeve
|
||
ankle
|
||
heavily
|
||
contrivance
|
||
govern
|
||
storms
|
||
slackened
|
||
furlong
|
||
fury
|
||
blizzard
|
||
dragging
|
||
agreement
|
||
eerie
|
||
howls
|
||
Stones
|
||
crashing
|
||
rumble
|
||
boulder
|
||
aimed
|
||
untrue
|
||
Cruel
|
||
Either
|
||
trough
|
||
Shelter
|
||
faced
|
||
eddying
|
||
blasts
|
||
patiently
|
||
dejectedly
|
||
drifting
|
||
hocks
|
||
heating
|
||
Snowstorms
|
||
January
|
||
painfully
|
||
wakefulness
|
||
halflings
|
||
mouthful
|
||
miruvor
|
||
cordial
|
||
revived
|
||
relent
|
||
whirled
|
||
Doubtless
|
||
kindlings
|
||
Picking
|
||
naur
|
||
edraith
|
||
ammen
|
||
spout
|
||
sputtered
|
||
rejoiced
|
||
slush
|
||
warmed
|
||
blackness
|
||
quieter
|
||
slackening
|
||
Below
|
||
humps
|
||
domes
|
||
retreat
|
||
scooped
|
||
toiling
|
||
burrowing
|
||
ploughman
|
||
plough
|
||
otter
|
||
nimbly
|
||
imprint
|
||
runner
|
||
sand
|
||
overtaking
|
||
whiteness
|
||
wreath
|
||
drift
|
||
Strong
|
||
growled
|
||
spades
|
||
Cling
|
||
marvelled
|
||
tool
|
||
thrusting
|
||
perched
|
||
slithering
|
||
spray
|
||
blinded
|
||
Enough
|
||
expended
|
||
invaders
|
||
trudge
|
||
tumble
|
||
dots
|
||
JOURNEY
|
||
brightened
|
||
visibly
|
||
leads
|
||
Mines
|
||
smouldering
|
||
omen
|
||
Isen
|
||
Langstrand
|
||
Lebennin
|
||
Things
|
||
Bearer
|
||
harbourless
|
||
increase
|
||
liken
|
||
stronghold
|
||
Fundin
|
||
chooses
|
||
bewilder
|
||
votes
|
||
Wargs
|
||
Need
|
||
fifteen
|
||
hears
|
||
loosening
|
||
sheath
|
||
warg
|
||
prowls
|
||
etten
|
||
wager
|
||
belly
|
||
sheltering
|
||
knot
|
||
sweated
|
||
shuddering
|
||
summoning
|
||
Hound
|
||
shrivel
|
||
snout
|
||
twang
|
||
loosed
|
||
thudded
|
||
arrow
|
||
fitfully
|
||
attacking
|
||
Fling
|
||
Draw
|
||
wielding
|
||
monument
|
||
Stooping
|
||
radiance
|
||
Naur
|
||
dan
|
||
i
|
||
ngaurhoth
|
||
bloom
|
||
defenders
|
||
sheIthing
|
||
singed
|
||
charred
|
||
undamaged
|
||
likeliest
|
||
Lead
|
||
Sirannon
|
||
Hurrying
|
||
trickle
|
||
paving
|
||
highroad
|
||
footsore
|
||
doggedly
|
||
veering
|
||
Rounding
|
||
fathoms
|
||
trickling
|
||
Falls
|
||
loops
|
||
Walls
|
||
reflected
|
||
dammed
|
||
pallid
|
||
impassable
|
||
fissure
|
||
Door
|
||
adrift
|
||
breadth
|
||
enclosed
|
||
northernmost
|
||
creek
|
||
undeterred
|
||
threading
|
||
sliding
|
||
greasy
|
||
footing
|
||
disgust
|
||
unclean
|
||
plop
|
||
gleams
|
||
hugging
|
||
Stumps
|
||
rotting
|
||
shallows
|
||
sentinel
|
||
Holly
|
||
protested
|
||
guiding
|
||
sullenly
|
||
nuzzled
|
||
unlading
|
||
sorted
|
||
dividing
|
||
Doors
|
||
veins
|
||
blurred
|
||
outline
|
||
anvil
|
||
surmounted
|
||
moons
|
||
rays
|
||
emblems
|
||
anor
|
||
ithildin
|
||
mirrors
|
||
sleeps
|
||
decipher
|
||
inscription
|
||
underneath
|
||
Narvi
|
||
password
|
||
governed
|
||
doorwards
|
||
undaunted
|
||
Knock
|
||
shatter
|
||
trials
|
||
Annon
|
||
edhellen
|
||
edro
|
||
hi
|
||
Fennas
|
||
nogothrim
|
||
lasto
|
||
beth
|
||
lammen
|
||
Edro
|
||
instant
|
||
bubble
|
||
disturb
|
||
mournful
|
||
lapping
|
||
suddenness
|
||
Absurdly
|
||
Mellon
|
||
outlined
|
||
joint
|
||
inscribed
|
||
archway
|
||
translation
|
||
Friend
|
||
lakeside
|
||
sinuous
|
||
tentacle
|
||
slashing
|
||
Twenty
|
||
boiled
|
||
stench
|
||
gateway
|
||
Quick
|
||
Rousing
|
||
tentacles
|
||
writhed
|
||
coiling
|
||
shattering
|
||
rending
|
||
dully
|
||
ponderous
|
||
choking
|
||
magnified
|
||
stairway
|
||
proposal
|
||
sip
|
||
chances
|
||
mishap
|
||
stifling
|
||
currents
|
||
cooler
|
||
issuing
|
||
openings
|
||
intricate
|
||
imagination
|
||
goal
|
||
surer
|
||
cats
|
||
Ber
|
||
thiel
|
||
pitfalls
|
||
chasms
|
||
churning
|
||
whiles
|
||
certainty
|
||
tighter
|
||
stump
|
||
scarce
|
||
patter
|
||
uncertainly
|
||
wearier
|
||
Steady
|
||
Fragments
|
||
guardroom
|
||
attracted
|
||
unrolling
|
||
Moved
|
||
impulse
|
||
plunk
|
||
shaft
|
||
Throw
|
||
knocks
|
||
tom
|
||
disquietingly
|
||
signals
|
||
pitch
|
||
snowstorm
|
||
chip
|
||
watches
|
||
counting
|
||
bobbing
|
||
loftier
|
||
galleries
|
||
oppressed
|
||
footstep
|
||
habitable
|
||
upheld
|
||
entrances
|
||
shafts
|
||
inflow
|
||
immense
|
||
vastness
|
||
dolven
|
||
branching
|
||
wildest
|
||
imaginings
|
||
darksome
|
||
stain
|
||
untasted
|
||
Nargothrond
|
||
pillared
|
||
Undimmed
|
||
chisel
|
||
clove
|
||
delver
|
||
mined
|
||
mason
|
||
opal
|
||
Buckler
|
||
corslet
|
||
Unwearied
|
||
harped
|
||
ashen
|
||
harp
|
||
windless
|
||
piles
|
||
Having
|
||
Piles
|
||
plundered
|
||
dares
|
||
treasuries
|
||
delve
|
||
lodes
|
||
foundation
|
||
destruction
|
||
greedily
|
||
covets
|
||
Mithril
|
||
tempered
|
||
tarnish
|
||
starmoon
|
||
Gathering
|
||
kingly
|
||
mowing
|
||
pottering
|
||
corridor
|
||
topped
|
||
hinges
|
||
dazzlingly
|
||
oblong
|
||
slab
|
||
graven
|
||
Daeron
|
||
Runes
|
||
balin
|
||
fundin
|
||
moria
|
||
BRIDGE
|
||
KHAZAD
|
||
M
|
||
scimitars
|
||
recesses
|
||
shattered
|
||
stabbed
|
||
pored
|
||
gingerly
|
||
slew
|
||
Fl
|
||
blur
|
||
Mirror
|
||
twentyfirst
|
||
Chamber
|
||
Mazarbul
|
||
Records
|
||
Axe
|
||
truesilver
|
||
wellforged
|
||
armouries
|
||
damaged
|
||
numbered
|
||
estre
|
||
yestre
|
||
tenth
|
||
novembre
|
||
hut
|
||
suffer
|
||
puzzle
|
||
Fr
|
||
ni
|
||
li
|
||
smeared
|
||
Westgate
|
||
Watcher
|
||
drums
|
||
scrawl
|
||
retake
|
||
grieve
|
||
Seventh
|
||
Level
|
||
Boom
|
||
caverns
|
||
Trapped
|
||
Slam
|
||
wedge
|
||
Feet
|
||
boom
|
||
Arrows
|
||
Uruks
|
||
plunges
|
||
wedged
|
||
splinters
|
||
grind
|
||
wedges
|
||
toeless
|
||
bellow
|
||
wrenching
|
||
Rams
|
||
hammers
|
||
harmlessly
|
||
affray
|
||
fierceness
|
||
sprung
|
||
shrieking
|
||
scalp
|
||
returns
|
||
followers
|
||
swart
|
||
Diving
|
||
striking
|
||
snake
|
||
charged
|
||
pinned
|
||
hacked
|
||
truncheon
|
||
scimitar
|
||
asunder
|
||
throbbed
|
||
tramp
|
||
emptiness
|
||
seventh
|
||
spawned
|
||
beater
|
||
shutting
|
||
requires
|
||
gh
|
||
sh
|
||
counter
|
||
Command
|
||
blocking
|
||
bruised
|
||
skewered
|
||
boar
|
||
skewer
|
||
meets
|
||
Gh
|
||
unmistakable
|
||
signing
|
||
devilry
|
||
Across
|
||
boles
|
||
tracery
|
||
bases
|
||
columns
|
||
Wisps
|
||
clash
|
||
chasm
|
||
kerb
|
||
rail
|
||
spanned
|
||
capture
|
||
Straight
|
||
swarming
|
||
gangways
|
||
ranks
|
||
wreathed
|
||
stabbing
|
||
whip
|
||
thongs
|
||
ai
|
||
Balrog
|
||
raced
|
||
yelled
|
||
bellowed
|
||
throats
|
||
nostrils
|
||
Secret
|
||
wielder
|
||
Ud
|
||
wizened
|
||
onset
|
||
molten
|
||
sheet
|
||
crashed
|
||
poised
|
||
lashed
|
||
abyss
|
||
bowshot
|
||
Grief
|
||
LOTHL
|
||
RIEN
|
||
avenged
|
||
gird
|
||
weep
|
||
glen
|
||
torrent
|
||
ladder
|
||
capped
|
||
outflung
|
||
descried
|
||
oval
|
||
unruffled
|
||
sward
|
||
shelving
|
||
hasten
|
||
whin
|
||
column
|
||
Crown
|
||
freshet
|
||
gathers
|
||
springtime
|
||
hued
|
||
harts
|
||
whortle
|
||
brush
|
||
payment
|
||
slaying
|
||
Bathe
|
||
heated
|
||
athelas
|
||
Crush
|
||
Gently
|
||
Carefully
|
||
tinkle
|
||
wrap
|
||
princeling
|
||
hides
|
||
undervalued
|
||
bruise
|
||
steeped
|
||
strengthened
|
||
pads
|
||
marvellously
|
||
Dusk
|
||
avenge
|
||
poplars
|
||
fallow
|
||
Glad
|
||
whence
|
||
Nevertheless
|
||
fend
|
||
irresolute
|
||
scale
|
||
Perilous
|
||
swirl
|
||
Nimrodel
|
||
Silvan
|
||
rainbow
|
||
floated
|
||
wade
|
||
forgetfulness
|
||
sweetly
|
||
lung
|
||
maid
|
||
lee
|
||
Awaited
|
||
Arose
|
||
heaving
|
||
Amroth
|
||
swell
|
||
faithless
|
||
dive
|
||
mew
|
||
Afar
|
||
evermore
|
||
Blossom
|
||
lover
|
||
Celebrant
|
||
Bay
|
||
Galadhrim
|
||
cluster
|
||
Mellyrn
|
||
perch
|
||
Daro
|
||
Stand
|
||
shoot
|
||
mallorn
|
||
upward
|
||
platform
|
||
flet
|
||
talan
|
||
haltingly
|
||
Language
|
||
sundered
|
||
Haldir
|
||
mil
|
||
Orophin
|
||
befriend
|
||
Myself
|
||
favour
|
||
blindfold
|
||
toward
|
||
Call
|
||
panting
|
||
lugged
|
||
warmly
|
||
upstairs
|
||
plaited
|
||
screen
|
||
loft
|
||
sickle
|
||
Yrch
|
||
hushed
|
||
wraps
|
||
concealment
|
||
noiseless
|
||
scrabbling
|
||
unwinking
|
||
curse
|
||
filtered
|
||
Pale
|
||
changeful
|
||
skilfully
|
||
coil
|
||
fasten
|
||
shuffled
|
||
Live
|
||
gaffer
|
||
roosting
|
||
Andy
|
||
untied
|
||
coiled
|
||
Naith
|
||
Gore
|
||
Egladil
|
||
Angle
|
||
consent
|
||
beggar
|
||
betray
|
||
obstinate
|
||
haft
|
||
sentinels
|
||
singled
|
||
beggars
|
||
shares
|
||
blindness
|
||
amends
|
||
stubbed
|
||
toe
|
||
Folly
|
||
divides
|
||
endanger
|
||
bowstring
|
||
rumoured
|
||
Halflings
|
||
aforetime
|
||
truce
|
||
Being
|
||
deprived
|
||
sharpened
|
||
murmuring
|
||
distrusted
|
||
permit
|
||
unbind
|
||
hastening
|
||
marauding
|
||
eluded
|
||
New
|
||
bandage
|
||
circles
|
||
leafless
|
||
nakedness
|
||
arrayed
|
||
stalks
|
||
palest
|
||
Cerin
|
||
unfading
|
||
elanor
|
||
niphredil
|
||
awhile
|
||
conceived
|
||
uncovering
|
||
poignant
|
||
mourn
|
||
sickness
|
||
deformity
|
||
rubbing
|
||
fanned
|
||
beaches
|
||
texture
|
||
forester
|
||
carpenter
|
||
drear
|
||
enlighten
|
||
strive
|
||
rot
|
||
sevenfold
|
||
opposed
|
||
perceives
|
||
vanimelda
|
||
nam
|
||
ri
|
||
Elvendom
|
||
MIRROR
|
||
GALADRIEL
|
||
fosse
|
||
thronged
|
||
tiered
|
||
Caras
|
||
Galadhon
|
||
afire
|
||
soundlessly
|
||
basin
|
||
spilled
|
||
mightiest
|
||
ascend
|
||
wardens
|
||
flets
|
||
deck
|
||
tapering
|
||
canopied
|
||
lances
|
||
renewed
|
||
peoples
|
||
wont
|
||
gladness
|
||
Morgoth
|
||
banes
|
||
darkest
|
||
forbidden
|
||
needlessly
|
||
blameless
|
||
repent
|
||
exiled
|
||
glowering
|
||
clumsily
|
||
wisest
|
||
giver
|
||
uncounted
|
||
mayhap
|
||
contriving
|
||
Stray
|
||
searchingly
|
||
couches
|
||
blush
|
||
Anyone
|
||
guilty
|
||
conscience
|
||
steal
|
||
lamely
|
||
fared
|
||
tempting
|
||
lamentation
|
||
Mithrandir
|
||
Pilgrim
|
||
interpret
|
||
snatches
|
||
lair
|
||
pilgrim
|
||
throned
|
||
thorny
|
||
justice
|
||
homeless
|
||
temper
|
||
pedestal
|
||
ewer
|
||
profitable
|
||
deceits
|
||
outraged
|
||
avenue
|
||
Mill
|
||
Lots
|
||
busily
|
||
Remember
|
||
counsellor
|
||
Seeing
|
||
twilit
|
||
presently
|
||
Doubt
|
||
Brief
|
||
vivid
|
||
littered
|
||
disordered
|
||
scenes
|
||
raged
|
||
wrack
|
||
populous
|
||
emblem
|
||
Eye
|
||
rimmed
|
||
glazed
|
||
slit
|
||
pupil
|
||
rove
|
||
willed
|
||
curls
|
||
gropes
|
||
gesture
|
||
rejection
|
||
denial
|
||
overlaid
|
||
divining
|
||
Verily
|
||
Nenya
|
||
Adamant
|
||
suspects
|
||
wherefore
|
||
tides
|
||
assuaged
|
||
answerable
|
||
courtesy
|
||
revenged
|
||
testing
|
||
Dreadful
|
||
Storm
|
||
Lightning
|
||
measurement
|
||
enduring
|
||
worshipful
|
||
shrunken
|
||
possessor
|
||
rights
|
||
digging
|
||
dirty
|
||
FAREWELL
|
||
harden
|
||
await
|
||
onward
|
||
landings
|
||
furnish
|
||
Sarn
|
||
Gebir
|
||
Rauros
|
||
thunders
|
||
Nen
|
||
Hithoel
|
||
toilsome
|
||
float
|
||
plod
|
||
untroubled
|
||
overmuch
|
||
fulfilling
|
||
forsake
|
||
debating
|
||
defending
|
||
Plainly
|
||
correction
|
||
clothing
|
||
cakes
|
||
baked
|
||
Cram
|
||
crisp
|
||
nibbled
|
||
cake
|
||
cram
|
||
lembas
|
||
waybread
|
||
strengthening
|
||
bakers
|
||
unwrapped
|
||
silken
|
||
veined
|
||
maidens
|
||
garb
|
||
Fences
|
||
vapour
|
||
hythe
|
||
barges
|
||
coils
|
||
Ropes
|
||
hithlain
|
||
instruct
|
||
crafty
|
||
lade
|
||
wayward
|
||
mishandled
|
||
downstream
|
||
paddles
|
||
trial
|
||
wistfully
|
||
larks
|
||
beak
|
||
burnished
|
||
jet
|
||
vessel
|
||
Sad
|
||
strand
|
||
twined
|
||
Swan
|
||
blessings
|
||
heeding
|
||
drunk
|
||
Tindrock
|
||
Tol
|
||
Brandir
|
||
casts
|
||
isle
|
||
cataracts
|
||
Nindalf
|
||
Wetwang
|
||
sluggish
|
||
fen
|
||
tortuous
|
||
Entwash
|
||
Emyn
|
||
Muil
|
||
blows
|
||
Noman
|
||
Cirith
|
||
Gorgor
|
||
entangled
|
||
disprove
|
||
Northerland
|
||
fording
|
||
despise
|
||
needful
|
||
mead
|
||
draweth
|
||
lighten
|
||
outspread
|
||
Celebr
|
||
hers
|
||
foretold
|
||
Elfstone
|
||
clasp
|
||
stouter
|
||
strung
|
||
orchard
|
||
bestow
|
||
defend
|
||
sprinkle
|
||
ye
|
||
ungracious
|
||
Name
|
||
stammering
|
||
surpasses
|
||
surpass
|
||
courteous
|
||
Treasure
|
||
smithies
|
||
imperishable
|
||
pledge
|
||
unbraided
|
||
tresses
|
||
phial
|
||
Crying
|
||
backward
|
||
masted
|
||
margin
|
||
interpreted
|
||
lauri
|
||
lantar
|
||
lassi
|
||
rinen
|
||
Y
|
||
tim
|
||
mar
|
||
aldaron
|
||
lint
|
||
yuldar
|
||
av
|
||
nier
|
||
mi
|
||
oromardi
|
||
lisse
|
||
miruv
|
||
reva
|
||
pella
|
||
Vardo
|
||
tellumar
|
||
nu
|
||
luini
|
||
yassen
|
||
tintilar
|
||
eleni
|
||
maryo
|
||
airet
|
||
yulma
|
||
nin
|
||
enquantuva
|
||
Tintall
|
||
Varda
|
||
Oioloss
|
||
fanyar
|
||
ryat
|
||
Elent
|
||
ortan
|
||
ar
|
||
ily
|
||
tier
|
||
undul
|
||
v
|
||
lumbul
|
||
sindan
|
||
riello
|
||
caita
|
||
morni
|
||
falmalinnar
|
||
imb
|
||
h
|
||
si
|
||
unt
|
||
pa
|
||
Calaciryo
|
||
oial
|
||
Si
|
||
vanwa
|
||
mello
|
||
Valimar
|
||
Nam
|
||
Nai
|
||
hiruvaly
|
||
ely
|
||
hiruva
|
||
numberless
|
||
draughts
|
||
vaults
|
||
wherein
|
||
holy
|
||
refill
|
||
Kindler
|
||
Everwhite
|
||
Calacirya
|
||
thou
|
||
shalt
|
||
Henceforward
|
||
Truly
|
||
Torment
|
||
Memory
|
||
paddle
|
||
Bare
|
||
ghosts
|
||
gurgle
|
||
driftwood
|
||
GREAT
|
||
RIVER
|
||
Isle
|
||
whichever
|
||
husbanding
|
||
voyage
|
||
thinned
|
||
relieve
|
||
pestilence
|
||
blasted
|
||
forests
|
||
meads
|
||
southernmost
|
||
fowl
|
||
whine
|
||
Swans
|
||
Ere
|
||
Limlight
|
||
herds
|
||
studs
|
||
hostile
|
||
harboured
|
||
afloat
|
||
shelterless
|
||
frontier
|
||
insecurity
|
||
broadened
|
||
gravel
|
||
shoals
|
||
wolds
|
||
tussock
|
||
lawns
|
||
beech
|
||
housing
|
||
nails
|
||
restlessness
|
||
seizing
|
||
cramped
|
||
listlessly
|
||
eyot
|
||
Twas
|
||
shiny
|
||
hump
|
||
dipping
|
||
drowse
|
||
shooting
|
||
halfway
|
||
plashing
|
||
Minutes
|
||
yielding
|
||
whitish
|
||
gunwale
|
||
lamplike
|
||
coldly
|
||
intaken
|
||
footpad
|
||
padded
|
||
paddling
|
||
slier
|
||
waterman
|
||
wretch
|
||
lakes
|
||
puckered
|
||
creepers
|
||
chimneys
|
||
ivy
|
||
writhen
|
||
forebodes
|
||
ranges
|
||
eyots
|
||
watchman
|
||
racing
|
||
lashing
|
||
Rapids
|
||
Turn
|
||
efforts
|
||
headway
|
||
Paddle
|
||
keel
|
||
grate
|
||
bowstrings
|
||
lurched
|
||
shingle
|
||
hits
|
||
archers
|
||
Stroke
|
||
laboured
|
||
ashore
|
||
Stringing
|
||
outriders
|
||
blotting
|
||
blacker
|
||
Fierce
|
||
Shrill
|
||
swerved
|
||
croaking
|
||
tumult
|
||
upstream
|
||
Praised
|
||
wafer
|
||
sleepless
|
||
nail
|
||
paring
|
||
moves
|
||
Swift
|
||
fleets
|
||
Rich
|
||
yestereve
|
||
diffused
|
||
shadowless
|
||
cockle
|
||
fenny
|
||
unmolested
|
||
Leap
|
||
Hen
|
||
desert
|
||
companionship
|
||
smoother
|
||
portage
|
||
prowl
|
||
Peril
|
||
groundless
|
||
explorers
|
||
serviceable
|
||
hardest
|
||
Aye
|
||
haul
|
||
limestone
|
||
inland
|
||
briars
|
||
Fog
|
||
veils
|
||
shelves
|
||
pier
|
||
jutted
|
||
cheats
|
||
drizzle
|
||
drifted
|
||
draggled
|
||
fringes
|
||
fogs
|
||
crevices
|
||
thrawn
|
||
narrower
|
||
pinnacles
|
||
Pillars
|
||
suns
|
||
likenesses
|
||
pedestals
|
||
crannied
|
||
Awe
|
||
cowered
|
||
daring
|
||
frail
|
||
fleeting
|
||
Sheer
|
||
screamed
|
||
groaning
|
||
puddle
|
||
weatherworn
|
||
erect
|
||
yearns
|
||
pent
|
||
fenced
|
||
midmost
|
||
Distant
|
||
Lhaw
|
||
Hearing
|
||
Sight
|
||
seats
|
||
BREAKING
|
||
FELLOWSHIP
|
||
Parth
|
||
Galen
|
||
roaming
|
||
secure
|
||
Low
|
||
fumes
|
||
murky
|
||
inaccessible
|
||
spire
|
||
fellowship
|
||
Plain
|
||
pikestaff
|
||
caring
|
||
Rowan
|
||
upland
|
||
untrodden
|
||
cupped
|
||
Warning
|
||
refusal
|
||
protected
|
||
valiantly
|
||
wizards
|
||
corrupted
|
||
staunch
|
||
ruthless
|
||
refuses
|
||
flock
|
||
alliances
|
||
glorious
|
||
benevolent
|
||
proposed
|
||
recapturing
|
||
revolts
|
||
Simply
|
||
misunderstand
|
||
persisted
|
||
suppressed
|
||
tracker
|
||
Lend
|
||
angers
|
||
Running
|
||
wilfully
|
||
ruining
|
||
hideously
|
||
raging
|
||
dodged
|
||
Miserable
|
||
trickster
|
||
lurch
|
||
Curse
|
||
dashing
|
||
gasping
|
||
battlement
|
||
shrunk
|
||
Seat
|
||
uncharted
|
||
unexplored
|
||
Westward
|
||
pastures
|
||
spike
|
||
Southward
|
||
toppling
|
||
fume
|
||
Ethir
|
||
delta
|
||
myriads
|
||
whirling
|
||
anthills
|
||
strife
|
||
aflame
|
||
Horsemen
|
||
swordsmen
|
||
spearmen
|
||
chariots
|
||
wains
|
||
motion
|
||
walled
|
||
battlements
|
||
turrets
|
||
Hope
|
||
Thither
|
||
reek
|
||
Fortress
|
||
covering
|
||
strove
|
||
perfectly
|
||
balanced
|
||
Voice
|
||
Hours
|
||
remnants
|
||
Burden
|
||
Grievous
|
||
Hard
|
||
betrayal
|
||
appoint
|
||
Imagine
|
||
schooling
|
||
bothering
|
||
screws
|
||
screw
|
||
aloof
|
||
unwelcome
|
||
panic
|
||
rowans
|
||
overtook
|
||
badly
|
||
screwed
|
||
brushing
|
||
Gurgling
|
||
Tread
|
||
flounder
|
||
rat
|
||
nuisances
|
||
Safely
|
||
emptied
|
||
shouldering
|
||
dominated
|
||
citadel
|
||
mission
|
||
Return
|
||
relate
|
||
Argeleb
|
||
Arvedui
|
||
Appendix
|
||
Represented
|
||
Note
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Alice
|
||
s
|
||
Adventures
|
||
in
|
||
Wonderland
|
||
Lewis
|
||
Carroll
|
||
Chapter
|
||
I
|
||
DOWN
|
||
THE
|
||
RABBIT
|
||
HOLE
|
||
was
|
||
beginning
|
||
to
|
||
get
|
||
very
|
||
tired
|
||
of
|
||
sitting
|
||
by
|
||
her
|
||
sister
|
||
on
|
||
the
|
||
bank
|
||
and
|
||
having
|
||
nothing
|
||
do
|
||
once
|
||
or
|
||
twice
|
||
she
|
||
had
|
||
peeped
|
||
into
|
||
book
|
||
reading
|
||
but
|
||
it
|
||
no
|
||
pictures
|
||
conversations
|
||
what
|
||
is
|
||
use
|
||
a
|
||
thought
|
||
without
|
||
conversation
|
||
So
|
||
considering
|
||
own
|
||
mind
|
||
as
|
||
well
|
||
could
|
||
for
|
||
hot
|
||
day
|
||
made
|
||
feel
|
||
sleepy
|
||
stupid
|
||
whether
|
||
pleasure
|
||
making
|
||
daisy
|
||
chain
|
||
would
|
||
be
|
||
worth
|
||
trouble
|
||
getting
|
||
up
|
||
picking
|
||
daisies
|
||
when
|
||
suddenly
|
||
White
|
||
Rabbit
|
||
with
|
||
pink
|
||
eyes
|
||
ran
|
||
close
|
||
There
|
||
so
|
||
VERY
|
||
remarkable
|
||
that
|
||
nor
|
||
did
|
||
think
|
||
much
|
||
out
|
||
way
|
||
hear
|
||
say
|
||
itself
|
||
Oh
|
||
dear
|
||
shall
|
||
late
|
||
over
|
||
afterwards
|
||
occurred
|
||
ought
|
||
have
|
||
wondered
|
||
at
|
||
this
|
||
time
|
||
all
|
||
seemed
|
||
quite
|
||
natural
|
||
actually
|
||
TOOK
|
||
A
|
||
WATCH
|
||
OUT
|
||
OF
|
||
ITS
|
||
WAISTCOAT
|
||
POCKET
|
||
looked
|
||
then
|
||
hurried
|
||
started
|
||
feet
|
||
flashed
|
||
across
|
||
never
|
||
before
|
||
see
|
||
rabbit
|
||
either
|
||
waistcoat
|
||
pocket
|
||
watch
|
||
take
|
||
burning
|
||
curiosity
|
||
field
|
||
after
|
||
fortunately
|
||
just
|
||
pop
|
||
down
|
||
large
|
||
hole
|
||
under
|
||
hedge
|
||
In
|
||
another
|
||
moment
|
||
went
|
||
how
|
||
world
|
||
again
|
||
The
|
||
straight
|
||
like
|
||
tunnel
|
||
some
|
||
dipped
|
||
not
|
||
about
|
||
stopping
|
||
herself
|
||
found
|
||
falling
|
||
deep
|
||
Either
|
||
fell
|
||
slowly
|
||
plenty
|
||
look
|
||
wonder
|
||
going
|
||
happen
|
||
next
|
||
First
|
||
tried
|
||
make
|
||
coming
|
||
too
|
||
dark
|
||
anything
|
||
sides
|
||
noticed
|
||
they
|
||
were
|
||
filled
|
||
cupboards
|
||
shelves
|
||
here
|
||
there
|
||
saw
|
||
maps
|
||
hung
|
||
upon
|
||
pegs
|
||
She
|
||
took
|
||
jar
|
||
from
|
||
one
|
||
passed
|
||
labelled
|
||
ORANGE
|
||
MARMALADE
|
||
great
|
||
disappointment
|
||
empty
|
||
drop
|
||
fear
|
||
killing
|
||
somebody
|
||
managed
|
||
put
|
||
past
|
||
Well
|
||
such
|
||
fall
|
||
tumbling
|
||
stairs
|
||
How
|
||
brave
|
||
ll
|
||
me
|
||
home
|
||
Why
|
||
wouldn
|
||
t
|
||
even
|
||
if
|
||
off
|
||
top
|
||
house
|
||
Which
|
||
likely
|
||
true
|
||
Down
|
||
Would
|
||
NEVER
|
||
come
|
||
an
|
||
end
|
||
many
|
||
miles
|
||
ve
|
||
fallen
|
||
said
|
||
aloud
|
||
must
|
||
somewhere
|
||
near
|
||
centre
|
||
earth
|
||
Let
|
||
four
|
||
thousand
|
||
you
|
||
learnt
|
||
several
|
||
things
|
||
sort
|
||
lessons
|
||
schoolroom
|
||
though
|
||
good
|
||
opportunity
|
||
showing
|
||
knowledge
|
||
listen
|
||
still
|
||
practice
|
||
yes
|
||
right
|
||
distance
|
||
Latitude
|
||
Longitude
|
||
got
|
||
idea
|
||
nice
|
||
grand
|
||
words
|
||
Presently
|
||
began
|
||
THROUGH
|
||
funny
|
||
seem
|
||
among
|
||
people
|
||
walk
|
||
their
|
||
heads
|
||
downward
|
||
Antipathies
|
||
rather
|
||
glad
|
||
WAS
|
||
listening
|
||
didn
|
||
sound
|
||
word
|
||
ask
|
||
them
|
||
name
|
||
country
|
||
know
|
||
Please
|
||
Ma
|
||
am
|
||
New
|
||
Zealand
|
||
Australia
|
||
curtsey
|
||
spoke
|
||
fancy
|
||
CURTSEYING
|
||
re
|
||
through
|
||
air
|
||
Do
|
||
manage
|
||
And
|
||
ignorant
|
||
little
|
||
girl
|
||
asking
|
||
No
|
||
perhaps
|
||
written
|
||
else
|
||
soon
|
||
talking
|
||
Dinah
|
||
miss
|
||
night
|
||
should
|
||
cat
|
||
hope
|
||
remember
|
||
saucer
|
||
milk
|
||
tea
|
||
my
|
||
wish
|
||
are
|
||
mice
|
||
m
|
||
afraid
|
||
might
|
||
catch
|
||
bat
|
||
mouse
|
||
But
|
||
cats
|
||
eat
|
||
bats
|
||
saying
|
||
dreamy
|
||
sometimes
|
||
couldn
|
||
answer
|
||
question
|
||
matter
|
||
which
|
||
felt
|
||
dozing
|
||
begun
|
||
dream
|
||
walking
|
||
hand
|
||
earnestly
|
||
Now
|
||
tell
|
||
truth
|
||
ever
|
||
thump
|
||
came
|
||
heap
|
||
stick
|
||
dry
|
||
leaves
|
||
bit
|
||
hurt
|
||
jumped
|
||
overhead
|
||
long
|
||
passage
|
||
sight
|
||
hurrying
|
||
lost
|
||
away
|
||
wind
|
||
turned
|
||
corner
|
||
ears
|
||
whiskers
|
||
behind
|
||
longer
|
||
seen
|
||
low
|
||
hall
|
||
lit
|
||
row
|
||
lamps
|
||
hanging
|
||
roof
|
||
doors
|
||
round
|
||
locked
|
||
been
|
||
side
|
||
other
|
||
trying
|
||
every
|
||
door
|
||
walked
|
||
sadly
|
||
middle
|
||
wondering
|
||
Suddenly
|
||
three
|
||
legged
|
||
table
|
||
solid
|
||
glass
|
||
except
|
||
tiny
|
||
golden
|
||
key
|
||
first
|
||
belong
|
||
alas
|
||
locks
|
||
small
|
||
any
|
||
rate
|
||
open
|
||
However
|
||
second
|
||
curtain
|
||
fifteen
|
||
inches
|
||
high
|
||
lock
|
||
delight
|
||
fitted
|
||
opened
|
||
led
|
||
larger
|
||
than
|
||
rat
|
||
knelt
|
||
along
|
||
loveliest
|
||
garden
|
||
longed
|
||
wander
|
||
those
|
||
beds
|
||
bright
|
||
flowers
|
||
cool
|
||
fountains
|
||
head
|
||
he
|
||
doorway
|
||
go
|
||
poor
|
||
shoulders
|
||
shut
|
||
telescope
|
||
only
|
||
begin
|
||
For
|
||
happened
|
||
lately
|
||
few
|
||
indeed
|
||
really
|
||
impossible
|
||
waiting
|
||
back
|
||
half
|
||
hoping
|
||
find
|
||
rules
|
||
shutting
|
||
telescopes
|
||
bottle
|
||
certainly
|
||
neck
|
||
paper
|
||
label
|
||
DRINK
|
||
ME
|
||
beautifully
|
||
printed
|
||
letters
|
||
It
|
||
Drink
|
||
wise
|
||
THAT
|
||
hurry
|
||
marked
|
||
poison
|
||
read
|
||
histories
|
||
children
|
||
who
|
||
burnt
|
||
eaten
|
||
wild
|
||
beasts
|
||
unpleasant
|
||
because
|
||
WOULD
|
||
simple
|
||
friends
|
||
taught
|
||
red
|
||
poker
|
||
will
|
||
burn
|
||
your
|
||
hold
|
||
cut
|
||
finger
|
||
deeply
|
||
knife
|
||
usually
|
||
bleeds
|
||
forgotten
|
||
drink
|
||
almost
|
||
certain
|
||
disagree
|
||
sooner
|
||
later
|
||
NOT
|
||
ventured
|
||
taste
|
||
finding
|
||
fact
|
||
mixed
|
||
flavour
|
||
cherry
|
||
tart
|
||
custard
|
||
pine
|
||
apple
|
||
roast
|
||
turkey
|
||
toffee
|
||
buttered
|
||
toast
|
||
finished
|
||
What
|
||
curious
|
||
feeling
|
||
now
|
||
ten
|
||
face
|
||
brightened
|
||
size
|
||
lovely
|
||
however
|
||
waited
|
||
minutes
|
||
shrink
|
||
further
|
||
nervous
|
||
altogether
|
||
candle
|
||
flame
|
||
blown
|
||
thing
|
||
After
|
||
while
|
||
more
|
||
decided
|
||
possibly
|
||
reach
|
||
plainly
|
||
best
|
||
climb
|
||
legs
|
||
slippery
|
||
sat
|
||
cried
|
||
Come
|
||
crying
|
||
sharply
|
||
advise
|
||
leave
|
||
minute
|
||
generally
|
||
gave
|
||
advice
|
||
seldom
|
||
followed
|
||
scolded
|
||
severely
|
||
bring
|
||
tears
|
||
remembered
|
||
box
|
||
cheated
|
||
game
|
||
croquet
|
||
playing
|
||
against
|
||
child
|
||
fond
|
||
pretending
|
||
two
|
||
pretend
|
||
hardly
|
||
enough
|
||
left
|
||
ONE
|
||
respectable
|
||
person
|
||
Soon
|
||
eye
|
||
lying
|
||
cake
|
||
EAT
|
||
currants
|
||
Alive
|
||
makes
|
||
grow
|
||
can
|
||
smaller
|
||
creep
|
||
don
|
||
care
|
||
happens
|
||
ate
|
||
anxiously
|
||
holding
|
||
growing
|
||
surprised
|
||
remained
|
||
same
|
||
sure
|
||
eats
|
||
expecting
|
||
dull
|
||
life
|
||
common
|
||
set
|
||
work
|
||
II
|
||
POOL
|
||
TEARS
|
||
Curiouser
|
||
curiouser
|
||
forgot
|
||
speak
|
||
English
|
||
opening
|
||
largest
|
||
Good
|
||
bye
|
||
far
|
||
shoes
|
||
stockings
|
||
dears
|
||
shan
|
||
able
|
||
deal
|
||
myself
|
||
kind
|
||
won
|
||
want
|
||
give
|
||
new
|
||
pair
|
||
boots
|
||
Christmas
|
||
planning
|
||
They
|
||
carrier
|
||
sending
|
||
presents
|
||
odd
|
||
directions
|
||
ALICE
|
||
S
|
||
RIGHT
|
||
FOOT
|
||
ESQ
|
||
HEARTHRUG
|
||
NEAR
|
||
FENDER
|
||
WITH
|
||
LOVE
|
||
nonsense
|
||
Just
|
||
struck
|
||
nine
|
||
Poor
|
||
hopeless
|
||
cry
|
||
You
|
||
ashamed
|
||
yourself
|
||
Stop
|
||
shedding
|
||
gallons
|
||
until
|
||
pool
|
||
reaching
|
||
heard
|
||
pattering
|
||
hastily
|
||
dried
|
||
returning
|
||
splendidly
|
||
dressed
|
||
white
|
||
kid
|
||
gloves
|
||
fan
|
||
trotting
|
||
muttering
|
||
himself
|
||
Duchess
|
||
savage
|
||
kept
|
||
desperate
|
||
ready
|
||
help
|
||
timid
|
||
voice
|
||
If
|
||
please
|
||
sir
|
||
violently
|
||
dropped
|
||
skurried
|
||
darkness
|
||
hard
|
||
fanning
|
||
Dear
|
||
queer
|
||
everything
|
||
yesterday
|
||
usual
|
||
changed
|
||
morning
|
||
different
|
||
Who
|
||
Ah
|
||
puzzle
|
||
thinking
|
||
knew
|
||
age
|
||
Ada
|
||
hair
|
||
goes
|
||
ringlets
|
||
mine
|
||
doesn
|
||
Mabel
|
||
sorts
|
||
oh
|
||
knows
|
||
Besides
|
||
SHE
|
||
puzzling
|
||
try
|
||
used
|
||
times
|
||
five
|
||
twelve
|
||
six
|
||
thirteen
|
||
seven
|
||
twenty
|
||
Multiplication
|
||
Table
|
||
signify
|
||
let
|
||
Geography
|
||
London
|
||
capital
|
||
Paris
|
||
Rome
|
||
wrong
|
||
doth
|
||
crossed
|
||
hands
|
||
lap
|
||
repeat
|
||
sounded
|
||
hoarse
|
||
strange
|
||
crocodile
|
||
Improve
|
||
his
|
||
shining
|
||
tail
|
||
pour
|
||
waters
|
||
Nile
|
||
On
|
||
scale
|
||
cheerfully
|
||
seems
|
||
grin
|
||
neatly
|
||
spread
|
||
claws
|
||
welcome
|
||
fishes
|
||
With
|
||
gently
|
||
smiling
|
||
jaws
|
||
live
|
||
poky
|
||
toys
|
||
play
|
||
learn
|
||
stay
|
||
putting
|
||
Tell
|
||
being
|
||
till
|
||
sudden
|
||
burst
|
||
alone
|
||
As
|
||
CAN
|
||
done
|
||
measure
|
||
nearly
|
||
guess
|
||
shrinking
|
||
rapidly
|
||
cause
|
||
avoid
|
||
That
|
||
narrow
|
||
escape
|
||
frightened
|
||
change
|
||
existence
|
||
speed
|
||
worse
|
||
declare
|
||
bad
|
||
these
|
||
foot
|
||
slipped
|
||
splash
|
||
chin
|
||
salt
|
||
water
|
||
He
|
||
somehow
|
||
sea
|
||
case
|
||
railway
|
||
seaside
|
||
general
|
||
conclusion
|
||
wherever
|
||
coast
|
||
number
|
||
bathing
|
||
machines
|
||
digging
|
||
sand
|
||
wooden
|
||
spades
|
||
lodging
|
||
houses
|
||
station
|
||
wept
|
||
hadn
|
||
swam
|
||
punished
|
||
suppose
|
||
drowned
|
||
WILL
|
||
something
|
||
splashing
|
||
nearer
|
||
walrus
|
||
hippopotamus
|
||
Everything
|
||
talk
|
||
harm
|
||
O
|
||
Mouse
|
||
swimming
|
||
speaking
|
||
brother
|
||
Latin
|
||
Grammar
|
||
inquisitively
|
||
wink
|
||
its
|
||
Perhaps
|
||
understand
|
||
daresay
|
||
French
|
||
William
|
||
Conqueror
|
||
history
|
||
clear
|
||
notion
|
||
ago
|
||
Ou
|
||
est
|
||
ma
|
||
chatte
|
||
sentence
|
||
lesson
|
||
leap
|
||
quiver
|
||
fright
|
||
beg
|
||
pardon
|
||
animal
|
||
feelings
|
||
Not
|
||
shrill
|
||
passionate
|
||
YOU
|
||
soothing
|
||
tone
|
||
angry
|
||
yet
|
||
show
|
||
our
|
||
d
|
||
quiet
|
||
lazily
|
||
sits
|
||
purring
|
||
nicely
|
||
fire
|
||
licking
|
||
paws
|
||
washing
|
||
soft
|
||
nurse
|
||
catching
|
||
bristling
|
||
offended
|
||
We
|
||
trembling
|
||
subject
|
||
Our
|
||
family
|
||
always
|
||
HATED
|
||
nasty
|
||
vulgar
|
||
Don
|
||
Are
|
||
dogs
|
||
eagerly
|
||
dog
|
||
eyed
|
||
terrier
|
||
curly
|
||
brown
|
||
fetch
|
||
throw
|
||
sit
|
||
dinner
|
||
thins
|
||
belongs
|
||
farmer
|
||
says
|
||
useful
|
||
hundred
|
||
pounds
|
||
kills
|
||
rats
|
||
sorrowful
|
||
commotion
|
||
called
|
||
softly
|
||
we
|
||
When
|
||
pale
|
||
passion
|
||
us
|
||
shore
|
||
why
|
||
hate
|
||
crowded
|
||
birds
|
||
animals
|
||
Duck
|
||
Dodo
|
||
Lory
|
||
Eaglet
|
||
creatures
|
||
whole
|
||
party
|
||
III
|
||
CAUCUS
|
||
RACE
|
||
AND
|
||
LONG
|
||
TALE
|
||
looking
|
||
assembled
|
||
draggled
|
||
feathers
|
||
fur
|
||
clinging
|
||
dripping
|
||
wet
|
||
cross
|
||
uncomfortable
|
||
course
|
||
consultation
|
||
familiarly
|
||
known
|
||
Indeed
|
||
argument
|
||
last
|
||
sulky
|
||
older
|
||
better
|
||
allow
|
||
knowing
|
||
old
|
||
positively
|
||
refused
|
||
At
|
||
authority
|
||
Sit
|
||
LL
|
||
ring
|
||
fixed
|
||
cold
|
||
Ahem
|
||
important
|
||
This
|
||
driest
|
||
Silence
|
||
whose
|
||
favoured
|
||
pope
|
||
submitted
|
||
wanted
|
||
leaders
|
||
accustomed
|
||
usurpation
|
||
conquest
|
||
Edwin
|
||
Morcar
|
||
earls
|
||
Mercia
|
||
Northumbria
|
||
Ugh
|
||
shiver
|
||
frowning
|
||
politely
|
||
Did
|
||
proceed
|
||
declared
|
||
him
|
||
Stigand
|
||
patriotic
|
||
archbishop
|
||
Canterbury
|
||
advisable
|
||
Found
|
||
WHAT
|
||
IT
|
||
replied
|
||
crossly
|
||
means
|
||
frog
|
||
worm
|
||
notice
|
||
hurriedly
|
||
Edgar
|
||
Atheling
|
||
meet
|
||
offer
|
||
crown
|
||
conduct
|
||
moderate
|
||
insolence
|
||
Normans
|
||
continued
|
||
turning
|
||
melancholy
|
||
solemnly
|
||
rising
|
||
move
|
||
meeting
|
||
adjourn
|
||
immediate
|
||
adoption
|
||
energetic
|
||
remedies
|
||
Speak
|
||
meaning
|
||
believe
|
||
bent
|
||
hide
|
||
smile
|
||
tittered
|
||
audibly
|
||
Caucus
|
||
race
|
||
IS
|
||
paused
|
||
SOMEBODY
|
||
inclined
|
||
explain
|
||
winter
|
||
circle
|
||
exact
|
||
shape
|
||
placed
|
||
One
|
||
running
|
||
liked
|
||
easy
|
||
hour
|
||
panting
|
||
has
|
||
pressed
|
||
forehead
|
||
position
|
||
Shakespeare
|
||
rest
|
||
silence
|
||
EVERYBODY
|
||
prizes
|
||
chorus
|
||
voices
|
||
asked
|
||
pointing
|
||
calling
|
||
confused
|
||
Prizes
|
||
despair
|
||
pulled
|
||
comfits
|
||
luckily
|
||
handed
|
||
exactly
|
||
piece
|
||
prize
|
||
Of
|
||
gravely
|
||
Only
|
||
thimble
|
||
Hand
|
||
Then
|
||
presented
|
||
acceptance
|
||
elegant
|
||
short
|
||
speech
|
||
cheered
|
||
absurd
|
||
grave
|
||
dare
|
||
laugh
|
||
simply
|
||
bowed
|
||
solemn
|
||
caused
|
||
noise
|
||
confusion
|
||
complained
|
||
theirs
|
||
ones
|
||
choked
|
||
patted
|
||
begged
|
||
promised
|
||
C
|
||
D
|
||
added
|
||
whisper
|
||
Mine
|
||
sad
|
||
tale
|
||
sighing
|
||
call
|
||
Fury
|
||
met
|
||
both
|
||
law
|
||
prosecute
|
||
denial
|
||
trial
|
||
Said
|
||
cur
|
||
Such
|
||
Sir
|
||
jury
|
||
judge
|
||
wasting
|
||
breath
|
||
cunning
|
||
condemn
|
||
death
|
||
attending
|
||
humbly
|
||
fifth
|
||
bend
|
||
angrily
|
||
knot
|
||
undo
|
||
insult
|
||
mean
|
||
pleaded
|
||
easily
|
||
growled
|
||
reply
|
||
finish
|
||
story
|
||
others
|
||
joined
|
||
Yes
|
||
shook
|
||
impatiently
|
||
quicker
|
||
pity
|
||
sighed
|
||
Crab
|
||
daughter
|
||
lose
|
||
YOUR
|
||
temper
|
||
Hold
|
||
tongue
|
||
young
|
||
snappishly
|
||
patience
|
||
oyster
|
||
addressing
|
||
nobody
|
||
particular
|
||
venture
|
||
pet
|
||
bird
|
||
sensation
|
||
Some
|
||
Magpie
|
||
wrapping
|
||
carefully
|
||
remarking
|
||
suit
|
||
throat
|
||
Canary
|
||
bed
|
||
various
|
||
pretexts
|
||
moved
|
||
mentioned
|
||
Nobody
|
||
lonely
|
||
spirited
|
||
footsteps
|
||
IV
|
||
SENDS
|
||
IN
|
||
LITTLE
|
||
BILL
|
||
executed
|
||
ferrets
|
||
Where
|
||
guessed
|
||
naturedly
|
||
hunting
|
||
nowhere
|
||
since
|
||
swim
|
||
vanished
|
||
completely
|
||
Very
|
||
Mary
|
||
Ann
|
||
ARE
|
||
doing
|
||
Run
|
||
Quick
|
||
direction
|
||
pointed
|
||
mistake
|
||
housemaid
|
||
finds
|
||
neat
|
||
brass
|
||
plate
|
||
W
|
||
engraved
|
||
knocking
|
||
upstairs
|
||
lest
|
||
real
|
||
messages
|
||
fancying
|
||
Miss
|
||
directly
|
||
Coming
|
||
stop
|
||
ordering
|
||
By
|
||
tidy
|
||
room
|
||
window
|
||
hoped
|
||
pairs
|
||
stood
|
||
nevertheless
|
||
uncorked
|
||
lips
|
||
SOMETHING
|
||
interesting
|
||
whenever
|
||
does
|
||
expected
|
||
drunk
|
||
pressing
|
||
ceiling
|
||
stoop
|
||
save
|
||
broken
|
||
Alas
|
||
kneel
|
||
floor
|
||
effect
|
||
elbow
|
||
arm
|
||
curled
|
||
Still
|
||
resource
|
||
chimney
|
||
whatever
|
||
become
|
||
Luckily
|
||
magic
|
||
full
|
||
grew
|
||
chance
|
||
unhappy
|
||
pleasanter
|
||
wasn
|
||
ordered
|
||
rabbits
|
||
gone
|
||
fairy
|
||
tales
|
||
fancied
|
||
write
|
||
grown
|
||
least
|
||
HERE
|
||
comfort
|
||
woman
|
||
shouldn
|
||
foolish
|
||
answered
|
||
books
|
||
taking
|
||
outside
|
||
stopped
|
||
Fetch
|
||
trembled
|
||
forgetting
|
||
reason
|
||
inwards
|
||
attempt
|
||
proved
|
||
failure
|
||
snatch
|
||
shriek
|
||
crash
|
||
concluded
|
||
possible
|
||
cucumber
|
||
frame
|
||
Next
|
||
Pat
|
||
Sure
|
||
Digging
|
||
apples
|
||
yer
|
||
honour
|
||
Here
|
||
THIS
|
||
Sounds
|
||
pronounced
|
||
arrum
|
||
An
|
||
goose
|
||
fills
|
||
business
|
||
whispers
|
||
coward
|
||
TWO
|
||
shrieks
|
||
sounds
|
||
frames
|
||
pulling
|
||
COULD
|
||
hearing
|
||
rumbling
|
||
cartwheels
|
||
together
|
||
ladder
|
||
Bill
|
||
lad
|
||
em
|
||
tie
|
||
rope
|
||
Will
|
||
bear
|
||
Mind
|
||
loose
|
||
slate
|
||
Heads
|
||
below
|
||
loud
|
||
Nay
|
||
master
|
||
Shy
|
||
place
|
||
fireplace
|
||
THINK
|
||
kick
|
||
drew
|
||
scratching
|
||
scrambling
|
||
above
|
||
sharp
|
||
Catch
|
||
Brandy
|
||
choke
|
||
fellow
|
||
Last
|
||
feeble
|
||
squeaking
|
||
thank
|
||
ye
|
||
flustered
|
||
comes
|
||
Jack
|
||
sky
|
||
rocket
|
||
dead
|
||
instantly
|
||
sense
|
||
moving
|
||
barrowful
|
||
doubt
|
||
shower
|
||
pebbles
|
||
rattling
|
||
hit
|
||
shouted
|
||
produced
|
||
surprise
|
||
cakes
|
||
lay
|
||
SOME
|
||
swallowed
|
||
delighted
|
||
crowd
|
||
Lizard
|
||
held
|
||
guinea
|
||
pigs
|
||
giving
|
||
rush
|
||
appeared
|
||
safe
|
||
thick
|
||
wood
|
||
wandered
|
||
plan
|
||
excellent
|
||
arranged
|
||
difficulty
|
||
smallest
|
||
peering
|
||
trees
|
||
bark
|
||
enormous
|
||
puppy
|
||
feebly
|
||
stretching
|
||
paw
|
||
touch
|
||
coaxing
|
||
whistle
|
||
terribly
|
||
hungry
|
||
spite
|
||
Hardly
|
||
picked
|
||
whereupon
|
||
yelp
|
||
rushed
|
||
worry
|
||
dodged
|
||
thistle
|
||
keep
|
||
run
|
||
tumbled
|
||
heels
|
||
cart
|
||
horse
|
||
trampled
|
||
series
|
||
charges
|
||
forwards
|
||
each
|
||
barking
|
||
hoarsely
|
||
mouth
|
||
faint
|
||
leant
|
||
buttercup
|
||
fanned
|
||
teaching
|
||
tricks
|
||
blades
|
||
grass
|
||
circumstances
|
||
mushroom
|
||
height
|
||
stretched
|
||
tiptoe
|
||
edge
|
||
immediately
|
||
caterpillar
|
||
arms
|
||
folded
|
||
quietly
|
||
smoking
|
||
hookah
|
||
V
|
||
ADVICE
|
||
FROM
|
||
CATERPILLAR
|
||
Caterpillar
|
||
addressed
|
||
languid
|
||
encouraging
|
||
shyly
|
||
present
|
||
sternly
|
||
Explain
|
||
MYSELF
|
||
clearly
|
||
sizes
|
||
confusing
|
||
isn
|
||
haven
|
||
turn
|
||
chrysalis
|
||
butterfly
|
||
may
|
||
contemptuously
|
||
brought
|
||
irritated
|
||
remarks
|
||
state
|
||
promising
|
||
Keep
|
||
Is
|
||
swallowing
|
||
anger
|
||
wait
|
||
puffed
|
||
unfolded
|
||
Can
|
||
HOW
|
||
DOTH
|
||
BUSY
|
||
BEE
|
||
Repeat
|
||
OLD
|
||
FATHER
|
||
WILLIAM
|
||
Father
|
||
man
|
||
incessantly
|
||
stand
|
||
youth
|
||
son
|
||
feared
|
||
injure
|
||
brain
|
||
perfectly
|
||
none
|
||
most
|
||
uncommonly
|
||
fat
|
||
Yet
|
||
somersault
|
||
Pray
|
||
sage
|
||
grey
|
||
limbs
|
||
supple
|
||
ointment
|
||
shilling
|
||
Allow
|
||
sell
|
||
couple
|
||
weak
|
||
tougher
|
||
suet
|
||
bones
|
||
beak
|
||
father
|
||
argued
|
||
wife
|
||
muscular
|
||
strength
|
||
jaw
|
||
Has
|
||
lasted
|
||
steady
|
||
balanced
|
||
eel
|
||
nose
|
||
awfully
|
||
clever
|
||
questions
|
||
airs
|
||
stuff
|
||
Be
|
||
QUITE
|
||
timidly
|
||
altered
|
||
decidedly
|
||
changing
|
||
often
|
||
DON
|
||
T
|
||
contradicted
|
||
losing
|
||
content
|
||
wretched
|
||
rearing
|
||
upright
|
||
piteous
|
||
patiently
|
||
chose
|
||
yawned
|
||
crawled
|
||
merely
|
||
taller
|
||
shorter
|
||
thoughtfully
|
||
difficult
|
||
broke
|
||
nibbled
|
||
violent
|
||
blow
|
||
underneath
|
||
Her
|
||
closely
|
||
swallow
|
||
morsel
|
||
lefthand
|
||
free
|
||
alarm
|
||
immense
|
||
length
|
||
rise
|
||
stalk
|
||
green
|
||
where
|
||
HAVE
|
||
result
|
||
follow
|
||
shaking
|
||
distant
|
||
serpent
|
||
succeeded
|
||
curving
|
||
graceful
|
||
zigzag
|
||
dive
|
||
tops
|
||
wandering
|
||
hiss
|
||
draw
|
||
pigeon
|
||
flown
|
||
beating
|
||
wings
|
||
Serpent
|
||
screamed
|
||
Pigeon
|
||
indignantly
|
||
repeated
|
||
subdued
|
||
sob
|
||
roots
|
||
banks
|
||
hedges
|
||
serpents
|
||
pleasing
|
||
puzzled
|
||
hatching
|
||
eggs
|
||
sleep
|
||
weeks
|
||
sorry
|
||
annoyed
|
||
taken
|
||
highest
|
||
tree
|
||
raising
|
||
needs
|
||
wriggling
|
||
invent
|
||
doubtfully
|
||
changes
|
||
deepest
|
||
contempt
|
||
girls
|
||
denying
|
||
telling
|
||
tasted
|
||
egg
|
||
truthful
|
||
silent
|
||
adding
|
||
matters
|
||
YOURS
|
||
raw
|
||
settled
|
||
nest
|
||
crouched
|
||
entangled
|
||
branches
|
||
untwist
|
||
pieces
|
||
nibbling
|
||
bringing
|
||
beautiful
|
||
Whoever
|
||
lives
|
||
frighten
|
||
wits
|
||
righthand
|
||
VI
|
||
PIG
|
||
PEPPER
|
||
footman
|
||
livery
|
||
considered
|
||
otherwise
|
||
judging
|
||
fish
|
||
rapped
|
||
loudly
|
||
knuckles
|
||
footmen
|
||
powdered
|
||
crept
|
||
Fish
|
||
Footman
|
||
producing
|
||
letter
|
||
invitation
|
||
Queen
|
||
Frog
|
||
order
|
||
From
|
||
curls
|
||
laughed
|
||
ground
|
||
staring
|
||
stupidly
|
||
knocked
|
||
reasons
|
||
secondly
|
||
inside
|
||
extraordinary
|
||
within
|
||
constant
|
||
howling
|
||
sneezing
|
||
dish
|
||
kettle
|
||
between
|
||
instance
|
||
INSIDE
|
||
knock
|
||
uncivil
|
||
remarked
|
||
tomorrow
|
||
skimming
|
||
grazed
|
||
maybe
|
||
louder
|
||
told
|
||
dreadful
|
||
muttered
|
||
argue
|
||
drive
|
||
crazy
|
||
repeating
|
||
remark
|
||
variations
|
||
days
|
||
Anything
|
||
whistling
|
||
desperately
|
||
idiotic
|
||
kitchen
|
||
smoke
|
||
stool
|
||
nursing
|
||
baby
|
||
cook
|
||
leaning
|
||
stirring
|
||
cauldron
|
||
soup
|
||
pepper
|
||
Even
|
||
sneezed
|
||
occasionally
|
||
alternately
|
||
pause
|
||
sneeze
|
||
hearth
|
||
grinning
|
||
ear
|
||
manners
|
||
grins
|
||
Cheshire
|
||
Pig
|
||
violence
|
||
courage
|
||
grinned
|
||
pleased
|
||
introduce
|
||
While
|
||
fix
|
||
throwing
|
||
irons
|
||
saucepans
|
||
plates
|
||
dishes
|
||
already
|
||
blows
|
||
PLEASE
|
||
jumping
|
||
agony
|
||
terror
|
||
PRECIOUS
|
||
unusually
|
||
saucepan
|
||
flew
|
||
carried
|
||
everybody
|
||
minded
|
||
growl
|
||
faster
|
||
advantage
|
||
takes
|
||
hours
|
||
axis
|
||
Talking
|
||
axes
|
||
chop
|
||
glanced
|
||
meant
|
||
hint
|
||
busily
|
||
Twenty
|
||
bother
|
||
abide
|
||
figures
|
||
singing
|
||
lullaby
|
||
shake
|
||
line
|
||
roughly
|
||
boy
|
||
beat
|
||
sneezes
|
||
annoy
|
||
Because
|
||
teases
|
||
CHORUS
|
||
Wow
|
||
wow
|
||
sang
|
||
verse
|
||
song
|
||
tossing
|
||
howled
|
||
thoroughly
|
||
enjoy
|
||
pleases
|
||
flinging
|
||
threw
|
||
frying
|
||
pan
|
||
missed
|
||
caught
|
||
shaped
|
||
creature
|
||
star
|
||
snorting
|
||
steam
|
||
engine
|
||
doubling
|
||
straightening
|
||
proper
|
||
twist
|
||
tight
|
||
prevent
|
||
undoing
|
||
IF
|
||
kill
|
||
murder
|
||
grunted
|
||
grunt
|
||
expressing
|
||
snout
|
||
also
|
||
extremely
|
||
sobbing
|
||
pig
|
||
seriously
|
||
sobbed
|
||
NO
|
||
neither
|
||
less
|
||
carry
|
||
relieved
|
||
trot
|
||
dreadfully
|
||
ugly
|
||
handsome
|
||
startled
|
||
seeing
|
||
Cat
|
||
bough
|
||
yards
|
||
natured
|
||
teeth
|
||
treated
|
||
respect
|
||
Puss
|
||
wider
|
||
depends
|
||
SOMEWHERE
|
||
explanation
|
||
denied
|
||
waving
|
||
Hatter
|
||
March
|
||
Hare
|
||
Visit
|
||
mad
|
||
To
|
||
grant
|
||
growls
|
||
wags
|
||
wag
|
||
Therefore
|
||
growling
|
||
Call
|
||
invited
|
||
happening
|
||
became
|
||
appear
|
||
hatters
|
||
May
|
||
raving
|
||
branch
|
||
fig
|
||
appearing
|
||
vanishing
|
||
giddy
|
||
All
|
||
ending
|
||
farther
|
||
chimneys
|
||
thatched
|
||
raised
|
||
towards
|
||
Suppose
|
||
instead
|
||
VII
|
||
MAD
|
||
TEA
|
||
PARTY
|
||
front
|
||
Dormouse
|
||
fast
|
||
asleep
|
||
using
|
||
cushion
|
||
resting
|
||
elbows
|
||
PLENTY
|
||
chair
|
||
Have
|
||
wine
|
||
civil
|
||
laid
|
||
Your
|
||
wants
|
||
cutting
|
||
personal
|
||
severity
|
||
rude
|
||
wide
|
||
SAID
|
||
raven
|
||
writing
|
||
desk
|
||
fun
|
||
riddles
|
||
Exactly
|
||
breathe
|
||
ravens
|
||
desks
|
||
break
|
||
month
|
||
uneasily
|
||
fourth
|
||
Two
|
||
butter
|
||
works
|
||
BEST
|
||
meekly
|
||
crumbs
|
||
grumbled
|
||
bread
|
||
gloomily
|
||
cup
|
||
shoulder
|
||
tells
|
||
o
|
||
clock
|
||
Does
|
||
year
|
||
readily
|
||
stays
|
||
MINE
|
||
poured
|
||
riddle
|
||
slightest
|
||
Nor
|
||
wearily
|
||
waste
|
||
answers
|
||
Time
|
||
HIM
|
||
cautiously
|
||
music
|
||
accounts
|
||
terms
|
||
twinkling
|
||
Half
|
||
mournfully
|
||
quarrelled
|
||
HE
|
||
spoon
|
||
concert
|
||
given
|
||
Hearts
|
||
sing
|
||
Twinkle
|
||
twinkle
|
||
Up
|
||
fly
|
||
Like
|
||
tray
|
||
pinch
|
||
bawled
|
||
murdering
|
||
Off
|
||
exclaimed
|
||
mournful
|
||
sigh
|
||
wash
|
||
whiles
|
||
interrupted
|
||
yawning
|
||
vote
|
||
lady
|
||
alarmed
|
||
proposal
|
||
Wake
|
||
pinched
|
||
fellows
|
||
quick
|
||
Once
|
||
sisters
|
||
names
|
||
Elsie
|
||
Lacie
|
||
Tillie
|
||
lived
|
||
bottom
|
||
interest
|
||
eating
|
||
drinking
|
||
treacle
|
||
ill
|
||
ways
|
||
living
|
||
Take
|
||
LESS
|
||
MORE
|
||
opinion
|
||
triumphantly
|
||
helped
|
||
Sh
|
||
sh
|
||
sulkily
|
||
interrupt
|
||
consented
|
||
learning
|
||
promise
|
||
Treacle
|
||
clean
|
||
unwillingly
|
||
upset
|
||
jug
|
||
offend
|
||
eh
|
||
choosing
|
||
interrupting
|
||
rubbing
|
||
manner
|
||
begins
|
||
M
|
||
closed
|
||
doze
|
||
woke
|
||
traps
|
||
moon
|
||
memory
|
||
muchness
|
||
drawing
|
||
Really
|
||
rudeness
|
||
disgust
|
||
teapot
|
||
THERE
|
||
stupidest
|
||
leading
|
||
today
|
||
unlocking
|
||
pocked
|
||
THEN
|
||
flower
|
||
VIII
|
||
QUEEN
|
||
CROQUET
|
||
GROUND
|
||
rose
|
||
entrance
|
||
roses
|
||
gardeners
|
||
painting
|
||
Look
|
||
Five
|
||
paint
|
||
Seven
|
||
jogged
|
||
Always
|
||
blame
|
||
deserved
|
||
beheaded
|
||
spoken
|
||
tulip
|
||
onions
|
||
flung
|
||
brush
|
||
unjust
|
||
chanced
|
||
watching
|
||
checked
|
||
RED
|
||
afore
|
||
themselves
|
||
flat
|
||
faces
|
||
eager
|
||
soldiers
|
||
carrying
|
||
clubs
|
||
oblong
|
||
corners
|
||
courtiers
|
||
ornamented
|
||
diamonds
|
||
royal
|
||
merrily
|
||
couples
|
||
hearts
|
||
guests
|
||
mostly
|
||
Kings
|
||
Queens
|
||
recognised
|
||
noticing
|
||
Knave
|
||
King
|
||
crimson
|
||
velvet
|
||
procession
|
||
KING
|
||
HEARTS
|
||
doubtful
|
||
lie
|
||
rule
|
||
processions
|
||
besides
|
||
opposite
|
||
smiled
|
||
Idiot
|
||
My
|
||
Majesty
|
||
pack
|
||
cards
|
||
needn
|
||
THESE
|
||
rosetree
|
||
pattern
|
||
backs
|
||
fury
|
||
glaring
|
||
beast
|
||
Nonsense
|
||
Consider
|
||
Turn
|
||
Get
|
||
bowing
|
||
Leave
|
||
humble
|
||
knee
|
||
meanwhile
|
||
examining
|
||
remaining
|
||
execute
|
||
unfortunate
|
||
protection
|
||
pot
|
||
marched
|
||
Their
|
||
evidently
|
||
roared
|
||
fine
|
||
peeping
|
||
Hush
|
||
whispered
|
||
execution
|
||
boxed
|
||
scream
|
||
laughter
|
||
hush
|
||
places
|
||
thunder
|
||
ridges
|
||
furrows
|
||
balls
|
||
hedgehogs
|
||
mallets
|
||
flamingoes
|
||
double
|
||
arches
|
||
chief
|
||
managing
|
||
flamingo
|
||
body
|
||
tucked
|
||
comfortably
|
||
straightened
|
||
hedgehog
|
||
expression
|
||
bursting
|
||
laughing
|
||
provoking
|
||
unrolled
|
||
act
|
||
crawling
|
||
ridge
|
||
furrow
|
||
send
|
||
doubled
|
||
parts
|
||
players
|
||
played
|
||
turns
|
||
quarrelling
|
||
fighting
|
||
furious
|
||
stamping
|
||
shouting
|
||
uneasy
|
||
dispute
|
||
beheading
|
||
alive
|
||
appearance
|
||
nodded
|
||
account
|
||
someone
|
||
fairly
|
||
complaining
|
||
quarrel
|
||
oneself
|
||
attends
|
||
arch
|
||
croqueted
|
||
win
|
||
finishing
|
||
friend
|
||
kiss
|
||
likes
|
||
impertinent
|
||
king
|
||
removed
|
||
passing
|
||
settling
|
||
difficulties
|
||
executioner
|
||
screaming
|
||
search
|
||
engaged
|
||
fight
|
||
croqueting
|
||
helpless
|
||
collected
|
||
appealed
|
||
settle
|
||
arguments
|
||
unless
|
||
HIS
|
||
weren
|
||
anxious
|
||
HER
|
||
prison
|
||
arrow
|
||
fading
|
||
disappeared
|
||
wildly
|
||
IX
|
||
MOCK
|
||
TURTLE
|
||
STORY
|
||
affectionately
|
||
pleasant
|
||
hopeful
|
||
AT
|
||
ALL
|
||
Soup
|
||
Maybe
|
||
tempered
|
||
vinegar
|
||
sour
|
||
camomile
|
||
bitter
|
||
barley
|
||
sugar
|
||
sweet
|
||
stingy
|
||
forget
|
||
moral
|
||
hasn
|
||
Tut
|
||
tut
|
||
squeezed
|
||
closer
|
||
keeping
|
||
uncomfortably
|
||
bore
|
||
Tis
|
||
tis
|
||
love
|
||
Somebody
|
||
minding
|
||
morals
|
||
waist
|
||
Shall
|
||
experiment
|
||
bite
|
||
mustard
|
||
Birds
|
||
feather
|
||
flock
|
||
Right
|
||
mineral
|
||
agree
|
||
yours
|
||
attended
|
||
vegetable
|
||
Never
|
||
imagine
|
||
cheap
|
||
birthday
|
||
Thinking
|
||
dig
|
||
worried
|
||
died
|
||
favourite
|
||
linked
|
||
hers
|
||
tremble
|
||
thunderstorm
|
||
fair
|
||
warning
|
||
choice
|
||
absence
|
||
shade
|
||
delay
|
||
cost
|
||
Those
|
||
whom
|
||
sentenced
|
||
custody
|
||
Mock
|
||
Turtle
|
||
company
|
||
pardoned
|
||
executions
|
||
Gryphon
|
||
sun
|
||
picture
|
||
lazy
|
||
leaving
|
||
rubbed
|
||
watched
|
||
chuckled
|
||
executes
|
||
Everybody
|
||
ledge
|
||
rock
|
||
heart
|
||
pitied
|
||
sorrow
|
||
hollow
|
||
EVEN
|
||
These
|
||
occasional
|
||
exclamation
|
||
Hjckrrh
|
||
heavy
|
||
Thank
|
||
MUST
|
||
calmly
|
||
school
|
||
Tortoise
|
||
sink
|
||
Drive
|
||
mayn
|
||
educations
|
||
VE
|
||
proud
|
||
extras
|
||
learned
|
||
Certainly
|
||
relief
|
||
OURS
|
||
bill
|
||
WASHING
|
||
extra
|
||
afford
|
||
regular
|
||
inquired
|
||
Reeling
|
||
Writhing
|
||
Arithmetic
|
||
Ambition
|
||
Distraction
|
||
Uglification
|
||
Derision
|
||
lifted
|
||
uglifying
|
||
beautify
|
||
prettier
|
||
uglify
|
||
simpleton
|
||
encouraged
|
||
Mystery
|
||
counting
|
||
subjects
|
||
flappers
|
||
ancient
|
||
modern
|
||
Seaography
|
||
Drawling
|
||
conger
|
||
week
|
||
Stretching
|
||
Fainting
|
||
Coils
|
||
stiff
|
||
Hadn
|
||
Classics
|
||
crab
|
||
Laughing
|
||
Grief
|
||
hid
|
||
Ten
|
||
lessen
|
||
eleventh
|
||
holiday
|
||
twelfth
|
||
games
|
||
X
|
||
LOBSTER
|
||
QUADRILLE
|
||
flapper
|
||
sobs
|
||
Same
|
||
bone
|
||
punching
|
||
recovered
|
||
cheeks
|
||
introduced
|
||
lobster
|
||
delightful
|
||
Lobster
|
||
Quadrille
|
||
dance
|
||
form
|
||
lines
|
||
Seals
|
||
turtles
|
||
salmon
|
||
cleared
|
||
jelly
|
||
advance
|
||
Each
|
||
partner
|
||
partners
|
||
lobsters
|
||
retire
|
||
bound
|
||
Swim
|
||
Back
|
||
land
|
||
figure
|
||
dropping
|
||
pretty
|
||
dancing
|
||
treading
|
||
toes
|
||
forepaws
|
||
mark
|
||
whiting
|
||
snail
|
||
porpoise
|
||
See
|
||
shingle
|
||
join
|
||
Too
|
||
askance
|
||
thanked
|
||
kindly
|
||
scaly
|
||
England
|
||
France
|
||
beloved
|
||
dinn
|
||
Dinn
|
||
tails
|
||
mouths
|
||
thrown
|
||
DOES
|
||
BOOTS
|
||
SHOES
|
||
shiny
|
||
blacking
|
||
Boots
|
||
Soles
|
||
eels
|
||
shrimp
|
||
thoughts
|
||
obliged
|
||
anywhere
|
||
Wouldn
|
||
journey
|
||
purpose
|
||
adventures
|
||
impatient
|
||
explanations
|
||
gained
|
||
listeners
|
||
part
|
||
Stand
|
||
TIS
|
||
VOICE
|
||
SLUGGARD
|
||
baked
|
||
duck
|
||
eyelids
|
||
Trims
|
||
belt
|
||
buttons
|
||
editions
|
||
follows
|
||
sands
|
||
gay
|
||
lark
|
||
contemptuous
|
||
tones
|
||
Shark
|
||
tide
|
||
rises
|
||
sharks
|
||
around
|
||
His
|
||
tremulous
|
||
uncommon
|
||
EVER
|
||
explained
|
||
Go
|
||
persisted
|
||
disobey
|
||
Owl
|
||
Panther
|
||
sharing
|
||
pie
|
||
crust
|
||
gravy
|
||
meat
|
||
share
|
||
treat
|
||
boon
|
||
Was
|
||
permitted
|
||
received
|
||
fork
|
||
banquet
|
||
Or
|
||
toe
|
||
Hm
|
||
accounting
|
||
tastes
|
||
Sing
|
||
Beautiful
|
||
rich
|
||
Waiting
|
||
tureen
|
||
dainties
|
||
evening
|
||
Beau
|
||
ootiful
|
||
Soo
|
||
oop
|
||
e
|
||
cares
|
||
Game
|
||
penny
|
||
Pennyworth
|
||
beauti
|
||
FUL
|
||
SOUP
|
||
Chorus
|
||
panted
|
||
faintly
|
||
breeze
|
||
XI
|
||
WHO
|
||
STOLE
|
||
TARTS
|
||
seated
|
||
throne
|
||
arrived
|
||
standing
|
||
chains
|
||
soldier
|
||
guard
|
||
trumpet
|
||
scroll
|
||
parchment
|
||
court
|
||
tarts
|
||
refreshments
|
||
pass
|
||
justice
|
||
wig
|
||
wore
|
||
frontispiece
|
||
comfortable
|
||
becoming
|
||
jurors
|
||
rightly
|
||
men
|
||
slates
|
||
Stupid
|
||
indignant
|
||
spectacles
|
||
spell
|
||
neighbour
|
||
muddle
|
||
pencil
|
||
squeaked
|
||
quickly
|
||
juror
|
||
Herald
|
||
accusation
|
||
blew
|
||
blasts
|
||
summer
|
||
stole
|
||
verdict
|
||
witness
|
||
teacup
|
||
sent
|
||
Fourteenth
|
||
Fifteenth
|
||
Sixteenth
|
||
Write
|
||
wrote
|
||
dates
|
||
reduced
|
||
shillings
|
||
pence
|
||
hat
|
||
Stolen
|
||
memorandum
|
||
hatter
|
||
fidgeted
|
||
Give
|
||
evidence
|
||
spot
|
||
encourage
|
||
shifting
|
||
remain
|
||
squeeze
|
||
boldly
|
||
reasonable
|
||
pace
|
||
ridiculous
|
||
fashion
|
||
officers
|
||
Bring
|
||
list
|
||
singers
|
||
thin
|
||
dunce
|
||
twinkled
|
||
deny
|
||
miserable
|
||
speaker
|
||
suppressed
|
||
canvas
|
||
bag
|
||
tied
|
||
strings
|
||
newspapers
|
||
trials
|
||
attempts
|
||
applause
|
||
understood
|
||
lower
|
||
SIT
|
||
officer
|
||
Shan
|
||
examine
|
||
folding
|
||
Pepper
|
||
Collar
|
||
shrieked
|
||
Behead
|
||
Suppress
|
||
Pinch
|
||
undertone
|
||
ache
|
||
fumbled
|
||
YET
|
||
Imagine
|
||
XII
|
||
EVIDENCE
|
||
flurry
|
||
tipped
|
||
skirt
|
||
upsetting
|
||
jurymen
|
||
sprawling
|
||
reminding
|
||
globe
|
||
goldfish
|
||
accidentally
|
||
BEG
|
||
dismay
|
||
accident
|
||
vague
|
||
die
|
||
cannot
|
||
emphasis
|
||
haste
|
||
downwards
|
||
unable
|
||
signifies
|
||
shock
|
||
pencils
|
||
diligently
|
||
overcome
|
||
gazing
|
||
Nothing
|
||
WHATEVER
|
||
UNimportant
|
||
respectful
|
||
unimportant
|
||
note
|
||
cackled
|
||
Rule
|
||
Forty
|
||
PERSONS
|
||
THAN
|
||
MILE
|
||
HIGH
|
||
TO
|
||
LEAVE
|
||
COURT
|
||
mile
|
||
Nearly
|
||
invented
|
||
oldest
|
||
Number
|
||
prisoner
|
||
directed
|
||
OUTSIDE
|
||
verses
|
||
handwriting
|
||
queerest
|
||
imitated
|
||
prove
|
||
signed
|
||
sign
|
||
mischief
|
||
honest
|
||
clapping
|
||
PROVES
|
||
guilt
|
||
proves
|
||
Read
|
||
Begin
|
||
character
|
||
push
|
||
returned
|
||
Though
|
||
Involved
|
||
affair
|
||
trusts
|
||
Before
|
||
fit
|
||
obstacle
|
||
Him
|
||
ourselves
|
||
secret
|
||
Between
|
||
sixpence
|
||
atom
|
||
attempted
|
||
saves
|
||
spreading
|
||
SWIM
|
||
entirely
|
||
cardboard
|
||
WE
|
||
KNOW
|
||
BE
|
||
TRUE
|
||
GAVE
|
||
THEY
|
||
RETURNED
|
||
clearer
|
||
BEFORE
|
||
HAD
|
||
FIT
|
||
fits
|
||
furiously
|
||
inkstand
|
||
ink
|
||
trickling
|
||
pun
|
||
consider
|
||
twentieth
|
||
Sentence
|
||
Stuff
|
||
purple
|
||
flying
|
||
brushing
|
||
fluttered
|
||
kissed
|
||
wonderful
|
||
setting
|
||
dreaming
|
||
dreamed
|
||
clasped
|
||
toss
|
||
listened
|
||
rustled
|
||
splashed
|
||
neighbouring
|
||
rattle
|
||
teacups
|
||
shared
|
||
meal
|
||
crashed
|
||
choking
|
||
believed
|
||
reality
|
||
rustling
|
||
rippling
|
||
reeds
|
||
tinkling
|
||
sheep
|
||
bells
|
||
cries
|
||
shepherd
|
||
thy
|
||
noises
|
||
clamour
|
||
busy
|
||
farm
|
||
yard
|
||
lowing
|
||
cattle
|
||
Lastly
|
||
pictured
|
||
riper
|
||
years
|
||
loving
|
||
childhood
|
||
gather
|
||
THEIR
|
||
sorrows
|
||
joys
|
||
remembering
|
||
happy
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Vladimir Nabokov
|
||
|
||
Lolita
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Part One
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
1
|
||
|
||
|
||
Lolita, light of my life, fire of my loins. My sin, my soul. Lo-lee-ta: the tip of the tongue taking a trip of three steps down the palate to tap, at three, on the teeth. Lo. Lee. Ta.
|
||
|
||
She was Lo, plain Lo, in the morning, standing four feet ten in one sock. She was Lola in slacks. She was Dolly at school. She was Dolores on the dotted line[1 - the dotted line – место для подписи (на документах)]. But in my arms she was always Lolita.
|
||
|
||
Did she have a precursor? She did, indeed she did. In point of fact, there might have been no Lolita at all had I not loved, one summer, a certain initial girl-child. In a princedom by the sea. Oh when? About as many years before Lolita was born as my age was that summer. You can always count on a murderer for a fancy prose style.
|
||
|
||
Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, exhibit number one is what the seraphs, the misinformed, simple, noble-winged seraphs, envied. Look at this tangle of thorns.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
2
|
||
|
||
|
||
I was born in 1910, in Paris. My father was a gentle, easy-going person, a salad of racial genes: a Swiss citizen, of mixed French and Austrian descent, with a dash of the Danube in his veins. I am going to pass around in a minute some lovely, glossy-blue picture-postcards. He owned a luxurious hotel on the Riviera. His father and two grandfathers had sold wine, jewels and silk, respectively. At thirty he married an English girl, daughter of Jerome Dunn, the alpinist, and grand-daughter of two Dorset parsons, experts in obscure subjects – palacopedology and Aeolian harps[2 - palacopedology and Aeolian harps – палеопедология и Эоловы арфы], respectively. My very photogenic mother died in a freak accident (picnic, lightning) when I was three, and, save for[3 - save for – за исключением] a pocket of warmth in the darkest past, nothing of her subsists within the hollows and dells of memory, over which, if you can still stand my style (I am writing under observation), the sun of my infancy had set: surely, you all know those redolent remnants of day suspended, with the midges, about some hedge in bloom or suddenly entered and traversed by the rambler, at the bottom of a hill, in the summer dusk; a furry warmth, golden midges.
|
||
|
||
My mother’s elder sister, Sybil, whom a cousin of my father’s had married and then neglected, served in my immediate family as a kind of unpaid governess and housekeeper. Somebody told me later that she had been in love with my father, and that he had lightheartedly taken advantage of it one rainy day and forgotten it by the time the weather cleared. I was extremely fond of her, despite the rigidity – the fatal rigidity – of some of her rules. Perhaps she wanted to make of me, in the fullness of time, a better widower than my father. Aunt Sybil had pink-rimmed azure eyes and a waxen complexion. She wrote poetry. She was poetically superstitious. She said she knew she would die soon after my sixteenth birthday, and did. Her husband, a great traveller in perfumes, spent most of his time in America, where eventually he founded a firm and acquired a bit of real estate.
|
||
|
||
I grew, a happy, healthy child in a bright world of illustrated books, clean sand, orange trees, friendly dogs, sea vistas and smiling faces. Around me the splendid Hotel Mirana revolved as a kind of private universe, a whitewashed cosmos within the blue greater one that blazed outside. From the aproned pot-scrubber to the flannelled potentate, everybody liked me, everybody petted me. Elderly American ladies leaning on their canes listed toward me like towers of Pisa. Ruined Russian princesses who could not pay my father bought me expensive bonbons. He, mon cher petit papa[4 - mon cher petit papa – (фр.) мой дорогой папочка Здесь и далее перевод с фр. М. Брусовани.], took me out boating and biking, taught me to swim and dive and water-ski, read to me Don Quixote and Les Miserables[5 - Don Quixote and Les Miserables – «Дон Кихот» (М. Сервантес) и «Отверженные» (В. Гюго) (фр.)], and I adored and respected him and felt glad for him whenever I over-heard the servants discuss his various lady-friends, beautiful and kind beings who made much of me and cooed and shed precious tears over my cheerful motherlessness.
|
||
|
||
I attended an English day school a few miles from home, and there I played rackets and fives[6 - rackets and fives – игра в мяч, ударяя его об стену ракеткой или ладонью], and got excellent marks, and was on perfect terms with schoolmates and teachers alike. The only definite sexual events that I can remember as having occurred before my thirteenth birthday (that is, before I first saw my little Annabel) were: a solemn, decorous and purely theoretical talk about pubertal surprises in the rose garden of the school with an American kid, the son of a then celebrated motion-picture actress whom he seldom saw in the three-dimensional world; and some interesting reactions on the part of my organism to certain photographs, pearl and umbra, with infinitely soft partings, in Pichon’s sumptuous La Beauté Humaine[7 - La Beauté Humaine – (фр.) человеческая красота] that I had filched from under a mountain of marble-bound Graphics[8 - Graphics – иллюстрированный журнал] in the hotel library. Later, in his delightful debonair manner, my father gave me all the information he thought I needed about sex; this was just before sending me, in the autumn of 1923, to a lycée[9 - lycée – (фр.) лицей] in Lyon (where we were to spend three winters); but alas, in the summer of that year, he was touring Italy with Mme[10 - Mme – (фр.) сокр. от Madamme – Мадам] de R. and her daughter, and I had nobody to complain to, nobody to consult.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
3
|
||
|
||
|
||
Annabel was, like the writer, of mixed parentage: half English, half-Dutch, in her case. I remember her features far less distinctly today than I did a few years ago, before I knew Lolita. There are two kinds of visual memory: one when you skillfully recreate an image in the laboratory of your mind, with your eyes open (and then I see Annabel in such general terms as: ‘honey-coloured skin’, ‘thin arms’, ‘brown bobbed hair’, ‘long lashes’, ‘big bright mouth’); and the other when you instantly evoke, with shut eyes, on the dark innerside of your eyelids, the objective, absolutely optical replica of a beloved face, a little ghost in natural colours (and this is how I see Lolita).
|
||
|
||
Let me therefore primly limit myself, in describing Annabel, to saying she was a lovely child a few months my junior. Her parents were old friends of my aunt’s, and as stuffy as she. They had rented a villa not far from Hotel Mirana. Bald brown Mr. Leigh and fat, powdered Mrs. Leigh (born Vanessa van Ness). How I loathed them! At first, Annabel and I talked of peripheral affairs. She kept lifting handfuls of fine sand and letting it pour through her fingers. Our brains were tuned the way those of intelligent European pre-adolescents were in our day and set, and I doubt if much individual genius should be assigned to our interest in the plurality of inhabited worlds, competitive tennis, infinity, solipsism and so on. The softness and fragility of baby animals caused us the same intense pain. She wanted to be a nurse in some famished Asiatic country; I wanted to be a famous spy.
|
||
|
||
All at once we were madly, clumsily, shamelessly, agonizingly in love with each other; hopelessly, I should add, because that frenzy of mutual possession might have been assuaged only by our actually imbibing and assimilating every particle of each other’s soul and flesh; but there we were, unable even to mate as slum children would have so easily found an opportunity to do. After one wild attempt we made to meet at night in her garden (of which more later), the only privacy we were allowed was to be out of earshot but not out of sight of the populous part of the plage. There, on the soft sand, a few feet away from our elders, we would sprawl all morning, in a petrified paroxysm of desire, and take advantage of every blessed quirk in space and time to touch each other: her hand, half-hidden in the sand, would creep toward me, its slender brown fingers sleepwalking nearer and nearer; then, her opalescent knee would start on a long cautious journey; sometimes a chance rampart built by younger children granted us sufficient concealment to graze each other’s salty lips; these incomplete contacts drove our healthy and inexperienced young bodies to such a state of exasperation that not even the cool blue water, under which we still clawed at each other, could bring relief.
|
||
|
||
Among some treasures I lost during the wanderings of my adult years, there was a snapshot taken by my aunt which showed Annabel, her parents and the staid, elderly, lame gentleman, a Dr. Cooper, who that same summer courted my aunt, grouped around a table in a sidewalk café. Annabel did not come out well, caught as she was in the act of bending over her chocolat glacé[11 - chocolat glacé – (фр.) холодный шоколадный напиток], and her thin bare shoulders and the parting in her hair were about all that could be identified (as I remember that picture) amid the sunny blur into which her lost loveliness graded; but I, sitting somewhat apart from the rest, came out with a kind of dramatic conspicuousness: a moody, beetle-browed boy in a dark sport shirt and well-tailored white shorts, his legs crossed, sitting in profile, looking away. That photograph was taken on the last day of our fatal summer and just a few minutes before we made our second and final attempt to thwart fate. Under the flimsiest of pretexts (this was our very last chance, and nothing really mattered) we escaped from the café to the beach, and found a desolate stretch of sand, and there, in the violet shadow of some red rocks forming a kind of cave, had a brief session of avid caresses, with somebody’s lost pair of sunglasses for only witness. I was on my knees, and on the point of possessing my darling, when two bearded bathers, the old man of the sea and his brother, came out of the sea with exclamations of ribald encouragement, and four months later she died of typhus in Corfu.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
4
|
||
|
||
|
||
I leaf again and again through these miserable memories, and keep asking myself, was it then, in the glitter of that remote summer, that the rift in my life began; or was my excessive desire for that child only the first evidence of an inherent singularity? When I try to analyse my own cravings, motives, actions and so forth, I surrender to a sort of retrospective imagination which feeds the analytic faculty with boundless alternatives and which causes each visualized route to fork and re-fork without end in the maddeningly complex prospect of my past. I am convinced, however, that in a certain magic and fateful way Lolita began with Annabel.
|
||
|
||
I also know that the shock of Annabel’s death consolidated the frustration of that nightmare summer, made of it a permanent obstacle to any further romance throughout the cold years of my youth. The spiritual and the physical had been blended in us with a perfection that must remain incomprehensible to the matter-of-fact, crude, standard-brained youngsters of today. Long after her death I felt her thoughts floating through mine. Long before we met we had had the same dreams. We compared notes. We found strange affinities. The same June of the same year (1919) a stray canary had fluttered into her house and mine, in two widely separated countries. Oh, Lolita, had you loved me thus!
|
||
|
||
I have reserved for the conclusion of my ‘Annabel’ phase the account of our unsuccessful first tryst. One night, she managed to deceive the vicious vigilance of her family. In a nervous and slender-leaved mimosa grove at the back of their villa we found a perch on the ruins of a low stone wall. Through the darkness and the tender trees we could see the arabesques of lighted windows which, touched up by the coloured inks of sensitive memory, appear to me now like playing cards – presumably because a bridge game was keeping the enemy busy. She trembled and twitched as I kissed the corner of her parted lips and the hot lobe of her ear. A cluster of stars palely glowed above us, between the silhouettes of long thin leaves; that vibrant sky seemed as naked as she was under her light frock. I saw her face in the sky, strangely distinct, as if it emitted a faint radiance of its own. Her legs, her lovely live legs, were not too close together, and when my hand located what it sought, a dreamy and eerie expression, half-pleasure, half-pain, came over those childish features. She sat a little higher than I, and whenever in her solitary ecstasy she was led to kiss me, her head would bend with a sleepy, soft, drooping movement that was almost woeful, and her bare knees caught and compressed my wrist, and slackened again; and her quivering mouth, distorted by the acridity of some mysterious potion, with a sibilant intake of breath came near to my face. She would try to relieve the pain of love by first roughly rubbing her dry lips against mine; then my darling would draw away with a nervous toss of her hair, and then again come darkly near and let me feed on her open mouth, while with a generosity that was ready to offer her everything, my heart, my throat, my entrails, I gave her to hold in her awkward fist the sceptre of my passion.
|
||
|
||
I recall the scent of some kind of toilet powder – I believe she stole it from her mother’s Spanish maid – a sweetish, lowly, musky perfume. It mingled with her own biscuity odour, and my senses were suddenly filled to the brim; a sudden commotion in a nearby bush prevented them from overflowing – and as we drew away from each other, and with aching veins attended to what was probably a prowling cat, there came from the house her mother’s voice calling her, with a rising frantic note – and Dr. Cooper ponderously limped out into the garden. But that mimosa grove – the haze of stars, the tingle, the flame, the honey-dew, and the ache remained with me, and that little girl with her seaside limbs and ardent tongue haunted me ever since – until at last, twenty-four years later, I broke her spell by incarnating her in another.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
5
|
||
|
||
|
||
The days of my youth, as I look back on them, seem to fly away from me in a flurry of pale repetitive scraps like those morning snowstorms of used tissue paper that a train passenger sees whirling in the wake of the observation car[12 - observation car – вагон с большими окнами (для туристов)]. In my sanitary relations with women I was practical, ironical and brisk. While a college student, in London and Paris, paid ladies sufficed me. My studies were meticulous and intense, although not particularly fruitful. At first, I planned to take a degree in psychiatry as many manqué[13 - manqué – (фр.) бездарь] talents do; but I was even more manqué than that; a peculiar exhaustion, I am so oppressed, doctor, set in; and I switched to English literature, where so many frustrated poets end as pipesmoking teachers in tweeds. Paris suited me. I discussed Soviet movies with expatriates. I sat with uranists in the Deux Magots. I published tortuous essays in obscure journals. I composed pastiches:
|
||
|
||
… Fräulein von Kulp
|
||
may turn, her hand upon the door;
|
||
I will not follow her. Nor Fresca. Nor
|
||
that Gull.
|
||
|
||
A paper of mine entitled ‘The Proustian theme in a letter from Keats to Benjamin Bailey’ was chuckled over by the six or seven scholars who read it. I launched upon an ‘Histoire abrégée de la poesie anglaise[14 - Histoire abrégée de la poesie anglaise – (фр.) "Краткая история английской поэзии"]’ for a prominent publishing firm, and then started to compile that manual of French literature for English-speaking students (with comparisons drawn from English writers) which was to occupy me throughout the ‘forties – and the last volume of which was almost ready for press by the time of my arrest.
|
||
|
||
I found a job – teaching English to a group of adults in Auteuil. Then a school for boys employed me for a couple of winters. Now and then I took advantage of the acquaintances I had formed among social workers and psychotherapists to visit in their company various institutions, such as orphanages and reform schools[15 - reform school – исправительное заведение], where pale pubescent girls with matted eyelashes could be stared at in perfect impunity remindful of that granted one in dreams.
|
||
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Now I wish to introduce the following idea. Between the age limits of nine and fourteen there occur maidens who, to certain bewitched travellers, twice or many times older than they, reveal their true nature which is not human, but nymphic (that is, demoniac); and these chosen creatures I propose to designate as ‘nymphets’.
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It will be marked that I substitute time terms for spatial ones. In fact, I would have the reader see ‘nine’ and ‘fourteen’ as the boundaries – the mirrory beaches and rosy rocks – of an enchanted island haunted by those nymphets of mine and surrounded by a vast, misty sea. Between those age limits, are all girl-children nymphets? Of course not. Otherwise, we who are in the know, we lone voyagers, we nympholepts, would have long gone insane. Neither are good looks any criterion; and vulgarity, or at least what a given community terms so, does not necessarily impair certain mysterious characteristics, the fey grace, the elusive, shifty, soul-shattering, insidious charm that separates the nymphet from such coevals of hers as are incomparably more dependent on the spatial world of synchronous phenomena than on that intangible island of entranced time where Lolita plays with her likes. Within the same age limits the number of true nymphets is strikingly inferior to that of provisionally plain, or just nice, or ‘cute’, or even ‘sweet’ and ‘attractive’, ordinary, plumpish, formless, cold-skinned, essentially human little girls, with tummies and pigtails, who may or may not turn into adults of great beauty (look at the ugly dumplings in black stockings and white hats that are metamorphosed into stunning stars of the screen). A normal man given a group photograph of school girls or Girl Scouts and asked to point out the comeliest one will not necessarily choose the nymphet among them. You have to be an artist and a madman, a creature of infinite melancholy, with a bubble of hot poison in your loins and a super-voluptuous flame permanently aglow in your subtle spine (oh, how you have to cringe and hide!), in order to discern at once, by ineffable signs – the slightly feline outline of a cheekbone, the slenderness of a downy limb, and other indices which despair and shame and tears of tenderness forbid me to tabulate – the little deadly demon among the wholesome children; she stands unrecognized by them and unconscious herself of her fantastic power.
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Furthermore, since the idea of time plays such a magic part in the matter, the student should not be surprised to learn that there must be a gap of several years, never less than ten I should say, generally thirty or forty, and as many as ninety in a few known cases, between maiden and man to enable the latter to come under a nymphet’s spell. It is a question of focal adjustment, of a certain distance that the inner eye thrills to surmount, and a certain contrast that the mind perceives with a gasp of perverse delight. When I was a child and she was a child, my little Annabel was no nymphet to me; I was her equal, a faunlet in my own right, on that same enchanted island of time; but today, in September 1952, after twenty-nine years have elapsed, I think I can distinguish in her the initial fateful elf in my life. We loved each other with a premature love, marked by a fierceness that so often destroys adult lives. I was a strong lad and survived; but the poison was in the wound, and the wound remained ever open, and soon I found myself maturing amid a civilization which allows a man of twenty-five to court a girl of sixteen but not a girl of twelve.
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No wonder, then, that my adult life during the European period of my existence proved monstrously twofold. Overtly, I had so-called normal relationships with a number of terrestrial women having pumpkins or pears for breasts; inside, I was consumed by a hell furnace of localized lust for every passing nymphet whom as a law-abiding poltroon I never dared approach. The human females I was allowed to wield were but palliative agents. I am ready to believe that the sensations I derived from natural fornication were much the same as those known to normal big males consorting with their normal big mates in that routine rhythm which shakes the world. The trouble was that those gentlemen had not, and I had, caught glimpses of an incomparably more poignant bliss. The dimmest of my pollutive dreams was a thousand times more dazzling than all the adultery the most virile writer of genius or the most talented impotent might imagine. My world was split. I was aware of not one but two sexes, neither of which was mine; both would be termed female by the anatomist. But to me, through the prism of my senses, ‘they were as different as mist and mast[16 - they were as different as mist and mast – они были столь же различны между собой, как мечта и мачта]’. All this I rationalize now. In my twenties and early thirties, I did not understand my throes quite so clearly. While my body knew what it craved for, my mind rejected my body’s every plea. One moment I was ashamed and frightened, another recklessly optimistic. Taboos strangulated me. Psycho-analysts wooed me with pseudoliberations of pseudolibidoes. The fact that to me the only objects of amorous tremor were sisters of Annabel’s, her handmaids and girl-pages, appeared to me at times as a forerunner of insanity. At other times I would tell myself that it was all a question of attitude, that there was really nothing wrong in being moved to distraction by girl-children. Let me remind my reader that in England, with the passage of the Children and Young Persons Act in 1933, the term ‘girl-child’ is defined as ‘a girl who is over eight but under fourteen years’ (after that from fourteen to seventeen, the statutory definition is ‘young person’). In Massachusetts, US, on the other hand, a ‘wayward child’ is, technically, one ‘between seven mid seventeen years of age’ (who, moreover, habitually associates with vicious or immoral persons). Hugh Broughton, a writer of controversy in the reign of James I, has proved that Rahab was a harlot at ten years of age. This is all very interesting, and I dare say you see me already frothing at the mouth in a fit; but no, I am not; I am just winking happy thoughts into a little tiddle cup. Here are some more pictures. Here is Virgil who could the nymphet sing in single tone, but probably preferred a lad’s peritoneum. Here are two of King Akhnaten’s and Queen Nefertiti’s pre-nubile Nile daughters (that royal couple had a litter of six), wearing nothing but many necklaces of bright beads, relaxed on millions, intact after three thousand years, with their soft brown puppy bodies, cropped hair and long ebony eyes. Here are some brides of ten compelled to seat themselves on the fascinum, the virile ivory in the temples of classical scholarship. Marriage and cohabitation before the age of puberty are still not uncommon in certain East Indian provinces. Lepcha old men of eighty copulate with girls of eight, and nobody minds. After all, Dante fell madly in love with his Beatrice when she was nine, a sparkling girleen, painted and lovely, and bejewelled, in a crimson frock, and this was in 1274, in Florence, at a private feast in the merry month of May. And when Petrarch fell madly in love with his Laureen, she was a fair-haired nymphet of twelve running in the wind, in the pollen and dust, a flower in flight, in the beautiful plain as descried from the hills of Vaucluse.
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But let us be prim and civilized. Humbert Humbert tried hard to be good. Really and truly, he did. He had the utmost respect for ordinary children, with their purity and vulnerability, and under no circumstances would he have interfered with the innocence of a child, if there was the least risk of a row. But how his heart beat when, among the innocent throng, he espied a demon child, ‘enfant charmante et fourbe[17 - enfant charmante et fourbe – (неправ. фр.) дитя прелестное и коварное]’, dim eyes, bright lips, ten years in jail if you only show her you are looking at her. So life went. Humbert was perfectly capable of intercourse with Eve, but it was Lilith he longed for. The bud-stage of breast development appears early (10.7 years) in the sequence of somatic changes accompanying pubescence. And the next maturational item available is the first appearance of pigmented pubic hair (11.2 years). My little cup brims with tiddles.
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A shipwreck. An atoll. Alone with a drowned passenger’s shivering child. Darling, this is only a game! How marvellous were my fancied adventures as I sat on a hard park bench pretending to be immersed in a trembling book. Around the quiet scholar, nymphets played freely, as if he were a familiar statue or part of an old tree’s shadow and sheen. Once a perfect little beauty in a tartan frock, with a clatter, put her heavily armed foot near me upon the bench to dip her slim bare arms into me and tighten the strap of her roller skate, and I dissolved in the sun, with my book for fig leaf, as her auburn ringlets fell all over her skinned knee, and the shadow of leaves I shared pulsated and melted on her radiant limb next to my chameleonic cheek. Another time a red-haired school girl hung over me in the métro[18 - métro – (фр.) метро], and a revelation of axillary russet I obtained remained in my blood for weeks. I could list a great number of these one-sided diminutive romances. Some of them ended in a rich flavour of hell. It happened for instance that from my balcony I would notice a lighted window across the street and what looked like a nymphet in the act of undressing before a co-operative mirror. Thus isolated, thus removed, the vision acquired an especially keen charm that made me race with all speed toward my lone gratification. But abruptly, fiendishly, the tender pattern of nudity I had adored would be transformed into the disgusting lamp-lit bare arm of a man in his underclothes reading his paper by the open window, in the hot, damp, hopeless summer night.
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Rope-skipping, hopscotch. That old woman in black who sat down next to me on my bench, on my rack of joy (a nymphet was groping under me for a lost marble), and asked if I had stomach-ache, the insolent hag. Ah, leave me alone in my pubescent park, in my mossy garden. Let them play around me for ever. Never grow up.
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6
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Apropos: I have often wondered what became of those nymphets later? In this wrought-iron world of criss-cross cause and effect, could it be that the hidden throb I stole from them did not affect their future? I had possessed her – and she never knew it. All right. But would it not tell sometime later? Had I not somehow tampered with her fate by involving her image in my voluptas? Oh, it was, and remains, a source of great and terrible wonder.
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I learned, however, what they looked like, those lovely, maddening, thin-armed nymphets, when they grew up. I remember walking along an animated street on a grey spring afternoon somewhere near the Madeleine. A short slim girl passed me at a rapid, high-heeled, tripping step, we glanced back at the same moment, she stopped and I accosted her. She came hardly up to my chest hair and had the kind of dimpled round little face French girls so often have, and I liked her long lashes and tight-fitting tailored dress sheathing in pearl-grey her young body which still retained – and that was the nymphic echo, the chill of delight, the leap in my loins – a childish something mingling with the professional frétillement[19 - frétillement – (фр.) повиливание] of her small agile rump. I asked her price, and she promptly replied with melodious silvery precision (a bird, a very bird!) ‘Cent[20 - cent – (фр.) сто]’. I tried to haggle but she saw the awful lone longing in my lowered eyes, directed so far down at her round forehead and rudimentary hat (a band, a posy); and with one beat of her lashes: ‘Tant pis[21 - Tant pis – (фр.) тем хуже]’ she said, and made as if to move away. Perhaps only three years earlier I might have seen her coming home from school! That evocation settled the matter. She led me up the usual steep stairs, with the usual bell clearing the way for the monsieur who might not care to meet another monsieur, on the mournful climb to the abject room, all bed and bidet[22 - bidet – (фр.) биде]. As usual, she asked at once for petit cadeau[23 - petit cadeau – (фр.) подарочек], and as usual I asked her name (Monique) and her age (eighteen). I was pretty well acquainted with the banal way of streetwalkers. They all answer ‘dix-huit[24 - dix-huit – (фр.) восемнадцать]’ – a trim twitter, a note of finality and wistful deceit which they emit up to ten times per day, the poor little creatures. But in Monique’s case there could be no doubt she was, if anything, adding one or two years to her age. This I deduced from many details of her compact, neat, curiosly immature body. Having shed her clothes with fascinating rapidity, she stood for a moment partly wrapped in the dingy gauze of the window curtain listening with infantile pleasure, as pat as pal could be, to an organ-grinder in the dusk-brimming courtyard below. When I examined her small hands and drew her attention to their grubby fingernails, she said with a naïve frown ‘Oui, ce n’est pas bien[25 - oui, ce n’est pas bien – (фр.) да, это нехорошо]’, and went to the wash-basin, but I said it did not matter’, did not matter at all. With her brown bobbed hair, luminous grey eyes and pale skin, she looked perfectly charming. Her hips were no bigger than those of a squatting lad; in fact, I do not hesitate to say (and indeed this is the reason why I linger gratefully in that gauze-grey room of memory with little Monique) that among the eighty or so grues[26 - grue – (фр.) шлюха] I had had operate upon me, she was the only one that gave me a pang of genuine pleasure. ‘Il était malin, celui qui a inventé ce truc-lá[27 - il était malin, celui qui a inventé ce truc-lá – (фр.) хитер был тот, кто изобрел этот фокус]’, she commented amiably, and got back into her clothes with the same high-style speed.
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I asked for another, more elaborate, assignment later the same evening, and she said she would meet me at the corner café at nine, and swore she had never posé un lapin[28 - posé un lapin – (фр.) надуть, подвести] in all her young life. We returned to the same room, and I could not help saying how very pretty she was to which she answered demurely: ‘Tu es bien gentil de dire ça[29 - tu es bien gentil de dire ça – (фр.) как мило ты это сказал]’, and then, noticing what I noticed too in the mirror reflecting our small Eden – the dreadful grimace of clenched-teeth tenderness that distorted my mouth – dutiful little Monique (oh, she had been a nymphet all right!) wanted to know if she should remove the layer of red from her lips avant qu’on se couche[30 - avant qu’on se couche – (фр.) перед тем, как ложиться] in case I planned to kiss her. Of course, I planned it. I let myself go with her more completely than I had with any young lady before, and my last vision that night of long-lashed Monique is touched up with a gaiety that I find seldom associated with any event in my humiliating, sordid, taciturn love life. She looked tremendously pleased with the bonus of fifty I gave her as she trotted out into the April night drizzle with Humbert Humbert lumbering in her narrow wake. Stopping before a window display she said with great gusto: ‘Je vais m’acheter des bas![31 - Je vais m’acheter des bas! – (фр.) Куплю себе чулки!]’ and never may I forget the way her Parisian childish lips exploded on ‘bas’, pronouncing it with an appetite that all but changed the ‘a’ into a brief buoyant bursting ‘o’ as in ‘bot’.
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I had a date with her next day at 2.15 p.m. in my own rooms, but it was less successful, she seemed to have grown less juvenile, more of a woman overnight. A cold I caught from her led me to cancel a fourth assignment, nor was I sorry to break an emotional series that threatened to burden me with heart-rending fantasies and peter out in dull disappointment. So let her remain, sleek, slender Monique, as she was for a minute or two: a delinquent nymphet shining through the matter-of-fact young whore.
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My brief acquaintance with her started a train of thought that may seem pretty obvious to the reader who knows the ropes. An advertisement in a lewd magazine landed me, one brave day, in the office of a Mlle[32 - Mlle – (фр.) сокр. от mademoiselle – мадемуазель] Edith who began by offering me to choose a kindred soul from a collection of rather formal photographs in a rather soiled album (‘Regardez-moi cette belle brune![33 - Regardez-moi cette belle brune! – (фр.) Полюбуйтесь-ка на эту красивую брюнетку!]’). When I pushed the album away and somehow managed to blurt out my criminal craving, she looked as if about to show me the door; however, after asking me what price I was prepared to disburse, she condescended to put me in touch with a person qui pourrait arranger la chose[34 - qui pourrait arranger la chose – (фр.) которая могла бы устроить дело]. Next day, an asthmatic woman, coarsely painted, garrulous, garlicky, with an almost farcical Provencal accent and a black moustache above a purple lip, took me to what was apparently her own domicile, and there, after explosively kissing the bunched tips of her fat fingers to signify the delectable rosebud quality of her merchandise, she theatrically drew aside a curtain to reveal what I judged was that part of the room where a large and unfastidious family usually slept. It was now empty save for a monstrously plump, sallow, repulsively plain girl of at least fifteen with red-ribboned thick black braids who sat on a chair perfunctorily nursing a bald doll. When I shook my head and tried to shuffle out of the trap, the woman, talking fast, began removing the dingy woollen jersey from the young giantess’s torso; then, seeing my determination to leave, she demanded son argent[35 - son argent – (фр.) свои деньги]. A door at the end of the room was opened, and two men who had been dining in the kitchen joined in the squabble. They were misshapen, bare-necked, very swarthy and one of them wore dark glasses. A small boy and a begrimed, bowlegged toddler lurked behind them. With the insolent logic of a nightmare, the enraged procuress, indicating the man in glasses, said he had served in the police, lui[36 - lui– (фр.) он], so that I had better do as I was told. I went up to Marie – for that was her stellar name – who by then had quietly transferred her heavy haunches to a stool at the kitchen table and resumed her interrupted soup while the toddler picked up the doll. With a surge of pity dramatizing my idiotic gesture, I thrust a banknote into her indifferent hand. She surrendered my gift to the ex-detective, whereupon I was suffered to leave.
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7
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I do not know if the pimp’s album may not have been another link in the daisy-chain; but soon after, for my own safety, I decided to marry. It occurred to me that regular hours, home-cooked meals, all the conventions of marriage, the prophylactic routine of its bedroom activities and, who knows, the eventual flowering of certain moral values, of certain spiritual substitutes, might help me, if not to purge myself of my degrading and dangerous desires, at least to keep them under pacific control. A little money that had come my way after my father’s death (nothing very grand – the Mirana had been sold long before), in addition to my striking if somewhat brutal good looks, allowed me to enter upon my quest with equanimity. After considerable deliberation, my choice fell on the daughter of a Polish doctor: the good man happened to be treating me for spells of dizziness and tachycardia. We played chess; his daughter watched me from behind her easel, and inserted eyes or knuckles borrowed from me into the cubistic trash that accomplished misses then painted instead of lilacs and lambs. Let me repeat with quiet force: I was, and still am, despite mes malheurs[37 - mes malheurs – (фр.) мои бедствия], an exceptionally handsome male; slow-moving, tall, with soft dark hair and a gloomy but all the more seductive cast of demeanour. Exceptional virility often reflects in the subject’s displayable features a sullen and congested something that pertains to what he has to conceal. And this was my case. Well did I know, alas, that I could obtain at the snap of my fingers any adult female I chose; in fact, it had become quite a habit with me of not being too attentive to women lest they come toppling, bloodripe, into my cold lap. Had I been français moyen[38 - français moyen – (фр.) средним французом] with a taste for flashy ladies, I might have easily found, among the many crazed beauties that lashed my grim rock, creatures far more fascinating than Valeria. My choice, however, was prompted by considerations whose essence was, as I realized too late, a piteous compromise. All of which goes to show how dreadfully stupid poor Humbert always was in matters of sex.
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8
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Although I told myself I was looking merely for a soothing presence, a glorified pot-au-feu[39 - pot-au-feu – (фр.) похлебка], an animated merkin, what really attracted me to Valeria was the imitation she gave of a little girl. She gave it not because she had divined something about me; it was just her style – and I fell for it. Actually, she was at least in her late twenties (I never established her exact age for even her passport lied) and had mislaid her virginity under circumstances that changed with her reminiscent moods. I, on my part, was as naïve as only a pervert can be. She looked fluffy and frolicsome, dressed à la gamine[40 - à la gamine – (фр.) девчонкой], showed a generous amount of smooth leg, knew how to stress the white of a bare instep by the black of a velvet slipper, and pouted, and dimpled, and romped, and dirndled, and shook her short curly blonde hair in the cutest and tritest fashion imaginable.
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After a brief ceremony at the mairie[41 - mairie – (фр.) ратуша, мэрия], I took her to the new apartment I had rented and, somewhat to her surprise, had her wear, before I touched her, a girl’s plain nightshirt that I had managed to filch from the linen closet of an orphanage. I derived some fun from that nuptial night and had the idiot in hysterics by sunrise. But reality soon asserted itself. The bleached curl revealed its melanic root; the down turned to prickles on a shaved shin; the mobile moist mouth, no matter how I stuffed it with love, disclosed ignominiously its resemblance to the corresponding part in a treasured portrait of her toadlike dead mama; and presently, instead of a pale little gutter girl, Humbert Humbert had on his hands a large, puffy, short-legged, big-breasted and practically brainless baba.
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This state of affairs lasted from 1935 to 1939. Her only asset was a muted nature which did help to produce an odd sense of comfort in our small squalid flat: two rooms, a hazy view in one window, a brick wall in the other, a tiny kitchen, a shoe-shaped bath tub, within which I felt like Marat but with no white-necked maiden to stab me. We had quite a few cosy evenings together, she deep in her Paris-Soir[42 - Paris-Soir– (фр.) вечерняя парижская газета], I working at a rickety table. We went to movies, bicycle races and boxing matches. I appealed to her stale flesh very seldom, only in cases of great urgency and despair. The grocer had a little daughter whose shadow drove me mad; but with Valeria’s help I did find after all some legal outlets to my fantastic predicament. As to cooking, we tacitly dismissed the pot-au-feu and had most of our meals at a crowded place in rue[43 - rue – (фр.) улица] Bonaparte where there were wine stains on the tablecloth and a good deal of foreign babble. And next door, an art dealer displayed in his cluttered window a splendid, flamboyant, green, red, golden and inky blue, ancient American estampe – a locomotive with a gigantic smokestack, great baroque lamps and a tremendous cowcatcher, hauling its mauve coaches through the stormy prairie night and mixing a lot of spark-studded black smoke with the furry thunder clouds.
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These burst. In the summer of 1939 mon oncle d’Amérique[44 - mon oncle d’Amérique – (фр.) мой американский дядюшка] died bequeathing me an annual income of a few thousand dollars on condition I came to live in the States and showed some interest in his business. This prospect was most welcome to me. I felt my life needed a shake-up. There was another thing, too: moth holes had appeared in the plush of matrimonial comfort. During the last weeks I had kept noticing that my fat Valeria was not her usual self; had acquired a queer restlessness; even showed something like irritation at times, which was quite out of keeping with the stock character she was supposed to impersonate. When I informed her we were shortly to sail for New York, she looked distressed and bewildered. There were some tedious difficulties with her papers. She had a Nansen, or better say Nonsense, passport which for some reason a share in her husband’s solid Swiss citizenship could not easily transcend; and I decided it was the necessity of queuing in the préfecture[45 - préfecture – (фр.) префектура], and other formalities, that had made her so listless, despite my patiently describing to her America, the country of rosy children and great trees, where life would be such an improvement on dull dingy Paris.
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We were coming out of some office building one morning, with her papers almost in order, when Valeria, as she waddled by my side, began to shake her poodle head vigorously without saying a word. I let her go on for a while and then asked if she thought she had something inside. She answered (I translate from her French which was, I imagine, a translation in its turn of some Slavic platitude): ‘There is another man in my life.’
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Now, these are ugly words for a husband to hear. They dazed me, I confess. To beat her up in the street, there and then, as an honest vulgarian might have done, was not feasible. Years of secret sufferings had taught me superhuman self-control. So I ushered her into a taxi which had been invitingly creeping along the curb for some time, and in this comparative privacy I quietly suggested she comment her wild talk. A mounting fury was suffocating me – not because I had any particular fondness for that figure of fun, Mme Humbert, but because matters of legal and illegal conjunction were for me alone to decide, and here she was, Valeria, the comedy wife, brazenly preparing to dispose in her own way of my comfort and fate. I demanded her lover’s name. I repeated my question; but she kept up a burlesque babble, discoursing on her unhappiness with me and announcing plans for an immediate divorce. ‘Mais qui est-ce?[46 - Mais qui est-ce? – (фр.) Кто же он?]’ I shouted at last, striking her on the knee with my fist; and she, without even wincing, stared at me as if the answer were too simple for words, then gave a quick shrug and pointed at the thick neck of the taxi driver. He pulled up at a small café and introduced himself. I do not remember his ridiculous name but after all those years I still see him quite clearly – a stocky White Russian ex-colonel with a bushy moustache and a crew cut; there were thousands of them plying that fool’s trade in Paris. We sat down at a table; the Tsarist ordered wine; and Valeria, after applying a wet napkin to her knee, went on talking – into me rather than to me; she poured words into this dignified receptacle with a volubility I had never suspected she had in her. And every now and then she would volley a burst of Slavic at her stolid lover. The situation was preposterous and became even more so when the taxi-colonel, stopping Valeria with a possessive smile, began to unfold his views and plans. With an atrocious accent to his careful French, he delineated the world of love and work into which he proposed to enter hand in hand with his child-wife Valeria. She by now was preening herself, between him and me, rouging her pursed lips, tripling her chin to pick at her blouse-bosom and so forth, and he spoke of her as if she were absent, and also as if she were a kind of little ward that was in the act of being transferred, for her own good, from one wise guardian to another even wiser one; and although my helpless wrath may have exaggerated and disfigured certain impressions, I can swear that he actually consulted me on such things as her diet, her periods, her wardrobe and the books she had read or should read. ‘I think,’ he said, ‘she will like Jean Christophe[47 - Jean Christophe– (фр.) "Жан Кристоф" (роман Р. Роллана)]?’ Oh, he was quite a scholar, Mr. Taxovich.
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I put an end to this gibberish by suggesting Valeria pack up her few belongings immediately, upon which the platitudinous colonel gallantly offered to carry them into the car. Reverting to his professional state, he drove the Humberts to their residence and all the way Valeria talked, and Humbert the Terrible deliberated with Humbert the Small whether Humbert Humbert should kill her or her lover, or both, or neither. I remember once handling an automatic belonging to a fellow student, in the days (I have not spoken of them, I think, but never mind) when I toyed with the idea of enjoying his little sister, a most diaphanous nymphet with a black hair bow, and then shooting myself. I now wondered if Valechka (as the colonel called her) was really worth shooting, or strangling, or drowning. She had very vulnerable legs, and I decided I would limit myself to hurting her very horribly as soon as we were alone. But we never were. Valechka – by now shedding torrents of tears tinged with the mess of her rainbow make-up – started to fill anyhow a trunk, and two suitcases, and a bursting carton, and visions of putting on my mountain boots and taking a running kick at her rump were of course impossible to put into execution with the cursed colonel hovering around all the time. I cannot say he behaved insolently or anything like that; on the contrary, he displayed, as a small sideshow in the theatricals I had been inveigled in, a discreet old-world civility, punctuating his movements with all sorts of mispronounced apologies (j’ai demannde pardonne – excuse me – est-ce que j’ai puis[48 - j’ai demannde pardonne … est-ce que j’ai puis …– (искаж. фр.) прошу прощения … могу ли я …] – may I – and so forth), and turning away tactfully when Valechka took down with a flourish her pink panties from the clothesline above the tub; but he seemed to be all over the place at once, le gredin[49 - le gredin– (фр.) негодяй, подлец, мерзавец], agreeing his frame with the anatomy of the flat, reading in my chair my newspaper, untying a knotted string, rolling a cigarette, counting the teaspoons, visiting the bathroom, helping his moll to wrap up the electric fan her father had given her, and carrying streetward her luggage. I sat with arms folded, one hip on the window sill, dying of hate and boredom. At last both were out of the quivering apartment – the vibration of the door I had slammed after them still rang in my every nerve, a poor substitute for the backhand slap with which I ought to have hit her across the cheekbone according to the rules of the movies. Clumsily playing my part, I stomped to the bathroom to check if they had taken my English toilet water; they had not; but I noticed with a spasm of fierce disgust that the former Counsellor of the Tsar, after thoroughly easing his bladder, had not flushed the toilet. That solemn pool of alien urine with a soggy, tawny cigarette butt disintegrating in it struck me as a crowning insult, and I wildly looked around for a weapon. Actually I dare say it was nothing but middle-class Russian courtesy (with an Oriental tang, perhaps) that had prompted the good colonel (Maximovich! his name suddenly taxies back to me), a very formal person as they all are, to muffle his private need in decorous silence so as not to underscore the small size of his host’s domicile with the rush of a gross cascade on top of his own hushed trickle. But this did not enter my mind at the moment, as groaning with rage I ransacked the kitchen for something better than a broom. Then, cancelling my search, I dashed out of the house with the heroic decision of attacking him barefisted: despite my natural vigour, I am no pugilist, while the short but broad-shouldered Maximovich seemed made of pig iron. The void of the street, revealing nothing of my wife’s departure except a rhinestone button that she had dropped in the mud after preserving it for three unnecessary years in a broken box, may have spared me a bloody nose[50 - may have spared me a bloody nose – вероятно, спасла меня от разбитого в кровь носа]. But no matter. I had my little revenge in due time. A man from Pasadena told me one day that Mrs. Maximovich née[51 - née – (фр.) урожденная] Zborovski had died in childbirth around 1945; the couple had somehow got over to California and had been used there, for an excellent salary, in a year-long experiment conducted by a distinguished American ethnologist. The experiment dealt with human and racial reactions to a diet of bananas and dates in a constant position on all fours. My informant, a doctor, swore he had seen with his own eyes obese Valechka and her colonel, by then grey-haired and also quite corpulent, diligently crawling about the well-swept floors of a brightly lit set of rooms (fruit in one, water in another, mats in a third and so on) in the company of several other hired quadrupeds, selected from indigent and helpless groups. I tried to find the results of these tests in the Review of Anthropology; but they appear not to have been published yet. These scientific products take of course some time to fructuate. I hope they will be illustrated with good photographs when they do get printed, although it is not very likely that a prison library will harbour such erudite works. The one to which I am restricted these days, despite my lawyer’s favours, is a good example of the inane eclecticism[52 - eclecticism – эклектизм (философское учение, основанное на сочетании положений, заимствованных из разнообразных философских систем)] governing the selection of books in prison libraries. They have the Bible, of course, and Dickens (an ancient set, N.Y., G. W. Dillingham, Publisher, MDCCCLXXXVII); and the Children’s Encyclopaedia (with some nice photographs of sunshine-haired Girl Scouts in shorts), and A Murder is Announced by Agatha Christie; but they also have such coruscating trifles as A Vagabond in Italy by Percy Elphinstone, author of Venice Revisited, Boston, 1868, and a comparatively recent (1946) Who’s Who in the Limelight – actors, producers, playwrights, and shots of static scenes. In looking through the latter volume, I was treated last night to one of those dazzling coincidences that logicians loathe and poets love. I transcribe most of the page:
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Pym, Roland. Born in Lundy, Mass., 1922. Received stage training at Elsinore Playhouse, Derby, N.Y. Made debut in Sunburst. Among his many appearances are Two Blocks from Here, The Girl in Green, Scrambled Husbands, The Strange Mushroom, Touch and Go, John Lovely, I Was Dreaming of You.
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Quilty, Clare, American dramatist. Born in Ocean City, N.J., 1911. Educated at Columbia University. Started on a commercial career but turned to playwriting. Author of The Little Nymph, The Lady who Loved Lightning (in collaboration with Vivian Darkbloom), Dark Age, The Strange Mushroom, Fatherly Love, and others. His many plays for children are notable. Little Nymph (1940) travelled 14,000 miles and played 280 performances on the road during the winter before ending in New York. Hobbies: fast cars, photography, pets.
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Quine, Dolores. Born in 1882, in Dayton, Ohio. Studied for stage at American Academy. First played in Ottawa in 1900. Made New York debut in 1904 in Never Talk to Strangers. Has disappeared since in [a list of some thirty plays follows].
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How the look of my dear love’s name, even affixed to some old hag of an actress, still makes me rock with helpless pain! Perhaps, she might have been an actress too. Born 1935. Appeared (I notice the slip of my pen in the preceding paragraph, but please do not correct it, Clarence) in The Murdered Playwright. Quine the Swine. Guilty of killing Quilty. Oh, my Lolita, I have only words to play with!
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9
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Divorce proceedings delayed my voyage, and the gloom of yet another World War had settled upon the globe when, after a winter of ennui and pneumonia in Portugal, I at last reached the States. In New York I eagerly accepted the soft job fate offered me: it consisted mainly of thinking up and editing perfume ads.
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I welcomed its desultory character and pseudo-literary aspects, attending to it whenever I had nothing better to do. On the other hand, I was urged by a wartime university in New York to complete my comparative history of French literature for English-speaking students. The first volume took me a couple of years during which I put in seldom less than fifteen hours of work daily. As I look back on those days, I see them divided tidily into ample light and narrow shade: the light pertaining to the solace of research in palatial libraries, the shade to my excruciating desires and insomnias of which enough has been said. Knowing me by now, the reader can easily imagine how dusty and hot I got, trying to catch a glimpse of nymphets (alas, always remote) playing in Central Park, and how repulsed I was by the glitter of deodorized career girls that a gay dog in one of the offices kept unloading upon me. Let us skip all that. A dreadful breakdown sent me to a sanatorium for more than a year; I went back to my work – only to be hospitalized again.
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Robust outdoor life seemed to promise me some relief. One of my favourite doctors, a charming cynical chap with a little brown beard, had a brother, and this brother was about to lead an expedition into arctic Canada. I was attached to it as a ‘recorder of psychic reactions’. With two young botanists and an old carpenter I shared now and then (never very successfully) the favours of one of our nutritionists, a Dr. Anita Johnson – who was soon flown back, I am glad to say. I had little notion of what object the expedition was pursuing. Judging by the number of meteorologists upon it, we may have been tracking to its lair (somewhere on Prince of Wales’ Island, I understand) the wandering and wobbly north magnetic pole. One group, jointly with the Canadians, established a weather station on Pierre Point in Melville Sound. Another group, equally misguided, collected plankton. A third studied tuberculosis in the tundra. Bert, a film photographer – an insecure fellow with whom at one time I was made to partake in a good deal of menial work (he, too, had some psychic troubles) – maintained that the big men on our team, the real leaders we never saw, were mainly engaged in checking the influence of climatic amelioration on the coats of the arctic fox.
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We lived in prefabricated timber cabins amid a Pre-Cambrian world of granite. We had heaps of supplies – the Reader’s Digest, an ice-cream mixer, chemical toilets, paper hats for Christmas. My health improved wonderfully in spite or because of all the fantastic blankness and boredom. Surrounded by such dejected vegetation as willow scrub and lichens; permeated, and, I suppose, cleansed by a whistling gale; seated on a boulder under a completely translucent sky (through which, however, nothing of importance showed), I felt curiously aloof from my own self. No temptations maddened me. The plump, glossy little Eskimo girls with their fish smell, hideous raven hair and guinea pig faces, evoked even less desire in me than Dr. Johnson had. Nymphets do not occur in polar regions.
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I left my betters the task of analysing glacial drifts, drumlins, and gremlins, and kremlins, and for a time tried to jot down what I fondly thought were ‘reactions’ (I noticed, for instance, that dreams under the midnight sun tended to be highly coloured, and this my friend the photographer confirmed). I was also supposed to quiz my various companions on a number of important matters, such as nostalgia, fear of unknown animals, food-fantasies, nocturnal emissions, hobbies, choice of radio programmes, changes in outlook and so forth. Everybody got so fed up with this that I soon dropped the project completely, and only toward the end of my twenty months of cold labour (as one of the botanists jocosely put it) concocted a perfectly spurious and very racy report that the reader will find published in the Annals of Adult Psychophysics for 1945 or 1946, as well as in the issue of Arctic Explorations devoted to that particular expedition; which, in conclusion, was not really concerned with Victoria Island copper or anything like that, as I learned later from my genial doctor; for the nature of its real purpose was what is termed ‘hush-hush’, and so let me add merely that, whatever it was, that purpose was admirably achieved.
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The reader will regret to learn that soon after my return to civilization I had another bout with insanity (if to melancholia and a sense of insufferable oppression that cruel term must be applied). I owe my complete restoration to a discovery I made while being treated at that particular very expensive sanatorium. I discovered there was an endless source of robust enjoyment in trifling with psychiatrists: cunningly leading them on; never letting them see that you know all the tricks of the trade; inventing for them elaborate dreams, pure classics in style (which make them, the dream-extortionists, dream and wake up shrieking); teasing them with fake ‘primal scenes’; and never allowing them the slightest glimpse of one’s real sexual predicament. By bribing a nurse I won access to some files and discovered, with glee, cards calling me ‘potentially homosexual’ and ‘totally impotent’. The sport was so excellent, its results – in my case – so ruddy that I stayed on for a whole month after I was quite well (sleeping admirably and eating like a schoolgirl). And then I added another week just for the pleasure of taking on a powerful newcomer, a displaced (and, surely, deranged) celebrity, known for his knack of making patients believe they had witnessed their own conception.
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10
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Upon signing out, I cast around for some place in the New England countryside or sleepy small town (elms, white church) where I could spend a studious summer subsisting on a compact boxful of notes I had accumulated and bathing in some nearby lake. My work had begun to interest me again – I mean my scholarly exertions; the other thing, my active participation in my uncle’s posthumous perfumes, had by then been cut down to a minimum.
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One of his former employees, the scion of a distinguished family, suggested I spend a few months in the residence of his impoverished cousins, a Mr. McCoo, retired, and his wife, who wanted to let their upper story where a late aunt had delicately dwelt. He said they had two little daughters, one a baby, the other a girl of twelve, and a beautiful garden, not far from a beautiful lake, and I said it sounded perfectly perfect.
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I exchanged letters with these people, satisfying them I was housebroken, and spent a fantastic night on the train, imagining in all possible detail the enigmatic nymphet I would coach in French and fondle in Humbertish. Nobody met me at the toy station where I alighted with my new expensive bag, and nobody answered the telephone; eventually, however, a distraught McCoo in wet clothes turned up at the only hotel of green-and-pink Ramsdale with the news that his house had just burned down – possibly, owing to the synchronous conflagration that had been raging all night in my veins. His family, he said, had fled to a farm he owned, and had taken the car, but a friend of his wife’s, a grand person, Mrs. Haze, of 342 Lawn Street, offered to accommodate me. A lady who lived opposite Mrs. Haze’s had lent McCoo her limousine, a marvellously old-fashioned, square-topped affair, manned by a cheerful Negro. Now, since the only reason for my coming at all had vanished, the aforesaid arrangement seemed preposterous. All right, his house would have to be completely rebuilt, so what? Had he not insured it sufficiently? I was angry, disappointed and bored, but, being a polite European, could not refuse to be sent off to Lawn Street in that funeral car, feeling that otherwise McCoo would devise an even more elaborate means of getting rid of me. I saw him scamper away, and my chauffeur shook his head with a soft chuckle. En route[53 - en route – (фр.) в дороге], I swore to myself I would not dream of staying in Ramsdale under any circumstance but would fly that very day to the Bermudas or the Bahamas or the Blazes. Possibilities of sweetness on technicolor beaches had been trickling through my spine for some time before, and McCoo’s cousin had, in fact, sharply diverted that train of thought with his well-meaning but as it transpired now absolutely inane suggestion.
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Speaking of sharp turns: we almost ran over a meddlesome suburban dog (one of those who lie in wait for cars) as we swerved into Lawn Street. A little further, the Haze house, a white-frame horror, appeared, looking dingy and old, more grey than white – the kind of place you know will have a rubber tube affixable to the tub faucet in lieu of shower. I tipped the chauffeur and hoped he would immediately drive away so that I might double back unnoticed to my hotel and bag; but the man merely crossed to the other side of the street where an old lady was calling to him from her porch. What could I do? I pressed the bell button.
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A coloured maid let me in – and left me standing on the mat while she rushed back to the kitchen where something was burning that ought not to burn.
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The front hall was graced with door chimes, a white-eyed wooden thingamabob of commercial Mexican origin, and that banal darling of the arty middle class, van Gogh’s ‘Arlesienne’. A door ajar to the right afforded a glimpse of a living room, with some more Mexican trash in a corner cabinet and a striped sofa along the wall. There was a staircase at the end, of the hallway, and as I stood mopping my brow (only now did I realize how hot it had been out of doors) and staring, to stare at something, at an old grey tennis ball that lay on an oak chest, there came from the upper landing the contralto voice of Mrs. Haze, who leaning over the banisters inquired melodiously, ‘Is that Monsieur Humbert?’ A bit of cigarette ash dropped from there in addition. Presently, the lady herself – sandals, maroon slacks, yellow silk blouse, squarish face, in that order – came down the steps, her index finger still tapping upon her cigarette.
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I think I had better describe her right away, to get it over with[54 - to get it over with – чтобы разделаться с ней]. The poor lady was in her middle thirties, she had a shiny forehead, plucked eyebrows and quite simple but not unattractive features of a type that may be defined as a weak solution of Marlene Dietrich. Patting her bronze-brown bun, she led me into the parlour and we talked for a minute about the McCoo fire and the privilege of living in Ramsdale. Her very wide-set sea-green eyes had a funny way of travelling all over you, carefully avoiding your own eyes. Her smile was but a quizzical jerk of one eyebrow; and uncoiling herself from the sofa as she talked, she kept making spasmodic dashes at three ashtrays and the near fender (where lay the brown core of an apple); whereupon she would sink back again, one leg folded under her. She was, obviously, one of those women whose polished words may reflect a book club or bridge club, or any other deadly conventionality, but never her soul; women who are completely devoid of humour; women utterly indifferent at heart to the dozen or so possible subjects of a parlour conversation, but very particular about the rules of such conversations, through the sunny cellophane of which not very appetizing frustrations can be readily distinguished. I was perfectly aware that if by any wild chance I became her lodger, she would methodically proceed to do in regard to me what taking a lodger probably meant to her all along, and I would again be enmeshed in one of those tedious affairs I knew so well.
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But there was no question of my settling there. I could not be happy in that type of household with bedraggled magazines on every chair and a kind of horrible hybridization between the comedy of so-called ‘functional modern furniture’ and the tragedy of decrepit rockers and rickety lamp tables with dead lamps. I was led upstairs, and to the left – into ‘my’ room. I inspected it through the mist of my utter rejection of it; but I did discern above ‘my’ bed Rene Prinet’s ‘Kreutzer Sonata’. And she called that servant maid’s room a ‘semi-studio’! Let’s get out of here at once, I firmly said to myself as I pretended to deliberate over the absurdly, and ominously, low price that my wistful hostess was asking for board and bed.
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Old-world politeness, however, obliged me to go on with the ordeal. We crossed the landing to the right side of the house (where ‘I and Lo have our rooms’ – Lo being presumably the maid), and the lodger-lover could hardly conceal a shudder when he, a very fastidious male, was granted a preview of the only bathroom, a tiny oblong between the landing and ‘Lo’s’ room, with limp wet things overhanging the dubious tub (the question mark of a hair inside); and there were the expected coils of the rubber snake, and its complement – a pinkish cosy, coyly covering the toilet lid.
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‘I see you are not too favourably impressed,’ said the lady letting her hand rest for a moment upon my sleeve: she combined a cool forwardness – the overflow of what I think is called ‘poise’ – with a shyness and sadness that caused her detached way of selecting her words to seem as unnatural as the intonation of a professor of ‘speech’. ‘This is not a neat household, I confess,’ the doomed dear continued, ‘but I assure you [she looked at my lips], you will be very comfortable, very comfortable, indeed. Let me show you the garden’ (the last more brightly, with a kind of winsome toss of the voice).
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Reluctantly I followed her downstairs again; then through the kitchen at the end of the hall, on the right side of the house – the side where also the dining room and the parlour were (under ‘my’ room, on the left, there was nothing but a garage). In the kitchen, the Negro maid, a plump youngish woman, said, as she took her large glossy black purse from the knob of the door leading to the back porch: ‘I’ll go now, Mrs. Haze.’ ‘Yes, Louise,’ answered Mrs. Haze with a sigh. ‘I’ll settle with you Friday.’ We passed on to a small pantry and entered the dining room, parallel to the parlour we had already admired. I noticed a white sock on the floor. With a deprecatory grunt, Mrs. Haze stooped without stopping and threw it into a closet next to the pantry. We cursorily inspected a mahogany table with a fruit vase in the middle, containing nothing but the still glistening stone of one plum. I groped for the timetable I had in my pocket and surreptitiously fished it out to look as soon as possible for a train. I was still walking behind Mrs. Haze through the dining room when, beyond it, there came a sudden burst of greenery – ‘the piazza’, sang out my leader, and then, without the least warning, a blue sea-wave swelled under my heart and, from a mat in a pool of sun, half-naked, kneeling, turning about on her knees, there was my Riviera love peering at me over dark glasses.
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It was the same child – the same frail, honey-hued shoulders, the same silky supple bare back, the same chestnut head of hair. A polka-dotted black kerchief tied around her chest hid from my aging ape eyes, but not from the gaze of young memory, the juvenile breasts I had fondled one immortal day. And, as if I were the fairy-tale nurse of some little princess (lost, kidnapped, discovered in gypsy rags through which her nakedness smiled at the king and his hounds), I recognized the tiny dark-brown mole on her side. With awe and delight (the king crying for joy, the trumpets blaring, the nurse drunk) I saw again her lovely indrawn abdomen where my southbound mouth had briefly paused; and those puerile hips on which I had kissed the crenulated imprint left by the band of her shorts – that last mad immortal day behind the ‘Roches Roses’. The twenty-five years I had lived since then, tapered to a palpitating point, and vanished.
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I find it most difficult to express with adequate force that flash, that shiver, that impact of passionate recognition. In the course of the sun-shot moment that my glance slithered over the kneeling child (her eyes blinking over those stern dark spectacles – the little Herr Doktor[55 - Herr Doktor – (нем.) господин доктор] who was to cure me of all my aches) while I passed by her in my adult disguise (a great big handsome hunk of movieland manhood), the vacuum of my soul managed to suck in every detail of her bright beauty, and these I checked against the features of my dead bride. A little later, of course, she, this nouvelle[56 - nouvelle– (фр.) новая], this Lolita, my Lolita, was to eclipse completely her prototype. All I want to stress is that my discovery of her was a fatal consequence of that ‘princedom by the sea’ in my tortured past. Everything between the two events was but a series of gropings and blunders, and false rudiments of joy. Everything they shared made one of them.
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I have no illusions, however. My judges will regard all this as a piece of mummery on the part of a madman with a gross liking for the fruit vert[57 - fruit vert – (фр.) незрелый плод]. Au fond, ça m’est bien egal.[58 - Au fond, ça m’est bien egal. – (фр.) В конце концов, мне это совершенно все равно.] All I know is that while the Haze woman and I went down the steps into the breathless garden, my knees were like reflections of knees in rippling water, and my lips were like sand, and —
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‘That was my Lo,’ she said, ‘and these are my lilies.’ ‘Yes,’ I said, ‘yes. They are beautiful, beautiful, beautiful!’
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11
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Exhibit number two is a pocket diary bound in black imitation leather, with a golden year, 1947, en escalier[59 - en escalier – (фр.) лесенкой], in its upper left-hand corner. I speak of this neat product of the Blank Blank Go, Blankton, Mass, as if it were really before me. Actually, it was destroyed five years ago and what we examine now (by courtesy of a photographic memory) is but its brief materialization, a puny unfledged phoenix.
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I remember the thing so exactly because I wrote it really twice. First I jotted down each entry in pencil (with many erasures and corrections) on the leaves of what is commercially known as a ‘typewriter tablet’; then, I copied it out with obvious abbreviations in my smallest, most satanic, hand in the little black book just mentioned.
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May 30 is a Fast Day[60 - Fast Day – Постный день] by Proclamation in New Hampshire but not in the Carolinas. That day an epidemic of ‘abdominal flu’ (whatever that is) forced Ramsdale to close its schools for the summer. The reader may check the weather data in the Ramsdale Journal for 1947. A few days before that I moved into the Haze house, and the little diary which I now propose to reel off (much as a spy delivers by heart the contents of the note he swallowed) covers most of June.
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Thursday. Very warm day. From a vantage point (bathroom window) saw Dolores taking things off a clothes line in the apple-green light behind the house. Strolled out. She wore a plaid shirt, blue jeans and sneakers. Every movement she made in the dappled sun plucked at the most secret and sensitive chord of my abject body. After a while she sat down next to me on the lower step of the back porch and began to pick up the pebbles between her feet – pebbles, my God, then a curled bit of milk-bottle glass resembling a snarling lip – and chuck them at a can. Ping. You can’t a second time – you can’t hit it – this is agony – a second time. Ping. Marvellous skin – oh, marvellous: tender and tanned, not the least blemish. Sundaes cause acne. The excess of the oily substance called sebum which nourishes the hair follicles of the skin creates, when too profuse, an irritation that opens the way to infection. But nymphets do not have acne although they gorge themselves on rich food. God, what agony, that silky shimmer above her temple grading into bright brown hair. And the little bone twitching at the side of her dust-powdered ankle. ‘The McCoo girl? Ginny McCoo? Oh, she’s a fright. And mean. And lame. Nearly died of polio.’ Ping. The glistening tracery of down on her forearm. When she got up to take in the wash, I had a chance of adoring from afar the faded seat of her rolled-up jeans. Out of the lawn, bland Mrs. Haze, complete with camera, grew up like a fakir’s fake tree and after some heliotropic fussing – sad eyes up, glad eyes down – had the cheek of taking my picture as I sat blinking on the steps, Humbert le Bel.
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Friday. Saw her going somewhere with a dark girl called Rose. Why does the way she walks – a child, mind you, a mere child! – excite me so abominably? Analyse it. A faint suggestion of turned-in toes. A kind of wiggly looseness below the knee prolonged to the end of each footfall. The ghost of a drag. Very infantile, infinitely meretricious. Humbert Humbert is also infinitely moved by the little one’s slangy speech, by her harsh high voice. Later heard her volley crude nonsense at Rose across the fence. Twanging through me in a rising rhythm. Pause. ‘I must go now, kiddo.’
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Saturday. (Beginning perhaps amended.) I know it is madness to keep this journal but it gives me a strange thrill to do so; and only a loving wife could decipher my microscopic script. Let me state with a sob that today my L. was sun-bathing on the so-called ‘piazza’, but her mother and some other woman were around all the time. Of course, I might have sat there in the rocker and pretended to read. Playing safe, I kept away, for I was afraid that the horrible, insane, ridiculous and pitiful tremor that palsied me might prevent me from making my entrée[61 - entrée – (фр.) появление, выход (театр.)] with any semblance of casualness.
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Sunday. Heat ripple still with us; a most favonian week. This time I took up a strategic position, with obese newspaper and new pipe, in the piazza rocker before L. arrived. To my intense disappointment she came with her mother, both in two-piece bathing suits, black, as new as my pipe. My darling, my sweetheart stood for a moment near me – wanted the funnies – and she smelt almost exactly like the other one, the Riviera one, but more intensely so, with rougher overtones – a torrid odour that at once set my manhood astir – but she had already yanked out of me the coveted section and retreated to her mat near her phocine mamma. There my beauty lay down on her stomach, showing me, showing the thousand eyes wide open in my eyed blood, her slightly raised shoulder blades, and the bloom along the incurvation of her spine, and the swellings of her tense narrow nates clothed in black, and the seaside of her schoolgirl thighs. Silently, the seventh-grader enjoyed her green-red-blue comics. She was the loveliest nymphet green-red-blue Priap[62 - Priap – Приап, бог плодородия и садов] himself could think up. As I looked on, through prismatic layers of light, dry-lipped, focusing my lust and rocking slightly under my newspaper, I felt that my perception of her, if properly concentrated upon, might be sufficient to have me attain a beggar’s bliss immediately; but, like some predator that prefers a moving prey to a motionless one, I planned to have this pitiful attainment coincide with one of the various girlish movements she made now and then as she read, such as trying to scratch the middle of her back and revealing a stippled armpit – but fat Haze suddenly spoiled everything by turning to me and asking me for a light, and starting a make-believe conversation about a fake book by some popular fraud.
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Monday. Delectatio morosa.[63 - Delectatio morosa. – (лат.) Греховные мысли.] I spend my doleful days in dumps and dolours. We (mother Haze, Dolores and I) were to go to Our Glass Lake this afternoon, and bathe, and bask; but a nacreous morn degenerated at noon into rain, and Lo made a scene.
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The median age of pubescence for girls has been found to be thirteen years and nine months in New York and Chicago. The age varies for individuals from ten, or earlier, to seventeen. Virginia was not quite fourteen when Harry Edgar possessed her. He gave her lessons in algebra. Je m’imagine cela.[64 - Je m’imagine cela. – (фр.) Могу себе представить.] They spent their honeymoon at Petersburg, Fla. ‘Monsieur Poe-poe’, as that boy in one of Monsieur Humbert Humbert’s classes in Paris called the poet-poet.
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I have all the characteristics which, according to writers on the sex interests of children, start the responses stirring in a little girl: clean-cut jaw, muscular hand, deep sonorous voice, broad shoulder. Moreover, I am said to resemble some crooner or actor chap on whom Lo has a crush[65 - on whom Lo has a crush – которым бредит Ло].
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Tuesday. Rain. Lake of the Rains. Mamma out shopping. L., I knew, was somewhere quite near. In result of some stealthy manoeuvring, I came across her in her mother’s bedroom. Prying her left eye open to get rid of a speck of something. Checked frock. Although I do love that intoxicating brown fragrance of hers, I really think she should wash her hair once in a while. For a moment, we were both in the same warm green bath of the mirror that reflected the top of a poplar with us in the sky. Held her roughly by the shoulders, then tenderly by the temples, and turned her about. ‘It’s right there,’ she said, ‘I can feel it.’ ‘Swiss peasant would use the tip of her tongue.’ ‘Lick it out?’ ‘Yeth. Shly try?’ ‘Sure,’ she said. Gently I pressed my quivering sting along her rolling salty eyeball. ‘Goody-goody,’ she said nictating. ‘It is gone.’ ‘Now the other?’ ‘You dope,’ she began, ‘there is noth – ’ but here she noticed the pucker of my approaching lips. ‘Okay,’ she said co-operatively, and bending toward her warm upturned russet face sombre Humbert pressed his mouth to her fluttering eyelid. She laughed, and brushed past me out of the room. My heart seemed everywhere at once. Never in my life – not even when fondling my child-love in France – never —
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Night. Never have I experienced such agony. I would like to describe her face, her ways – and I cannot, because my own desire for her blinds me when she is near, I am not used to being with nymphets, damn it. If I close my eyes I see but an immobilized fraction of her, a cinematographic still, a sudden smooth nether loveliness, as with one knee up under her tartan skirt she sits tying her shoe. ‘Dolores Haze, ne montrez pas vos zhambes[66 - ne montrez pas vos zhambes – не демонстрируйте свои ноги (искаж. фр.)]’ (this is her mother who thinks she knows French).
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A poet à mes heures[67 - à mes heures– (фр.) когда мне этого хочется], I composed a madrigal[68 - madrigal – мадригал (небольшое лирическое стихотворение любовного содержания] to the soot-black lashes of her pale-grey vacant eyes, to the five asymmetrical freckles of her bobbed nose, to the blonde down of her brown limbs; but I tore it up and cannot recall it today. Only in the tritest of terms (diary resumed) can I describe Lo’s features: I might say her hair is auburn, and her lips as red as licked red candy, the lower one prettily plump – oh, that I were a lady writer who could have her pose naked in a naked light! But instead I am lanky, big-boned, woolly-chested Humbert Humbert, with thick black eyebrows and a queer accent, and a cesspoolful of rotting monsters behind his slow boyish smile. And neither is she the fragile child of a feminine novel. What drives me insane is the twofold nature of this nymphet – of every nymphet, perhaps; this mixture in my Lolita of tender dreamy childishness and a kind of eerie vulgarity, stemming from the snub-nosed cuteness of ads and magazine pictures, from the blurry pinkness of adolescent maidservants in the Old Country (smelling of crushed daisies and sweat); and from very young harlots disguised as children in provincial brothels; and then again, all this gets mixed up with the exquisite stainless tenderness seeping through the musk and the mud, through the dirt and the death, oh God, oh God. And what is most singular is that she, this Lolita, my Lolita, has individualized the writer’s ancient lust, so that above and over everything there is – Lolita.
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Wednesday. ‘Look, make Mother take you and me to Our Glass Lake tomorrow.’ These were the textual words said to me by my twelve-year-old flame in a voluptuous whisper, as we happened to bump into one another on the front porch, I out, she in. The reflection of the afternoon sun, a dazzling white diamond with innumerable iridescent spikes quivered on the round back of a parked car. The leafage of a voluminous elm played its mellow shadows upon the clapboard wall of the house. Two poplars shivered and shook. You could make out the formless sound of remote traffic; a child calling ‘Nancy, Nan-cy!’ In the house, Lolita had put on her favourite ‘Little Carmen’ record which I used to call ‘Dwarf Conductors’, making her snort with mock derision at my mock wit.
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Thursday. Last night we sat on the piazza, the Haze woman, Lolita and I. Warm dusk had deepened into amorous darkness. The old girl had finished relating in great detail the plot of a movie she and L. had seen sometime in the winter. The boxer had fallen extremely low when he met the good old priest (who had been a boxer himself in his robust youth and could still slug a sinner). We sat on cushions heaped on the floor, and L. was between the woman and me (she had squeezed herself in, the pet). In my turn, I launched upon a hilarious account of my arctic adventures. The muse of invention handed me a rifle and I shot a white bear who sat down and said: Ah! All the while I was acutely aware of L.’s nearness and as I spoke I gestured in the merciful dark and took advantage of those invisible gestures of mine to touch her hand, her shoulder and a ballerina of wool and gauze which she played with and kept sticking into my lap; and finally, when I had completely enmeshed my glowing darling in this weave of ethereal caresses, I dared stroke her bare leg along the gooseberry fuzz of her shin, and I chuckled at my own jokes, and trembled, and concealed my tremors, and once or twice felt with my rapid lips the warmth of her hair as I treated her to a quick nuzzling, humorous aside and caressed her plaything. She, too, fidgeted a good deal so that finally her mother told her sharply to quit it and sent the doll flying into the dark, and I laughed and addressed myself to Haze across Lo’s legs to let my hand creep up my nymphet’s thin back and feel her skin through her boy’s shirt.
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But I knew it was all hopeless, and was sick with longing, and my clothes felt miserably tight, and I was almost glad when her mother’s quiet voice announced in the dark: ‘And now we all think that Lo should go to bed.’ ‘I think you stink,’ said Lo. ‘Which means there will be no picnic tomorrow,’ said Haze. ‘This is a free country,’ said Lo. When angry Lo with a Bronx cheer[69 - Bronx cheer — звук тошного отвращения] had gone, I stayed on from sheer inertia, while Haze smoked her tenth cigarette of the evening and complained of Lo.
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She had been spiteful, if you please, at the age of one, when she used to throw her toys out of her crib so that her poor mother should keep picking them up, the villainous infant! Now, at twelve, she was a regular pest, said Haze. All she wanted from life was to be one day a strutting and prancing baton twirler or a jitterbug. Her grades were poor, but she was better adjusted in her new school than in Pisky (Pisky was the Haze home town in the Middle West. The Ramsdale house was her late mother-in-law’s. They had moved to Ramsdale less than two years ago). ‘Why was she unhappy there?’ ‘Oh,’ said Haze, ‘poor me should know, I went through that when was a kid: boys twisting one’s arm, banging into one with loads of books, pulling one’s hair, hurting one’s breasts, flipping one’s skirt. Of course, moodiness is a common concomitant of growing up, but Lo exaggerates. Sullen and evasive. Rude and defiant. Stuck Viola, an Italian schoolmate, in the seat with a fountain pen[70 - fountain pen – авторучка]. Know what I would like? If you, monsieur, happened to be still here in the fall, I’d ask you to help her with her homework – you seem to know everything, geography, mathematics, French.’ ‘Oh, everything,’ answered monsieur. ‘That means,’ said Haze quickly, ‘you’ll be here!’ I wanted to shout that I would stay on eternally if only I could hope to caress now and then my incipient pupil. But I was wary of Haze. So I just grunted and stretched my limbs non-concomitantly (le mot juste[71 - le mot juste – (фр.) точно сказано]) and presently went up to my room. The woman, however, was evidently not prepared to call it a day[72 - to call it a day – считать дело законченным]. I was already lying upon my cold bed, both hands pressing to my face Lolita’s fragrant ghost, when I heard my indefatigable landlady creeping steathily up to my door to whisper through it – just to make sure, she said, I was through with the Glance and Gulp magazine I had borrowed the other day. From her room Lo yelled she had it. We are quite a lending library in this house, thunder of God.
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Friday. I wonder what my academic publishers would say if I were to quote in my textbook Ronsard’s ‘la vermeillette fente[73 - la vermeillette fente– (фр.) маленькая аленькая щель]’ or Remy Belleau’s ‘un petit mont feutre de mousse delicate, trace sur le milieu d’un fillet escarlatte[74 - un petit mont feutre de mousse delicate, trace sur le milieu d’un fillet escarlatte– (фр.) тот холмик небольшой, мхом нежным опушенный, с пунцовой посреди чертою проведенной]’ and so forth. I shall probably have another breakdown if I stay any longer in this house, under the strain of this intolerable temptation, by the side of my darling – my darling – my life and my bride. Has she already been initiated by mother nature to the Mystery of the Menarche? Bloated feeling. The Curse of the Irish. Falling from the roof. Grandma is visiting. ‘Mr. Uterus [I quote from a girls’ magazine] starts to build a thick soft wall on the chance a possible baby may have to be bedded down there.’ The tiny madman in his padded cell.
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Incidentally: if I ever commit a serious murder… Mark the ‘if’. The urge should be something more than the kind of thing that happened to me with Valeria. Carefully mark that then I was rather inept. If and when you wish to sizzle me to death, remember that only a spell of insanity could ever give me the simple energy to be a brute (all this amended, perhaps). Sometimes I attempted to kill in my dreams. But do you know what happens? For instance I hold a gun. For instance I aim at a bland, quietly interested enemy. Oh, I press the trigger all right, but one bullet after another feebly drops on the floor from the sheepish muzzle. In those dreams, my only thought is to conceal the fiasco from my foe, who is slowly growing annoyed.
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At dinner tonight the old cat said to me with a sidelong gleam of motherly mockery directed at Lo (I had just been describing, in a flippant vein, the delightful little toothbrush moustache I had not quite decided to grow): ‘Better don’t, if somebody is not to go absolutely dotty.’ Instantly Lo pushed her plate of boiled fish away, all but knocking her milk over, and bounced out of the dining room. ‘Would it bore you very much,’ quoth Haze, ‘to come with us tomorrow for a swim in Our Glass Lake if Lo apologizes for her manners?’
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Later, I heard a great banging of doors and other sounds coming from quaking caverns where the two rivals were having a ripping row.
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She has not apologized. The lake is out. It might have been fun.
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Saturday. For some days already I had been leaving the door ajar, while I wrote in my room; but only today did the trap work. With a good deal of additional fidgeting, shuffling, scraping – to disguise her embarrassment at visiting me without having been called – Lo came in and after pottering around, became interested in the nightmare curlicues I had penned on a sheet of paper. Oh no: they were not the outcome of a bellelettrist’s inspired pause between two paragraphs; they were the hideous hieroglyphics (which she could not decipher) of my fatal lust. As she bent her brown curls over the desk at which I was sitting, Humbert the Hoarse put his arm around her in a miserable imitation of blood-relationship; and still studying, somewhat shortsightedly, the piece of paper she held, my innocent little visitor slowly sank to a half-sitting position upon my knee. Her adorable profile, parted lips, warm hair were some three inches from my bared eyetooth; and I felt the heat of her limbs through her rough tomboy clothes. All at once I knew I could kiss her throat or the wick of her mouth with perfect impunity. I knew she would let me do so, and even close her eyes as Hollywood teaches. A double vanilla with hot fudge – hardly more unusual than that. I cannot tell my learned reader (whose eyebrows, I suspect, have by now travelled all the way to the back of his bald head), I cannot tell him how the knowledge came to me; perhaps my ape-ear had unconsciously caught some slight change in the rhythm of her respiration – for now she was not really looking at my scribble, but waiting with curiosity and composure – oh, my limpid nymphet! – for the glamorous lodger to do what he was dying to do. A modern child, an avid reader of movie magazines, an expert in dream-slow close-ups, might not think it too strange, I guessed, if a handsome, intensely virile grownup friend – too late. The house was suddenly vibrating with voluble Louise’s voice telling Mrs. Haze who had just come home about a dead something she and Leslie Tomson had found in the basement, and little Lolita was not one to miss such a tale.
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Sunday. Changeful, bad-tempered, cheerful, awkward, graceful with the tart grace of her coltish subteens, excruciatingly desirable from head to foot (all New England for a lady-writer’s pen!), from the black ready-made bow and bobby pins holding her hair in place to the little scar on the lower part of her neat calf (where a roller-skater kicked her in Pisky), a couple of inches above her rough white sock. Gone with her mother to the Hamiltons – a birthday party or something. Full-skirted gingham frock. Her little doves seem well formed already. Precocious pet!
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Monday. Rainy morning. ‘Ces matins gris si doux…[75 - Ces matins gris si doux…– (фр.) Эти сладостные серые утра…]’ My white pyjamas have a lilac design on the back. I am like one of those inflated pale spiders you see in old gardens. Sitting in the middle of a luminous web and giving little jerks to this or that strand. My web is spread all over the house as I listen from my chair where I sit like a wily wizard. Is Lo in her room? Gently I tug on the silk. She is not. Just heard the toilet paper cylinder make its staccato sound as it is turned; and no footfalls has my outflung filament traced from the bathroom back to her room. Is she still brushing her teeth (the only sanitary act Lo performs with real zest)? No. The bathroom door has just slammed, so one has to feel elsewhere about the house for the beautiful warm-coloured prey. Let us have a strand of silk descend the stairs. I satisfy myself by this means that she is not in the kitchen – not banging the refrigerator door or screeching at her detested mamma (who, I suppose, is enjoying her third, cooing and subduedly mirthful, telephone conversation of the morning). Well, let us grope and hope. Ray-like, I glide in thought to the parlour and find the radio silent (and mamma still talking to Mrs. Chatfield or Mrs. Hamilton, very softly, flushed, smiling, cupping the telephone with her free hand, denying by implication that she denies those amusing rumours, rumour, roomer, whispering intimately, as she never does, the clear-cut lady, in face to face talk). So my nymphet is not in the house at all! Gone! What I thought was a prismatic weave turns out to be but an old grey cobweb, the house is empty, is dead. And then comes Lolita’s soft sweet chuckle through my half-open door, ‘Don’t tell Mother but I’ve eaten all your bacon.’ Gone when I scuttle out of my room. Lolita, where are you? My breakfast tray, lovingly prepared by my landlady, leers at me toothlessly, ready to be taken in. Lola, Lolita!
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Tuesday. Clouds again interfered with that picnic on that unattainable lake. Is it Fate scheming. Yesterday I tried on before the mirror a new pair of bathing trunks.
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Wednesday. In the afternoon, Haze (common-sensical shoes, tailor-made dress), said she was driving downtown to buy a present for a friend of a friend of hers, and would I please come too because I have such a wonderful taste in textures and perfumes. ‘Choose your favourite seduction,’ she purred. What could Humbert, being in the perfume business, do? She had me cornered between the front porch and her car. ‘Hurry up,’ she said as I laboriously doubled up my large body in order to crawl in (still desperately devising a means of escape). She had started the engine, and was genteelly swearing at a backing and turning truck in front that had just brought old invalid Miss Opposite a brand new wheel chair, when my Lolita’s sharp voice came from the parlour window: ‘You! Where are you going? I’m coming too! Wait!’ ‘Ignore her,’ yelped Haze (killing the motor); alas for my fair driver; Lo was already pulling at the door on my side. ‘This is intolerable,’ began Haze; but Lo had scrambled in, shivering with glee. ‘Move your bottom, you,’ said Lo. ‘Lo!’ cried Haze (sideglancing at me, hoping I would throw rude Lo out). ‘And behold,’ said Lo (not for the first time), as she jerked back, as the car leapt forward. ‘It is intolerable,’ said Haze, violently getting into second, ‘that a child should be so ill-mannered. And so very persevering. When she knows she is unwanted. And needs a bath.’
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My knuckles lay against the child’s blue jeans. She was barefooted; her toenails showed remnants of cherry-red polish and there was a bit of adhesive tape across her big toe; and, God, what would I not have given to kiss then and there those delicate-boned, long-toed, monkeyish feet! Suddenly her hand slipped into mine and without our chaperon’s seeing, I held, and stroked, and squeezed that little hot paw, all the way to the store. The wings of the driver’s Marlenesque[76 - Marlenesque – подобный Марлен (Дитрих)] nose shone, having shed or burned up their ration of powder, and she kept up an elegant monologue about the local traffic, and smiled in profile, and pouted in profile, and beat her painted lashes in profile, while I prayed we would never get to that store, but we did.
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I have nothing else to report, save, primo[77 - primo– (лат.) во-первых]: that big Haze had little Haze sit behind on our way home, and secundo[78 - secundo– (лат.) во-вторых]: that the lady decided to keep Humbert’s Choice for the backs of her own shapely ears.
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Thursday. We are paying with hail and gale for the tropical beginning of the month. In a volume of the Young People’s Encyclopaedia, I found a map of the States that a child’s pencil had started copying out on a sheet of lightweight paper, upon the other side of which, counter to the unfinished outline of Florida and the Gulf, there was a mimeographed list of names referring, evidently, to her class at the Ramsdale school. It is a poem I know already by heart.
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A poem, a poem, forsooth! So strange and sweet was it to discover this ‘Haze, Dolores’ (she!) in its special bower of names, with its bodyguard of roses – a fairy princess between her two maids of honour. I am trying to analyse the spine-thrill of delight it gives me, this name among all those others. What is it that excites me almost to tears (hot, opalescent, thick tears that poets and lovers shed)? What is it? The tender anonymity of this name with its formal veil (‘Dolores’) and that abstract transposition of first name and surname, which is like a pair of new pale gloves or a mask? Is ‘mask’ the keyword? Is it because there is always delight in the semi-translucent mystery, the flowing charshaf, through which the flesh and the eye you alone are elected to know smile in passing at you alone? Or is it because I can imagine so well the rest of the colourful classroom around my dolorous and hazy darling: Grace and her ripe pimples; Ginny and her lagging leg; Gordon, the haggard masturbator; Duncan, the foul-smelling clown; nail-biting Agnes; Viola, of the blackheads and the bouncing bust; pretty Rosaline; dark Mary Rose; adorable Stella, who has let strangers touch her; Ralph, who bullies and steals; Irving, for whom I am sorry. And there she is there, lost in the middle, gnawing a pencil, detested by teachers, all the boys’ eyes on her hair and neck, my Lolita.
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Friday. I long for some terrific disaster. Earthquake. Spectacular explosion. Her mother is messily but instantly and permanently eliminated, along with everybody else for miles around. Lolita whimpers in my arms. A free man, I enjoy her among the ruins. Her surprise, my explanations, demonstrations, ullulations. Idle and idiotic fancies! A brave Humbert would have played with her most disgustingly (yesterday, for instance, when she was again in my room to show me her drawings, school-artware); he might have bribed her – and got away with it. A simpler and more practical fellow would have soberly stuck to various commercial substitutes – if you know where to go, I don’t. Despite my manly looks, I am horribly timid. My romantic soul gets all clammy and shivery at the thought of running into some awful indecent unpleasantness. Those ribald sea monsters. ‘Mais allez-y, allez-y![79 - Mais allez-y, allez-y!– (фр.) Ну же, смелей!]’ Annabel skipping on one foot to get into her shorts, I seasick with rage, trying to screen her.
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Same date, later, quite late. I have turned on the light to take down a dream. It had an evident antecedent. Haze at dinner had benevolently proclaimed that since the weather bureau promised a sunny weekend we would go to the lake Sunday after church. As I lay in bed, erotically musing before trying to go to sleep, I thought of a final scheme how to profit by the picnic to come. I was aware that mother Haze hated my darling for her being sweet on me. So I planned my lake day with a view to satisfying the mother. To her alone would I talk; but at some appropriate moment I would say I had left my wrist watch or my sunglasses in that glade yonder – and plunge with my nymphet into the wood. Reality at this juncture withdrew, and the Quest for the Glasses turned into a quiet little orgy with a singularly knowing, cheerful, corrupt and compliant Lolita behaving as reason knew she could not possibly behave. At 3 a.m. I swallowed a sleeping pill, and presently, a dream that was not a sequel but a parody revealed to me, with a kind of meaningful clarity, the lake I had never yet visited: it was glazed over with a sheet of emerald ice, and a pockmarked Eskimo was trying in vain to break it with a pickaxe, although imported mimosas and oleanders flowered on its gravelly banks. I am sure Dr. Blanche Schwarzmann would have paid me a sack of schillings for adding such a libidream to her files. Unfortunately, the rest of it was frankly eclectic. Big Haze and little Haze rode on horseback around the lake, and I rode too, dutifully bobbing up and down, bowlegs astraddle although there was no horse between them, only elastic air – one of those little omissions due to the absent-mindedness of the dream agent.
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Saturday. My heart is still thumping. I still squirm and emit low moans of remembered embarrassment.
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Dorsal view. Glimpse of shiny skin between T-shirt and white gym shorts. Bending, over a window sill, in the act of tearing off leaves from a poplar outside while engrossed in torrential talk with a newspaper boy below (Kenneth Knight, I suspect) who had just propelled the Ramsdale Journal with a very precise thud on to the porch. I began creeping up to her – ‘crippling’ up to her, as pantomimists say. My arms and legs were convex surfaces between which – rather than upon which – I slowly progressed by some neutral means of locomotion: Humbert the Wounded Spider. I must have taken hours to reach her: I seemed to see her through the wrong end of a telescope, and toward her taut little rear I moved like some paralytic, on soft distorted limbs, in terrible concentration. At last I was right behind her when I had the unfortunate idea of blustering a trifle – shaking her by the scruff of the neck and that sort of thing to cover my real manège[80 - manège– (фр.) уловка, хитрость], and she said in a shrill brief whine: ‘Cut it out!’ – most coarsely, the little wench, and with a ghastly grin Humbert the Humble beat a gloomy retreat while she went on wisecracking streetward.
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But now listen to what happened next. After lunch I was reclining in a low chair trying to read. Suddenly two deft little hands were over my eyes: she had crept up behind as if re-enacting, in a ballet sequence, my morning manoeuvre. Her fingers were a luminous crimson as they tried to blot out the sun, and she uttered hiccups of laughter and jerked this way and that as I stretched my arm sideways and backwards without otherwise changing my recumbent position. My hand swept over her agile giggling legs, and the book like a sleigh left my lap, and Mrs. Haze strolled up and said indulgently: ‘Just slap her hard if she interferes with your scholarly meditations. How I love this garden [no exclamation mark in her tone]. Isn’t it divine in the sun [no question mark either].’ And with a sigh of feigned content, the obnoxious lady sank down on the grass and looked up at the sky as she leaned back on her splayed-out hands, and presently an old grey tennis ball bounced over her, and L.’s voice came from the house haughtily: ‘Pardonnez[81 - pardonnez – (фр.) извините], Mother. I was not aiming at you.’ Of course not, my hot downy darling.
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12
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This proved to be the last of twenty entries or so. It will be seen from them that for all the devil’s inventiveness, the scheme remained daily the same. First he would tempt me – and then thwart me, leaving me with a dull pain in the very root of my being. I knew exactly what I wanted to do, and how to do it, without impinging on a child’s chastity; after all, I had had some experience in my life of pederosis; had visually possessed dappled nymphets in parks; had wedged my wary and bestial way into the hottest, most crowded corner of a city bus full of strap-hanging schoolchildren. But for almost three weeks I had been interrupted in all my pathetic machinations. The agent of these interruptions was usually the Haze woman (who, as the reader will mark, was more afraid of Lo’s deriving some pleasure from me than of my enjoying Lo). The passion I had developed for that nymphet – for the first nymphet in my life that could be reached at last by my awkward, aching, timid claws – would have certainly landed me again in a sanatorium, had not the devil realized that I was to be granted some relief if he wanted to have me as a plaything for some time longer.
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The reader has also marked the curious Mirage of the Lake. It would have been logical on the part of Aubrey McFate (as I would like to dub that devil of mine) to arrange a small treat for me on the promised beach, in the presumed forest. Actually, the promise Mrs. Haze had made was a fraudulent one: she had not told me that Mary Rose Hamilton (a dark little beauty in her own right) was to come too, and that the two nymphets would be whispering apart, and playing apart, and having a good time all by themselves, while Mrs. Haze and her handsome lodger conversed sedately in the semi-nude, far from prying eyes. Incidentally, eyes did pry and tongues did wag. How queer life is! We hasten to alienate the very fates we intended to woo. Before my actual arrival, my landlady had planned to have an old spinster, a Miss Phalen, whose mother had been cook in Mrs. Haze’s family, come to stay in the house with Lolita and me, while Mrs. Haze, a career girl at heart, sought some suitable job in the nearest city. Mrs. Haze had seen the whole situation very clearly: the bespectacled, round-backed Herr Humbert coming with his Central-European trunks to gather dust in his corner behind a heap of old books; the unloved ugly little daughter firmly supervised by Miss Phalen who had already once had my Lo under her buzzard wing (Lo recalled that 1944 summer with an indignant shudder); and Mrs. Haze herself engaged as a receptionist in a great elegant city. But a not too complicated event interfered with that programme. Miss Phalen broke her hip in Savannah, Ga., on the very day I arrived in Ramsdale.
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13
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The Sunday after the Saturday already described proved to be as bright as the weatherman had predicted. When putting the breakfast things back on the chair outside my room for my good landlady to remove at her convenience, I gleaned the following situation by listening from the landing across which I had softly crept to the banisters in my old bedroom slippers – the only old things about me.
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There had been another row. Mrs. Hamilton had telephoned that her daughter ‘was running a temperature’. Mrs. Haze informed her daughter that the picnic would have to be postponed. Hot little Haze informed big cold Haze that, if so, she would not go with her to church. Mother said ‘very well’ and left.
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I had come out on the landing straight after shaving, soapy-earlobed, still in my white pyjamas with the cornflower blue (not the lilac) design on the back; I now wiped off the soap, perfumed my hair and armpits, slipped on a purple silk dressing gown, and, humming nervously, went down the stairs in quest of Lo.
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I want my learned readers to participate in the scene I am about to replay; I want them to examine its every detail and see for themselves how careful, how chaste, the whole wine-sweet event is if viewed with what my lawyer has called, in a private talk we have had, ‘impartial sympathy’. So let us get started. I have a difficult job before me.
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Main character: Humbert the Hummer. Time: Sunday morning in June. Place: sunlit living room. Props: old, candy-striped davenport, magazines, phonograph, Mexican knick-knacks (the late Mr. Harold E. Haze – God bless the good man – had engendered my darling at the siesta hour in a blue-washed room, on a honeymoon trip to Vera Cruz, and mementoes, among these Dolores, were all over the place). She wore that day a pretty print dress that I had seen on her once before, ample in the skirt, tight in the bodice, short-sleeved, pink, checkered with darker pink, and, to complete the colour scheme, she had painted her lips and was holding in her hollowed hands a beautiful, banal, Eden-red apple. She was not shod, however, for church. And her white Sunday purse lay discarded near the phonograph.
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My heart beat like a drum as she sat down, cool skirt ballooning, subsiding, on the sofa next to me, and played with her glossy fruit. She tossed it up into the sun-dusted air, and caught it – it made a cupped polished plop.
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Humbert Humbert intercepted the apple.
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‘Give it back,’ she pleaded, showing the marbled flush of her palms. I produced Delicious. She grasped it and bit into it, and my heart was like snow under thin crimson skin, and with the monkeyish nimbleness that was so typical of that American nymphet, she snatched out of my abstract grip the magazine I had opened (pity no film has recorded the curious pattern, the monogrammic linkage of our simultaneous or overlapping moves). Rapidly, hardly hampered by the disfigured apple she held, Lo flipped violently through the pages in search of something she wished Humbert to see. Found it at last. I faked interest by bringing my head so close that her hair touched my temple and her arm brushed my cheek as she wiped her lips with her wrist. Because of the burnished mist through which I peered at the picture, I was slow in reacting to it, and her bare knees rubbed and knocked impatiently against each other. Dimly there came into view: a surrealist painter relaxing, supine, on a beach, and near him, likewise supine, a plaster replica of the Venus di Milo, half-buried in sand. Picture of the Week, said the legend. I whisked the whole obscene thing away. Next moment, in a sham effort to retrieve it, she was all over me. Caught her by her thin knobby wrist. The magazine escaped to the floor like a flustered fowl. She twisted herself free, recoiled, and lay back in the right-hand corner of the davenport. Then, with perfect simplicity, the impudent child extended her legs across my lap.
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By this time I was in a state of excitement bordering on insanity; but I also had the cunning of the insane. Sitting there, on the sofa, I managed to attune, by a series of stealthy movements, my masked lust to her guileless limbs. It was no easy matter to divert the little maiden’s attention while I performed the obscure adjustments necessary for the success of the trick. Talking fast, lagging behind my own breath, catching up with it, mimicking a sudden toothache to explain the breaks in my patter – and all the while keeping a maniac’s inner eye on my distant golden goal, I cautiously increased the magic friction that was doing away, in an illusional, if not factual, sense, with the physically irremovable, but psychologically very friable texture of the material divide (pyjamas and robe) between the weight of two sunburnt legs, resting athwart my lap, and the hidden tumour of an unspeakable passion. Having, in the course of my patter, hit upon something nicely mechanical, I recited, garbling them slightly, the words of a foolish song that was then popular – O my Carmen, my little Carmen, something, something, those something nights, and the stars, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen; I kept repeating this automatic stuff and holding her under its spell (special because of the garbling), and all the while I was mortally afraid that some act of God might interrupt me, might remove the golden load in the sensation of which all my being seemed concentrated, and this anxiety forced me to work, for the first minute or so, more hastily than was consensual with deliberately modulated enjoyment. The stars that sparkled, and the cars that parkled, and the bars, and the barmen, were presently taken over by her; her voice stole and corrected the tune I had been mutilating. She was musical and apple-sweet. Her legs twitched a little as they lay across my live lap; I stroked them; there she lolled in the right-hand corner, almost asprawl, Lola the bobby-soxer, devouring her immemorial fruit, singing through its juice, losing her slipper, rubbing the heel of her slipperless foot in its sloppy anklet, against the pile of old magazines heaped on my left on the sofa – and every movement she made, every shuffle and ripple, helped me to conceal and to improve the secret system of tactile correspondence between beast and beauty – between my gagged, bursting beast and the beauty of her dimpled body in its innocent cotton frock.
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Under my glancing fingertips I felt the minute hairs bristle ever so slightly along her shins. I lost myself in the pungent but healthy heat which like summer haze hung about little Haze. Let her stay, let her stay… As she strained to chuck the core of her abolished apple into the fender, her young weight, her shameless innocent shanks and round bottom, shifted in my tense, tortured, surreptitiously labouring lap; and all of a sudden a mysterious change came over my senses. I entered a plane of being where nothing mattered, save the infusion of joy brewed within my body. What had begun as a delicious distension of my innermost roots became a glowing tingle which now had reached that state of absolute security, confidence and reliance not found elsewhere in conscious life. With the deep hot sweetness thus established and well on its way to the ultimate convulsion, I felt I could slow down in order to prolong the glow. Lolita had been safely solipsized. The implied sun pulsated in the supplied poplars; we were fantastically and divinely alone; I watched her, rosy, gold-dusted, beyond the veil of my controlled delight, unaware of it, alien to it, and the sun was on her lips, and her lips were apparently still forming the words of the Carmen-barmen ditty that no longer reached my consciousness. Everything was now ready. The nerves of pleasure had been laid bare. The corpuscles of Krauze were entering the phase of frenzy. The least pressure would suffice to set all paradise loose. I had ceased to be Humbert the Hound, the sad-eyed degenerate cur clasping the boot that would presently kick him away. I was above the tribulations of ridicule, beyond the possibilities of retribution. In my self-made seraglio, I was a radiant and robust Turk, deliberately, in the full consciousness of his freedom, postponing the moment of actually enjoying the youngest and frailest of his slaves. Suspended on the brink of that voluptuous abyss (a nicety of physiological equipoise comparable to certain techniques in the arts) I kept repeating chance words after her – barmen, alarmin’, my charmin’, my carmen, ahmen, ahahamen – as one talking and laughing in his sleep while my happy hand crept up her sunny leg as far as the shadow of decency allowed. The day before she had collided with the heavy chest in the hall and – ‘Look, look!’ – I gasped – ‘look what you’ve done, what you’ve done to yourself, ah, look’; for there was, I swear, a yellowish-violet bruise on her lovely nymphet thigh which my huge hairy hand massaged and slowly enveloped – and because of her very perfunctory underthings, there seemed to be nothing to prevent my muscular thumb from reaching the hot hollow of her groin – just as you might tickle and caress a giggling child – just that – and: ‘Oh, it’s nothing at all,’ she cried with a sudden shrill note in her voice, and she wriggled, and squirmed, and threw her head back, and her teeth rested on her glistening underlip as she half-turned away, and my moaning mouth, gentlemen of the jury, almost reached her bare neck, while I crushed out against her left buttock the last throb of the longest ecstasy man or monster had ever known.
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Immediately afterward (as if we had been struggling and now my grip had eased) she rolled off the sofa and jumped to her feet – to her foot, rather – in order to attend to the formidably loud telephone that may have been ringing for ages as far as I was concerned. There she stood and blinked, cheeks aflame, hair awry, her eyes passing over me as lightly as they did over the furniture, and as she listened or spoke (to her mother who was telling her to come to lunch with her at the Chatfields – neither Lo nor Hum knew yet what busybody Haze was plotting), she kept tapping the edge of the table with the slipper she held in her hand. Blessed be the Lord, she had noticed nothing!
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With a handkerchief of multicoloured silk, on which her listening eyes rested in passing, I wiped the sweat off my forehead, and, immersed in an euphoria of release, rearranged my royal robes. She was still at the telephone, haggling with her mother (wanted to be fetched by car, my little Carmen) when, singing louder and louder, I swept up the stairs and set a deluge of steaming water roaring into the tub.
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At this point I may as well give the words of that song-hit in full – to the best of my recollection at least – I don’t think I ever had it right. Here goes.
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O my Carmen, my little Carmen!
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Something, something those something nights,
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And the stars, and the cars, and the bars, and the barmen —
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And, O my charmin’, our dreadful fights.
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And the something town where so gaily, arm in
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Arm, we went, and our final row,
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And the gun I killed you with, O my Carmen,
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The gun I am holding now.
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(Drew his .32 automatic, I guess, and put a bullet through his moll’s eye.)
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14
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I had lunch in town – had not been so hungry for years. The house was still Lo-less when I strolled back. I spent the afternoon musing, scheming, blissfully digesting my experience of the morning.
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I felt proud of myself. I had stolen the honey of a spasm without impairing the morals of a minor. Absolutely no harm done. The conjurer had poured milk, molasses, foaming champagne into a young lady’s new white purse; and lo, the purse was intact. Thus had I delicately constructed my ignoble, ardent, sinful dream; and still Lolita was safe – and I was safe. What I had madly possessed was not she, but my own creation, another, fanciful Lolita – perhaps, more real than Lolita; overlapping, encasing her; floating between me and her, and having no will, no consciousness – indeed, no life of her own.
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The child knew nothing. I had done nothing to her. And nothing prevented me from repeating a performance that affected her as little as if she were a photographic image rippling upon a screen and I a humble hunchback abusing myself in the dark. The afternoon drifted on and on, in ripe silence, and the sappy tall trees seemed to be in the know; and desire, even stronger than before, began to afflict me again. Let her come soon, I prayed, addressing a lone God, and while mamma is in the kitchen, let a repetition of the davenport scene be staged, please, I adore her so horribly.
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No: ‘horribly’ is the wrong word. The elation with which the vision of new delights filled me was not horrible but pathetic. I qualify it as pathetic. Pathetic – because despite the insatiable fire of my venereal appetite, I intended, with the most fervent force and foresight, to protect the purity of that twelve-year-old child.
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And now see how I was repaid for my pains. No Lolita came home – she had gone with the Chatfields to a movie. The table was laid with more elegance than usual: candlelight, if you please. In this mawkish aura, Mrs. Haze gently touched the silver on both sides of her plate as if touching piano keys, and smiled down on her empty plate (was on a diet), and said she hoped I liked the salad (recipe lifted from a woman’s magazine). She hoped I liked the cold cuts, too. It had been a perfect day. Mrs. Chatfield was a lovely person. Phyllis, her daughter, was going to a summer camp tomorrow. For three weeks. Lolita, it was decided, would go Thursday. Instead of waiting till July, as had been initially planned. And stay there after Phyllis had left. Till school began. A pretty prospect, my heart.
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Oh, how I was taken aback – for did it not mean I was losing my darling, just when I had secretly made her mine? To explain my grim mood, I had to use the same toothache I had already simulated in the morning. Must have been an enormous molar, with an abscess as big as a maraschino cherry.
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‘We have,’ said Haze, ‘an excellent dentist. Our neighbour, in fact. Dr. Quilty. Uncle or cousin, I think, of the playwright. Think it will pass? Well, just as you wish. In the fall I shall have him “brace” her[82 - I shall have him “brace” her– (авт.) ей будет посажена на передние зубы "цепка"], as my mother used to say. It may curb Lo a little. I am afraid she has been bothering you frightfully all these days. And we are in for a couple of stormy ones before she goes. She has flatly refused to go, and I confess I left her with the Chatfields because I dreaded to face her alone just yet. The movie may mollify her. Phyllis is a very sweet girl, and there is no earthly reason for Lo to dislike her. Really, monsieur, I am very sorry about that tooth of yours. It would be so much more reasonable to let me contact Ivor Quilty first thing tomorrow morning if it still hurts. And, you know, I think a summer camp is so much healthier, and – well, it is all so much more reasonable as I say than to mope on a suburban lawn and use mamma’s lipstick, and pursue shy studious gentlemen, and go into tantrums at the least provocation.’
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‘Are you sure,’ I said at last, ‘that she will be happy there?’ (lame, lamentably lame!).
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‘She’d better,’ said Haze. ‘And it won’t be all play either. The camp is run by Shirley Holmes – you know, the woman who wrote Campfire Girl. Camp will teach Dolores Haze to grow in many things – health, knowledge, temper. And particularly in a sense of responsibility toward other people. Shall we take these candles with us and sit for a while on the piazza, or do you want to go to bed and nurse that tooth?’
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Nurse that tooth.
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15
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Next day they drove downtown to buy things needed for the camp: any wearable purchase worked wonders with Lo. She seemed her usual sarcastic self at dinner. Immediately afterwards, she went up to her room to plunge into the comic books acquired for rainy days at Camp Q. (they were so thoroughly sampled by Thursday that she left them behind). I too retired to my lair, and wrote letters. My plan now was to leave for the seaside and then, when school began, resume my existence in the Haze household; for I knew already that I could not live without the child. On Tuesday they went shopping again, and I was asked to answer the phone if the camp mistress rang up during their absence. She did; and a month or so later we had occasion to recall our pleasant chat. That Tuesday, Lo had her dinner in her room. She had been crying after a routine row with her mother and, as had happened on former occasions, had not wished me to see her swollen eyes: she had one of those tender complexions that after a good cry get all blurred and inflamed, and morbidly alluring. I regretted keenly her mistake about my private aesthetics, for I simply love that tinge of Botticellian pink, that raw rose about the lips, those wet, matted eyelashes; and, naturally, her bashful whim deprived me of many opportunities of specious consolation. There was, however, more to it than I thought. As we sat in the darkness of the veranda (a rude wind had put out her red candles), Haze, with a dreary laugh, said she had told Lo that her beloved Humbert thoroughly approved of the whole camp idea ‘and now’, added Haze, ‘the child throws a fit[83 - throws a fit – закатывает скандал]; pretext: you and I want to get rid of her; actual reason: I told her we would exchange tomorrow for plainer stuff some much too cute night things that she bullied me into buying for her. You see, she sees herself as a starlet; I see her as a sturdy, healthy, but decidedly homely kid. This, I guess, is at the root of our troubles.’
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On Wednesday I managed to waylay Lo for a few seconds: she was on the landing, in sweatshirt and green-stained white shorts, rummaging in a trunk. I said something meant to be friendly and funny but she only emitted a snort without looking at me. Desperate, dying Humbert patted her clumsily on her coccyx, and she struck him, quite painfully, with one of the late Mr. Haze’s shoetrees. ‘Doublecrosser’, she said as I crawled downstairs rubbing my arm with a great show of rue. She did not condescend to have dinner with Hum and mum: washed her hair and went to bed with her ridiculous books. And on Thursday quiet Mrs. Haze drove her to Camp Q.
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As greater authors than I have put it: ‘Let readers imagine’, etc. On second thought, I may as well give those imaginations a kick in the pants. I knew I had fallen in love with Lolita for ever; but I also knew she would not be for ever Lolita. She would be thirteen on January 1. In two years or so she would cease being a nymphet and would turn into a ‘young girl’, and then, into a ‘college girl’ – that horror of horrors. The words ‘for ever’ referred only to my own passion, to the eternal Lolita as reflected in my blood. The Lolita whose iliac crests had not yet flared, the Lolita that today I could touch and smell and hear and see, the Lolita of the strident voice and the rich brown hair – of the bangs and the swirls at the sides and the curls at the back, and the sticky hot neck, and the vulgar vocabulary – ‘revolting’, ‘super’, ‘luscious’, ‘goon’, ‘drip’ – that Lolita, my Lolita, poor Catullus[84 - Catullus – Катулл (древнеримский поэт-лирик; ок. 87—54 д. н. э.)] would lose for ever. So how could I afford not to see her for two months of summer insomnias? Two whole months out of the two years of her remaining nymphage! Should I disguise myself as a sombre old-fashioned girl, gawky Mlle Humbert, and put up my tent on the outskirts of Camp Q. in the hope that its russet nymphets would clamour: ‘Let us adopt that deep-voiced D.P.[85 - D.P. (Displaced Person) – беженка]’, and drag the sad, shyly smiling Berthe au Grand Pied[86 - Berthe au Grand Pied – (фр.) Берта Большая Нога (мать Карла Великого)] to their rustic hearth. Berthe will sleep with Dolores Haze!
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Idle dry dreams. Two months of beauty, two months of tenderness, would be squandered for ever, and I could do nothing about it, but nothing, mais rien[87 - mais rien – (фр.) совсем ничего].
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One drop of rare honey, however, that Thursday did hold in its acorn cup. Haze was to drive her to the camp in the early morning. Upon sundry sounds of departure reaching me, I rolled out of bed and leaned out of the window. Under the poplars, the car was already athrob. On the sidewalk, Louise stood shading her eyes with her hand, as if the little traveller were already riding into the low morning sun. The gesture proved to be premature. ‘Hurry up!’ shouted Haze. My Lolita, who was half in and about to slam the car door, wind down the glass, wave to Louise and the poplars (whom and which she was never to see again), interrupted the motion of fate: she looked up – and dashed back into the house (Haze furiously calling after her). A moment later I heard my sweetheart running up the stairs. My heart expanded with such force that it almost blotted me out. I hitched up the pants of my pyjamas, flung the door open: and simultaneously Lolita arrived, in her Sunday frock, stamping, panting, and then she was in my arms, her innocent mouth melting under the ferocious pressure of dark male jaws, my palpitating darling! The next instant I heard her – alive, unraped – clatter downstairs. The motion of fate was resumed. The blonde leg was pulled in, the car door was slammed – was re-slammed – and driver Haze at the violent wheel, rubber-red lips writhing in angry, inaudible speech, swung my darling away, while unnoticed by them or Louise, old Miss Opposite, an invalid, feebly but rhythmically waved from her vined veranda.
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16
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The hollow of my hand was still ivory-full of Lolita – full of the feel of her pre-adolescently incurved back, that ivory-smooth, sliding sensation of her skin through the thin frock that I had worked up and down while I held her. I marched into her tumbled room, threw open the door of the closet and plunged into a heap of crumpled things that had touched her. There was particularly one pink texture, sleazy, torn, with a faintly acrid odour in the seam. I wrapped in it Humbert’s huge engorged heart. A poignant chaos was welling within me – but I had to drop those things and hurriedly regain my composure, as I became aware of the maid’s velvety voice calling me softly from the stairs. She had a message for me, she said; and, topping my automatic thanks with a kindly ‘you’re welcome’, good Louise left an unstamped, curiously clean-looking letter in my shaking hand.
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This is a confession: I love you [so the letter began; and for a distorted moment I mistook its hysterical scrawl for a schoolgirl’s scribble]. Last Sunday in church – bad you, who refused to come to see our beautiful new windows! – only last Sunday, my dear one, when I asked the Lord what to do about it, I was told to act as I am acting now. You see, there is no alternative. I have loved you from the minute I saw you. I am a passionate and lonely woman and you are the love of my life.
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Now, my dearest, dearest, mon cher, cher monsieur[88 - mon cher, cher monsieur – (искаж. фр.) Мой дорогой, дорогой господин], you have read this; now you know. So, will you please, at once, pack and leave. This is a landlady’s order. I am dismissing a lodger. I am kicking you out. Go! Scram! Departez![89 - Departez! – (искаж. фр.) Уезжайте!] I shall be back by dinnertime, if I do eighty both ways and don’t have an accident (but what would it matter?), and I do not wish to find you in the house. Please, please, leave at once, now, do not even read this absurd note to the end. Go. Adieu.[90 - Adieu. – (фр.) Прощайте.]
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The situation, chéri[91 - chéri – (фр.) милый], is quite simple. Of course, I know with absolute certainty that I am nothing to you, nothing at all. Oh yes, you enjoy talking to me (and kidding poor me), you have grown fond of our friendly house, of the books I like, of my lovely garden, even of Lo’s noisy ways – but I am nothing to you. Right? Right. Nothing to you whatever. But if, after reading my ‘confession’, you decided, in your dark romantic European way, that I am attractive enough for you to take advantage of my letter and make a pass at me[92 - make a pass at me – завязать со мной интрижку], then you would be a criminal – worse than a kidnapper who rapes a child. You see, chéri. If you decided to stay, if I found you at home (which I know I won’t – and that’s why I am able to go on like this), the fact of your remaining would only mean one thing: that you want me as much as I do you: as a lifelong mate; and that you are ready to link up your life with mine for ever and ever and be a father to my little girl.
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Let me rave and ramble on for a teeny while more, my dearest, since I know this letter has been by now torn by you, and its pieces (illegible) in the vortex of the toilet. My dearest, mon très, très cher[93 - mon très, très cher – (фр.) мой самый, самый дорогой], what a world of love I have built up for you during this miraculous June! I know how reserved you are, how ‘British’. Your old-world reticence, your sense of decorum may be shocked by the boldness of an American girl! You who conceal your strongest feelings must think me a shameless little idiot for throwing open my poor bruised heart like this. In years gone by, many disappointments came my way. Mr. Haze was a splendid person, a sterling soul, but he happened to be twenty years my senior, and – well, let us not gossip about the past. My dearest, your curiosity must be well satisfied if you have ignored my request and read this letter to the bitter end. Never mind. Destroy it and go. Do not forget to leave the key on the desk in your room. And some scrap of address so that I could refund the twelve dollars I owe you till the end of the month. Goodbye, dear one. Pray for me – if you ever pray.
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c. h.
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What I present here is what I remember of the letter, and what I remember of the letter I remember verbatim (including that awful French). It was at least twice longer. I have left out a lyrical passage which I more or less skipped at the time, concerning Lolita’s brother who died at two when she was four, and how much I would have liked him. Let me see what else can I say? Yes. There is just a chance that ‘the vortex of the toilet’ (where the letter did go) is my own matter-of-fact contribution. She probably begged me to make a special fire to consume it. My first movement was one of repulsion and retreat. My second was like a friend’s calm hand falling upon my shoulder and bidding me take my time. I did. I came out of my daze and found myself still in Lo’s room. A full-page ad ripped out of a slick magazine was affixed to the wall above the bed, between a crooner’s mug and the lashes of a movie actress. It represented a dark-haired young husband with a kind of drained look in his Irish eyes. He was modelling a robe by So-and-So and holding a bridge-like tray by So-and-So, with breakfast for two. The legend, by the Rev. Thomas Morell, called him a ‘conquering hero’. The thoroughly conquered lady (not shown) was presumably propping herself up to receive her half of the tray. How her bedfellow was to get under the bridge without some messy mishap was not clear. Lo had drawn a jocose arrow to the haggard lover’s face and had put, in block letters: H. H. And indeed, despite a difference of a few years, the resemblance was striking. Under this was another picture, also a coloured ad. A distinguished playwright was solemnly smoking a Drome[94 - Drome – "Дромадер" (марка папирос)]. He always smoked Dromes. The resemblance was slight. Under this was Lo’s chaste bed, littered with ‘comics’. The enamel had come off the bedstead, leaving black, more or less rounded, marks on the white. Having convinced myself that Louise had left, I got into Lo’s bed and re-read the letter.
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17
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Gentlemen of the jury! I cannot swear that certain emotions pertaining to the business in hand – if I may coin an expression – had not drifted across my mind before. My mind had not retained them in any logical form or in any relation to definitely recollected occasions; but I cannot swear – let me repeat – that I had not toyed with them (to rig up yet another expression), in my dimness of thought, in my darkness of passion. There may have been times – there must have been times, if I know my Humbert – when I had brought up for detached inspection the idea of marrying a mature widow (say, Charlotte Haze) with not one relative left in the wide grey world, merely in order to have my way with her child (Lo, Lola, Lolita). I am even prepared to tell my tormenters that perhaps once or twice I had cast an appraiser’s cold eye at Charlotte’s coral lips and bronze hair and dangerously low neckline, and had vaguely tried to fit her into a plausible daydream. This I confess under torture. Imaginary torture, perhaps, but all the more horrible. I wish I might digress and tell you more of the pavor nocturnus[95 - pavor nocturnus – (лат.) ночной страх] that would rack me at night hideously after a chance term had struck me in the random readings of my boyhood, such as peine forte et dure[96 - peine forte et dure – (фр.) боль сильная и тяжелая] (what a Genius of Pain must have invented that!) or the dreadful, mysterious, insidious words ‘trauma’, ‘traumatic event’, and ‘transom’. But my tale is sufficiently incondite already. After a while I destroyed the letter and went to my room, and ruminated, and rumpled my hair, and modelled my purple robe, and moaned through clenched teeth and suddenly – Suddenly, gentlemen of the jury, I felt a Dostoevskian grin dawning (through the very grimace that twisted my lips) like a distant and terrible sun. I imagined (under conditions of new and perfect visibility) all the casual caresses her mother’s husband would be able to lavish on his Lolita. I would hold her against me three times a day, every day. All my troubles would be expelled, I would be a healthy man. ‘To hold thee lightly on a gentle knee and print on thy soft cheek a parent’s kiss…’ Well-read Humbert!
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Then, with all possible caution, on mental tiptoe so to speak, I conjured up Charlotte as a possible mate. By God, I could make myself bring her that economically halved grapefruit, that sugarless breakfast.
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Humbert Humbert sweating in the fierce white light, and howled at, and trodden upon by sweating policemen, is now ready to make a further ‘statement’ (quel mot![97 - quel mot! – (фр.) ну и словечко!]) as he turns his conscience inside out and rips off its innermost lining. I did not plan to marry poor Charlotte in order to eliminate her in some vulgar, gruesome and dangerous manner such as killing her by placing five bichloride-of-mercury tablets in her preprandial sherry or anything like that; but a delicately allied, pharmacopoeial thought did tinkle in my sonorous and clouded brain. Why limit myself to the modest masked caress I had tried already? Other visions of venery presented themselves to me swaying and smiling. I saw myself administering a powerful sleeping potion to both mother and daughter so as to fondle the latter through the night with perfect impunity. The house was full of Charlotte’s snore, while Lolita hardly breathed in her sleep, as still as a painted girl-child. ‘Mother, I swear Kenny never even touched me.’ ‘You either lie, Dolores Haze, or it was an incubus.’ No, I would not go that far.
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So Humbert the Cubus schemed and dreamed – and the red sun of desire and decision (the two things that create a live world) rose higher and higher, while upon a succession of balconies a succession of libertines, sparkling glass in hand, toasted the bliss of past and future nights. Then, figuratively speaking, I shattered the glass, and boldly imagined (for I was drunk on those visions by then and underrated the gentleness of my nature) how eventually I might blackmail – no, that is too strong a word – mauve-mail big Haze into letting me consort with little Haze by gently threatening the poor doting Big Dove with desertion if she tried to bar me from playing with my legal stepdaughter. In a word, before such an Amazing Offer, before such a vastness and variety of vistas, I was as helpless as Adam at the preview of early oriental history, miraged in his apple orchard.
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And now take down the following important remark: the artist in me has been given the upper hand over the gentleman. It is with a great effort of will that in this memoir I have managed to tune my style to the tone of the journal that I kept when Mrs. Haze was to me but an obstacle. That journal of mine is no more; but I have considered it my artistic duty to preserve its intonations no matter how false and brutal they may seem to me now. Fortunately, my story has reached a point where I can cease insulting poor Charlotte for the sake of retrospective verisimilitude.
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Wishing to spare poor Charlotte two or three hours of suspense on a winding road (and avoid, perhaps, a head-on collision that would shatter our different dreams), I made a thoughtful but abortive attempt to reach her at the camp by telephone. She had left half an hour before, and getting Lo instead, I told her – trembling and brimming with my mastery over fate – that I was going to marry her mother. I had to repeat it twice because something was preventing her from giving me her attention. ‘Gee, that’s swell,’ she said laughing. ‘When is the wedding? Hold on a sec, the pup – That pup here has got hold of my sock. Listen – ’ and she added she guessed she was going to have loads of fun… and I realized as I hung up that a couple of hours at that camp had been sufficient to blot out with new impressions the image of handsome Humbert Humbert from little Lolita’s mind. But what did it matter now? I would get her back as soon as a decent amount of time after the wedding had elapsed. ‘The orange blossom would have scarcely withered on the grave’, as a poet might have said. But I am no poet. I am only a very conscientious recorder.
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After Louise had gone, I inspected the icebox and, finding it much too puritanic, walked to town and bought the richest foods available. I also bought some good liquor and two or three kinds of vitamins. I was pretty sure that with the aid of these stimulants and my natural resources, I would avert any embarrassment that my indifference might incur when called upon to display a strong and impatient flame. Again and again resourceful Humbert evoked Charlotte as seen in the raree-show of a manly imagination. She was well groomed and shapely, this I could say for her, and she was my Lolita’s big sister – this notion, perhaps, I could keep up if only I did not visualize too realistically her heavy hips, round knees, ripe bust, the coarse pink skin of her neck (‘coarse’ by comparison with silk and honey) and all the rest of that sorry and dull thing: a handsome woman.
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The sun made its usual round of the house as the afternoon ripened into evening. I had a drink. And another. And yet another. Gin and pineapple juice, my favourite mixture, always double my energy. I decided to busy myself with our unkempt lawn. Une petite attention.[98 - Une petite attention. – (фр.) Немного внимания.] It was crowded with dandelions, and a cursed dog – I loathe dogs – had defiled the flat stones where a sundial had once stood. Most of the dandelions had changed from suns to moons. The gin and Lolita were dancing in me, and I almost fell over the folding chairs that I attempted to dislodge. Incarnadine zebras! There are some eructations that sound like cheers – at least, mine did. An old fence at the back of the garden separated us from the neighbour’s garbage receptacles and lilacs; but there was nothing between the front end of our lawn (where it sloped along one side of the house) and the street. Therefore I was able to watch (with the smirk of one about to perform a good action) for the return of Charlotte: that tooth should be extracted at once. As I lurched and lunged with the hand mower, bits of grass optically twittering in the low sun, I kept an eye on that section of suburban street. It curved in from under an archway of huge shade trees, then sped towards us down, down, quite sharply, past old Miss Opposite’s ivied brick house and high-sloping lawn (much trimmer than ours) and disappeared behind our own front porch which I could not see from where I happily belched and laboured. The dandelions perished. A reek of sap mingled with the pineapple. Two little girls, Marion and Mabel, whose comings and goings I had mechanically followed of late (but who could replace my Lolita?) went toward the avenue (from which our Lawn Street cascaded), one pushing a bicycle, the other feeding from a paper bag, both talking at the top of their sunny voices. Leslie, old Miss Opposite’s gardener and chauffeur, a very amiable and athletic Negro, grinned at me from afar and shouted, re-shouted, commented by gesture, that I was mighty energetic today. The fool dog of the prosperous junk dealer next door ran after a blue car – not Charlotte’s. The prettier of the two little girls (Mabel, I think), shorts, halter with little to halt, bright hair – a nymphet, by Pan! – ran back down the street crumpling her paper bag and was hidden from this Green Goat by the frontage of Mr. and Mrs. Humbert’s residence. A station wagon popped out of the leafy shade of the avenue, dragging some of it on its roof before the shadows snapped, and swung by at an idiotic pace, the sweatshirted driver roof-holding with his left hand and the junkman’s dog tearing alongside. There was a smiling pause – and then, with a nutter in my breast, I witnessed the return of the Blue Sedan. I saw it glide downhill and disappear behind the corner of the house. I had a glimpse of her calm pale profile. It occurred to me that until she went upstairs she would not know whether I had gone or not. A minute later, with an expression of great anguish on her face, she looked down at me from the window of Lo’s room. By sprinting upstairs, I managed to reach that room before she left it.
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18
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When the bride is a widow and the groom is a widower; when the former has lived in Our Great Little Town for hardly two years, and the latter for hardly a month; when Monsieur wants to get the whole damned thing over with as quickly as possible, and Madame gives in with a tolerant smile; then, my reader, the wedding is generally a ‘quiet’ affair. The bride may dispense with a tiara of orange blossoms securing her finger-tip veil, nor does she carry a white orchid in a prayer book. The bride’s little daughter might have added to the ceremonies uniting H. and H. a touch of vivid vermeil; but I knew I would not dare be too tender with cornered Lolita yet, and therefore agreed it was not worth while tearing the child away from her beloved Camp Q.
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My soi-disant[99 - soi-disant – (фр.) якобы] passionate and lonely Charlotte was in everyday life matter-of-fact and gregarious. Moreover, I discovered that although she could not control her heart or her cries, she was a woman of principle. Immediately after she had become more or less my mistress (despite the stimulants, her ‘nervous, eager chéri’ – a heroic chéri! – had some initial trouble, for which, however, he amply compensated her by a fantastic display of old-world endearments), good Charlotte interviewed me about my relations with God. I could have answered that on that score my mind was open; I said, instead – paying my tribute to a pious platitude – that I believed in a cosmic spirit. Looking down at her fingernails, she also asked me had I not in my family a certain strange strain. I countered by inquiring whether she would still want to marry me if my father’s maternal grandfather had been, say, a Turk. She said it did not matter a bit; but that, if she ever found out I did not believe in Our Christian God, she would commit suicide. She said it so solemnly that it gave me the creeps. It was then I knew she was a woman of principle.
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Oh, she was very genteel: she said ‘excuse me’ whenever a slight burp interrupted her flowing speech, called an envelope an ahnvelope, and when talking to her lady-friends referred to me as Mr. Humbert. I thought it would please her if I entered the community trailing some glamour after me. On the day of our wedding a little interview with me appeared in the Society Column of the Ramsdale Journal, with a photograph of Charlotte, one eyebrow up and a misprint in her name (‘Hazer’). Despite this contretemps, the publicity warmed the porcelain cockles of her heart – and made my rattles shake with awful glee. By engaging in church work as well as by getting to know the better mothers of Lo’s schoolmates, Charlotte in the course of twenty months or so had managed to become if not a prominent, at least an acceptable citizen, but never before had she come under that thrilling rubrique, and it was I who put her there, Mr. Edgar H. Humbert (I threw in the ‘Edgar’ just for the heck of it[100 - for the heck of it – (авт.) зд. из чистого ухарства]), ‘writer and explorer’. McCoo’s brother, when taking it down, asked me what I had written. Whatever I told him came out as ‘several books on Peacock, Rainbow and other poets’. It was also noted that Charlotte and I had known each other for several years and that I was a distant relation of her first husband. I hinted I had had an affair with her thirteen years ago but this was not mentioned in print. To Charlotte I said that society columns should contain a shimmer of errors.
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Let us go on with this curious tale. When called upon to enjoy my promotion from lodger to lover, did I experience only bitterness and distaste? No. Mr. Humbert confessed to a certain titillation of his vanity, to some faint tenderness, even to a pattern of remorse daintily running along the steel of his conspiratorial dagger. Never had I thought that the rather ridiculous, though rather handsome Mrs. Haze, with her blind faith in the wisdom of her church and book club, her mannerisms of elocution, her harsh, cold, contemptuous attitude toward an adorable, downy-armed child of twelve, could turn into such a touching, helpless creature as soon as I laid my hands upon her which happened on the threshold of Lolita’s room whither she tremulously backed repeating ‘no, no, please no’.
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The transformation improved her looks. Her smile that had been such a contrived thing, thenceforth became the radiance of utter adoration – a radiance having something soft and moist about it, in which, with wonder, I recognized a resemblance to the lovely, inane, lost look that Lo had when gloating over a new kind of concoction at the soda fountain or mutely admiring my expensive, always tailor-fresh clothes. Deeply fascinated, I would watch Charlotte while she swapped parental woes with some other lady and made that national grimace of feminine resignation (eyes rolling up, mouth drooping sideways) which, in an infantile form I had seen Lo making herself. We had highballs before turning in, and with their help, I would manage to evoke the child while caressing the mother. This was the white stomach within which my nymphet had been a little curved fish in 1934. This carefully dyed hair, so sterile to my sense of smell and touch, acquired at certain lamplit moments in the poster bed the tinge, if not the texture, of Lolita’s curls. I kept telling myself, as I wielded my brand-new large-as-life wife, that biologically this was the nearest I could get to Lolita; that at Lolita’s age, Lotte had been as desirable a schoolgirl as her daughter was, and as Lolita’s daughter would be some day. I had my wife unearth from under a collection of shoes (Mr. Haze had a passion for them, it appears) a thirty-year-old album, so that I might see how Lotte had looked as a child; and even though the light was wrong and the dresses graceless, I was able to make out a dim first version of Lolita’s outline, legs, cheekbones, bobbed nose. Lottelita, Lolitchen.
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So I tom-peeped across the hedges of years, into wan little windows. And when, by means of pitifully ardent, naively lascivious caresses, she of the noble nipple and massive thigh prepared me for the performance of my nightly duty, it was still a nymphet’s scent that in despair I tried to pick up, as I bayed through the undergrowth of dark decaying forests.
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I simply can’t tell you how gentle, how touching my poor wife was. At breakfast, in the depressingly bright kitchen, with its chrome glitter and Hardware and C
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.[101 - Hardware and C
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– кастрюльная фирма] Calendar and cute breakfast nook (simulating that Coffee Shoppe[102 - Coffee Shoppe – кафетерий] where in their college days Charlotte and Humbert used to coo together), she would sit, robed in red, her elbow on the plastic topped table, her cheek propped on her fist, and stare at me with intolerable tenderness as I consumed my ham and eggs. Humbert’s face might twitch with neuralgia, but in her eyes it vied in beauty and animation with the sun and shadows of leaves rippling on the white refrigerator. My solemn exasperation was to her the silence of love. My small income added to her even smaller one impressed her as a brilliant fortune; not because the resulting sum now sufficed for most middle-class needs, but because even my money shone in her eyes with the magic of my manliness, and she saw our joint account as one of those southern boulevards at midday that have solid shade on one side and smooth sunshine on the other, all the way to the end of a prospect, where pink mountains loom.
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Into the fifty days of our cohabitation Charlotte crammed the activities of as many years. The poor woman busied herself with a number of things she had foregone long before or had never been much interested in, as if (to prolong these Proustian intonations) by my marrying the mother of the child I loved I had enabled my wife to regain an abundance of youth by proxy. With the zest of a banal young bride, she started to ‘glorify the home’. Knowing as I did its every cranny by heart – since those days when from my chair I mentally mapped out Lolita’s course through the house – I had long entered into a sort of emotional relationship with it, with its very ugliness and dirt, and now I could almost feel the wretched thing cower in its reluctance to endure the bath of ecru and ochre and putty-buff-and-snuff that Charlotte planned to give it. She never got as far as that, thank God, but she did use up a tremendous amount of energy in washing window shades, waxing the slats of Venetian blinds[103 - Venetian blinds – жалюзи], purchasing new shades and new blinds, returning them to the store, replacing them by others, and so on, in a constant chiaroscuro of smiles and frowns, doubts and pouts. She dabbled in cretonnes and chintzes; she changed the colours of the sofa – the sacred sofa where a bubble of paradise had once burst in slow motion within me. She arranged the furniture – and was pleased when she found, in a household treatise, that ‘it is permissible to separate a pair of sofa commodes and their companion lamps’. With the authoress of Your Home Is You, she developed a hatred for little lean chairs and spindle tables. She believed that a room having a generous expanse of glass, and lots of rich wood panelling was an example of the masculine type of room, whereas the feminine type was characterized by lighter-looking windows and frailer woodwork. The novels I had found her reading when I moved in were now replaced by illustrated catalogues and homemaking guides. From a firm located at 4640 Roosevelt Blvd., Philadelphia, she ordered for our double bed a ‘damask covered 312 coil mattress’ – although the old one seemed to me resilient and durable enough for whatever it had to support.
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A Midwesterner, as her late husband had also been, she had lived in coy Ramsdale, the gem of an eastern state, not long enough to know all the nice people. She knew slightly the jovial dentist who lived in a kind of ramshackle wooden château[104 - château – (фр.) замок] behind our lawn. She had met at a church tea the ‘snooty’ wife of the local junk dealer who owned the ‘colonial’ white horror at the corner of the avenue. Now and then she ‘visited with’ old Miss Opposite; but the more patrician matrons among those she called upon, or met at lawn functions, or had telephone chats with – such dainty ladies as Mrs. Glave, Mrs. Sheridan, Mrs. McCrystal, Mrs. Knight and others – seldom seemed to call on my neglected Charlotte. Indeed, the only couple with whom she had relations of real cordiality, devoid of any arrière-pensée[105 - arrière-pensée – (фр.) задняя мысль; подоплека] or practical foresight, were the Farlows who had just come back from a business trip to Chile in time to attend our wedding, with the Chatfields, McCoos and a few others (but not Mrs. Junk or the even prouder Mrs. Talbot). John Farlow was a middle-aged, quiet, quietly athletic, quietly successful dealer in sporting goods, who had an office at Parkington, forty miles away: it was he who got me the cartridges for that Colt and showed me how to use it, during a walk in the woods one Sunday; he was also what he called with a smile a part-time lawyer and had handled some of Charlotte’s affairs. Jean, his youngish wife (and first cousin), was a long-limbed girl in harlequin glasses with two boxer dogs, two pointed breasts and a big red mouth. She painted – landscapes and portraits – and vividly do I remember praising, over cocktails, the picture she had made of a niece of hers, little Rosaline Honeck, a rosy honey in a Girl Scout uniform, beret of green worsted, belt of green webbing, charming shoulder-long curls – and John removed his pipe and said it was a pity Dolly (my Dolita) and Rosaline were so critical of each other at school, but he hoped, and we all hoped, they would get on better when they returned from their respective camps. We talked of the school. It had its drawbacks, and it had its virtues. ‘Of course, too many of the tradespeople here are Italians,’ said John, ‘but on the other hand we are still spared – ’ ‘I wish,’ interrupted Jean with a laugh, ‘Dolly and Rosaline were spending the summer together.’ Suddenly I imagined Lo returning from camp – brown, warm, drowsy, drugged – and was ready to weep with passion and impatience.
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19
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A few words more about Mrs. Humbert while the going is good (a bad accident is to happen quite soon). I had been always aware of the possessive streak in her, but I never thought she would be so crazily jealous of anything in my life that had not been she. She showed a fierce insatiable curiosity for my past. She desired me to resuscitate all my loves so that she might make me insult them, and trample upon them, and revoke them apostately and totally, thus destroying my past. She made me tell her about my marriage to Valeria, who was of course a scream; but I also had to invent, or to pad atrociously, a long series of mistresses for Charlotte’s morbid delectation. To keep her happy, I had to present her with an illustrated catalogue of them, all nicely differentiated, according to the rules of those American ads where schoolchildren are pictured in a subtle ratio of races, with one – only one, but as cute as they make them – chocolate-coloured round-eyed little lad, almost in the very middle of the front row. So I presented my women, and had them smile and sway – the languorous blonde, the fiery brunette, the sensual copperhead – as if on parade in a bordello. The more popular and platitudinous I made them, the more Mrs. Humbert was pleased with the show.
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Never in my life had I confessed so much or received so many confessions. The sincerity and artlessness with which she discussed what she called her ‘love-life’, from first necking to connubial catch-as-catch-can, were, ethically, in striking contrast with my glib compositions, but technically the two sets were congeneric since both were affected by the same stuff (soap operas, psychoanalysis and cheap novelettes) upon which I drew for my characters and she for her mode of expression. I was considerably amused by certain remarkable sexual habits that the good Harold Haze had had according to Charlotte who thought my mirth improper; but otherwise her autobiography was as devoid of interest as her autopsy would have been. I never saw a healthier woman than she, despite thinning diets.
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Of my Lolita she seldom spoke – more seldom, in fact, than she did of the blurred, blond male baby whose photograph to the exclusion of all others adorned our bleak bedroom. In one of her tasteless reveries, she predicted that the dead infant’s soul would return to earth in the form of the child she would bear in her present wedlock. And although I felt no special urge to supply the Humbert line with a replica of Harold’s production (Lolita, with an incestuous thrill, I had grown to regard as my child), it occurred to me that a prolonged confinement, with a nice Caesarean operation[106 - Caesarean operation – кесарево сечение] and other complications in a safe maternity ward sometime next spring, would give me a chance to be alone with my Lolita for weeks, perhaps – and gorge the limp nymphet with sleeping pills.
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Oh, she simply hated her daughter! What I thought especially vicious was that she had gone out of her way to answer with great diligence the questionnaires in a fool’s book she had (A Guide to Your Child’s Development), published in Chicago. The rigmarole went year by year, and Mom was supposed to fill out a kind of inventory at each of her child’s birthdays. On Lo’s twelfth, January 1, 1947, Charlotte Haze, née Becker, had underlined the following epithets, ten out of forty, under ‘Your Child’s Personality’: aggressive, boisterous, critical, distrustful, impatient, irritable, inquisitive, listless, negativistic (underlined twice) and obstinate. She had ignored the thirty remaining adjectives, among which were cheerful, co-operative, energetic, and so forth. It was really maddening. With a brutality that otherwise never appeared in my loving wife’s mild nature, she attacked and routed such of Lo’s little belongings that had wandered to various parts of the house to freeze there like so many hypnotized bunnies. Little did the good lady dream that one morning when an upset stomach (the result of my trying to improve on her sauces) had prevented me from accompanying her to church, I deceived her with one of Lolita’s anklets. And then, her attitude towards my saporous darling’s letters!
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Dear Mummy and Hummy,
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Hope you are fine. Thank you very much for the candy. I [crossed out and rewritten again] I lost my new sweater in the woods. It has been cold here for the last few days. I’m having a time. Love.
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Dolly
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‘The dumb child,’ said Mrs. Humbert, ‘has left out a word before “time”. That sweater was all-wool, and I wish you would not send her candy without consulting me.’
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20
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There was a woodlake (Hourglass Lake – not as I had thought it was spelled) a few miles from Ramsdale, and there was one week of great heat at the end of July when we drove there daily. I am now obliged to describe in some tedious detail our last swim there together, one tropical Tuesday morning.
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We had left the car in a parking area not far from the road and were making our way down a path cut through the pine forest to the lake, when Charlotte remarked that Jean Farlow, in quest of rare light effects (Jean belonged to the old school of painting), had seen Leslie taking a dip ‘in the ebony[107 - in the ebony – зд. в чем мать родила]’ (as John had quipped) at five o’clock in the morning last Sunday.
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‘The water,’ I said, ‘must have been quite cold.’
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‘That is not the point,’ said the logical doomed dear. ‘He is subnormal, you see. And,’ she continued (in that carefully phrased way of hers that was beginning to tell on my health), ‘I have a very definite feeling our Louise is in love with that moron.’
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Feeling. ‘We feel Dolly is not doing as well’, etc. (from an old school report).
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The Humberts walked on, sandalled and robed.
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‘Do you know, Hum: I have one most ambitious dream,’ pronounced Lady Hum, lowering her head – shy of that dream – and communing with the tawny ground. ‘I would love to get hold of a real trained servant maid like that German girl the Talbots spoke of; and have her live in the house.’
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‘No room,’ I said.
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‘Come,’ she said with her quizzical smile, ‘surely, chéri, you underestimate the possibilities of the Humbert home. We would put her in Lo’s room. I intended to make a guestroom of that hole anyway. It’s the coldest and meanest in the whole house.’
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‘What are you talking about?’ I asked, the skin of my cheekbones tensing up (this I take the trouble to note only because my daughter’s skin did the same when she felt that way: disbelief, disgust, irritation).
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‘Are you bothered by Romantic Associations?’ queried my wife – in allusion to her first surrender.
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‘Hell no,’ said I. ‘I just wonder where will you put your daughter when you get your guest or your maid.’
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‘Ah,’ said Mrs. Humbert, dreaming, smiling, drawing out the ‘Ah’ simultaneously with the raise of one eyebrow and a soft exhalation of breath. ‘Little Lo, I’m afraid, does not enter the picture at all, at all. Little Lo goes straight from camp to a good boarding school with strict discipline and some sound religious training. And then – Beardsley College. I have it all mapped out, you need not worry.’
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She went on to say that she, Mrs. Humbert, would have to overcome her habitual sloth and write to Miss Phalen’s sister who taught at St. Algebra. The dazzling lake emerged. I said I had forgotten my sunglasses in the car and would catch up with her.
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I had always thought that wringing one’s hands was a fictional gesture – the obscure outcome, perhaps, of some medieval ritual; but as I took to the woods, for a spell of despair and desperate meditation, this was the gesture (‘look, Lord, at these chains!’) that would have come nearest to the mute expression of my mood.
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Had Charlotte been Valeria, I would have known how to handle the situation; and ‘handle’ is the word I want. In the good old days, by merely twisting fat Valechka’s brittle wrist (the one she had fallen upon from a bicycle) I could make her change her mind instantly; but anything of the sort in regard to Charlotte was unthinkable. Bland American Charlotte frightened me. My lighthearted dream of controlling her through her passion for me was all wrong. I dared not do anything to spoil the image of me she had set up to adore. I had toadied to her when she was the awesome duenna of my darling, and a grovelling something still persisted in my attitude toward her. The only ace I held was her ignorance of my monstrous love for her Lo. She had been annoyed by Lo’s liking me; but my feelings she could not divine. To Valeria I might have said: ‘Look here, you fat fool, c’est moi qui décide[108 - c’est moi qui décide – (фр.) решать буду я] what is good for Dolores Humbert.’ To Charlotte, I could not even say (with ingratiating calm): ‘Excuse me, my dear, I disagree. Let us give the child one more chance. Let me be her private tutor for a year or so. You once told me yourself – ’ In fact, I could not say anything at all to Charlotte about the child without giving myself away. Oh, you cannot imagine (as I had never imagined) what these women of principle are! Charlotte, who did not notice the falsity of all the everyday conventions and rules of behaviour, and foods, and books, and people she doted upon, would distinguish at once a false intonation in anything I might say with a view to keeping Lo near me. She was like a musician who may be an odious vulgarian in ordinary life, devoid of tact and taste; but who will hear a false note in music with diabolical accuracy of judgment. To break Charlotte’s will, I would have to break her heart. If I broke her heart, her image of me would break too. If I said: ‘Either I have my way with Lolita, and you help me to keep the matter quiet, or we part at once’, she would have turned as pale as a woman of clouded glass and slowly replied: ‘All right, whatever you add or retract, this is the end.’ And the end it would be.
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Such, then, was the mess. I remember reaching the parking area and pumping a handful of rust-tasting water, and drinking it as avidly as if it could give me magic wisdom, youth, freedom, a tiny concubine. For a while, purple-robed, heel-dangling, I sat on the edge of one of the rude tables, under the wooshing pines. In the middle distance, two little maidens in shorts and halters came out of a sun-dappled privy marked ‘Women’. Gum-chewing Mabel (or Mabel’s understudy) laboriously, absent-mindedly, straddled a bicycle, and Marion, shaking her hair because of the flies, settled behind, legs wide apart; and, wobbling, they slowly, absently, merged with the light and shade. Lolita! Father and daughter melting into these woods! The natural solution was to destroy Mrs. Humbert. But how?
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No man can bring about the perfect murder; chance, however, can do it. There was the famous dispatch of a Mme Lacour in Arles, southern France, at the close of last century. An unidentified bearded six-footer, who, it was later conjectured, had been the lady’s secret lover, walked up to her in a crowded street, soon after her marriage to Colonel Lacour, and mortally stabbed her in the back, three times, while the Colonel, a small bulldog of a man, hung on to the murderer’s arm. By a miraculous and beautiful coincidence, right at the moment when the operator was in the act of loosening the angry little husband’s jaws (while several onlookers were closing in upon the group), a cranky Italian in the house nearest to the scene set off by sheer accident some kind of explosive he was tinkering with, and immediately the street was turned into a pandemonium of smoke, falling bricks and running people. The explosion hurt no one (except that it knocked out game Colonel Lacour); but the lady’s vengeful lover ran when the others ran – and lived happily ever after. Now look what happens when the operator himself plans a perfect removal.
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I walked down to Hourglass Lake. The spot from which we and a few other ‘nice’ couples (the Farlows, the Chatfields) bathed was a kind of small cove; my Charlotte liked it because it was almost ‘a private beach’. The main bathing facilities (or ‘drowning facilities’ as the Ramsdale Journal had had occasion to say) were in the left (eastern) part of the hourglass, and could not be seen from our covert. To our right, the pines soon gave way to a curve of marshland which turned again into forest on the opposite side.
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||
I sat down beside my wife so noiselessly that she started. ‘Shall we go in?’ she asked.
|
||
|
||
‘We shall in a minute. Let me follow a train of thought.’ I thought. More than a minute passed. ‘All right. Come on.’ ‘Was I on that train?’ ‘You certainly were.’
|
||
|
||
‘I hope so,’ said Charlotte entering the water. It soon reached the gooseflesh of her thick thighs; and then, joining her outstretched hands, shutting her mouth tight, very plain-faced in her black rubber headgear, Charlotte flung herself forward with a great splash.
|
||
|
||
Slowly we swam out into the shimmer of the lake. On the opposite bank, at least a thousand paces away (if one could walk across water), I could make out the tiny figures of two men working like beavers on their stretch of shore. I knew exactly who they were: a retired policeman of Polish descent and the retired plumber who owned most of the timber on that side of the lake. And I also knew they were engaged in building, just for the dismal fun of the thing, a wharf. The knocks that reached us seemed so much bigger than what could be distinguished of those dwarfs’ arms and tools; indeed, one suspected the director of those acrosonic effects to have been at odds[109 - to have been at odds – не сговориться] with the puppet-master, especially since the hefty crack of each diminutive blow lagged behind its visual version.
|
||
|
||
The short white-sand strip of ‘our’ beach – from which by now we had gone a little way to reach deep water – was empty on weekday mornings. There was nobody around except those two tiny very busy figures on the opposite side, and a dark-red private plane that droned overhead, and then disappeared in the blue. The setting was really perfect for a brisk bubbling murder, and here was the subtle point: the man of law and the man of water were just near enough to witness an accident and just far enough not to observe a crime. They were near enough to hear a distracted bather thrashing about and bellowing for somebody to come and help him save his drowning wife; and they were too far to distinguish (if they happened to look too soon) that the anything but distracted swimmer was finishing to tread his wife underfoot. I was not yet at that stage; I merely want to convey the ease of the fact, the nicety of the setting! So there was Charlotte swimming on with dutiful awkwardness (she was a very mediocre mermaid), but not without a certain solemn pleasure (for was not her merman by her side?); and as I watched, with the stark lucidity of a future recollection (you know – trying to see things as you will remember having seen them), the glossy whiteness of her wet face so little tanned despite all her endeavours, and her pale lips, and her naked convex forehead, and the tight black cap, and the plump wet neck, I knew that all I had to do was to drop back, take a deep breath, then grab her by the ankle and rapidly dive with my captive corpse. I say corpse because surprise, panic and inexperience would cause her to inhale at once a lethal gallon of lake, while I would be able to hold on for at least a full minute, open-eyed under water. The fatal gesture passed like the tail of a falling star across the blackness of the contemplated crime. It was like some dreadful silent ballet, the male dancer holding the ballerina by her foot and streaking down through watery twilight. I might come up for a mouthful of air while still holding her down, and then would dive again as many times as would be necessary, and only when the curtain came down on her for good, would I permit myself to yell for help. And when some twenty minutes later the two puppets steadily growing arrived in a rowboat, one half newly painted, poor Mrs. Humbert Humbert, the victim of cramp or coronary occlusion, or both, would be standing on her head in the inky ooze some thirty feet below the smiling surface of Hourglass Lake.
|
||
|
||
Simple, was it not? But what d’ye know, folks – I just could not make myself do it!
|
||
|
||
She swam beside me, a trustful and clumsy seal, and all the logic of passion screamed in my ear: Now is the time! And, folks, I just couldn’t! In silence I turned shoreward and gravely, dutifully, she also turned, and still hell screamed its counsel, and still I could not make myself drown the poor, slippery, big-bodied creature. The scream grew more and more remote as I realized the melancholy fact that neither tomorrow, nor Friday, nor any other day or night, could I make myself put her to death. Oh, I could visualize myself slapping Valeria’s breasts out of alignment, or otherwise hurting her – and I could see myself, no less clearly, shooting her lover in the underbelly and making him say ‘akh!’ and sit down. But I could not kill Charlotte – especially when things were on the whole not quite as hopeless, perhaps, as they seemed at first wince on that miserable morning. Were I to catch her by her strong kicking foot; were I to see her amazed look, hear her awful voice; were I still to go through with the ordeal, her ghost would haunt me all my life. Perhaps if the year were 1447 instead of 1947 I might have hoodwinked my gentle nature by administering her some classical poison from a hollow agate, some tender philtre of death. But in our middle-class nosy era it would not have come off the way it used to in the brocaded palaces of the past. Nowadays you have to be a scientist if you want to be a killer. No, no, I was neither. Ladies and gentlemen of the jury, the majority of sex offenders that hanker for some throbbing, sweet-moaning, physical but not necessarily coital, relation with a girl-child, are innocuous, inadequate, passive, timid strangers who merely ask the community to allow them to pursue their practically harmless, so-called aberrant behaviour, their little hot wet private acts of sexual deviation without the police and society cracking down upon them. We are not sex fiends! We do not rape as good soldiers do. We are unhappy, mild, dog-eyed gentlemen, sufficiently well integrated to control our urge in the presence of adults, but ready to give years and years of life for one chance to touch a nymphet. Emphatically, no killers are we. Poets never kill. Oh, my poor Charlotte, do not hate me in your eternal heaven among an eternal alchemy of asphalt and rubber and metal and stone – but thank God, not water, not water!
|
||
|
||
Nonetheless it was a very close shave, speaking quite objectively. And now comes the point of my perfect-crime parable.
|
||
|
||
We sat down on our towels in the thirsty sun. She looked around, loosened her bra, and turned over on her stomach to give her back a chance to be feasted upon. She said she loved me. She sighed deeply. She extended one arm and groped in the pocket of her robe for her cigarettes. She sat up and smoked. She examined her right shoulder. She kissed me heavily with open smoky mouth. Suddenly, down the sand bank behind us, from under the bushes and pines, a stone rolled, then another.
|
||
|
||
‘Those disgusting prying kids,’ said Charlotte, holding up her big bra to her breast and turning prone again. ‘I shall have to speak about that to Peter Krestovski.’
|
||
|
||
From the debouchment of the trail came a rustle, a footfall, and Jean Farlow marched down with her easel and things. ‘You scared us,’ said Charlotte.
|
||
|
||
Jean said she had been up there, in a place of green concealment, spying on nature (spies are generally shot), trying to finish a lakescape, but it was no good, she had no talent whatever (which was quite true) – ‘And have you ever tried painting, Humbert?’ Charlotte, who was a little jealous of Jean, wanted to know if John was coming.
|
||
|
||
He was. He was coming home for lunch today. He had dropped her on the way to Parkington and should be picking her up any time now. It was a grand morning. She always felt a traitor to Cavall and Melampus for leaving them roped on such gorgeous days. She sat down on the white sand between Charlotte and me. She wore shorts. Her long brown legs were about as attractive to me as those of a chestnut mare. She showed her gums when she smiled.
|
||
|
||
‘I almost put both of you into my lake,’ she said. ‘I even noticed something you overlooked. You [addressing Humbert] had your wrist watch on in, yes, sir, you had.’
|
||
|
||
‘Waterproof,’ said Charlotte softly, making a fish mouth.
|
||
|
||
Jean took my wrist upon her knee and examined Charlotte’s gift, then put back Humbert’s hand on the sand, palm up.
|
||
|
||
‘You could see anything that way,’ remarked Charlotte coquettishly.
|
||
|
||
Jean sighed. ‘I once saw,’ she said, ‘two children, male and female, at sunset, right here, making love. Their shadows were giants. And I told you about Mr. Tomson at daybreak. Next time I expect to see fat old Ivor in the ivory. He is really a freak, that man. Last time he told me a completely indecent story about his nephew. It appears – ’
|
||
|
||
‘Hullo there,’ said John’s voice.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
21
|
||
|
||
|
||
My habit of being silent when displeased, or, more exactly, the cold and scaly quality of my displeased silence, used to frighten Valeria out of her wits. She used to whimper and wail, saying, ‘Ce qui me rend folle, c’est que je ne sais à quoi tu penses quand tu es comme ça.[110 - Ce qui me rend folle, c’est que je ne sais à quoi tu penses quand tu es comme ça. – (фр.) Что меня сводит с ума, так это то, что я не знаю, о чем ты думаешь.]’ I tried being silent with Charlotte – and she just chirped on, or chucked my silence under the chin. An astonishing woman! I would retire to my former room, now a regular ‘studio’, mumbling I had after all a learned opus to write, and cheerfully Charlotte went on beautifying the home, warbling on the telephone and writing letters. From my window, through the lacquered shiver of poplar leaves, I could see her crossing the street and contentedly mailing her letter to Miss Phalen’s sister. The week of scattered showers and shadows which elapsed after our last visit to the motionless sands of Hourglass Lake was one of the gloomiest I can recall. Then came two or three dim rays of hope – before the ultimate sunburst.
|
||
|
||
It occurred to me that I had a fine brain in beautiful working order and that I might as well use it. If I dared not meddle with my wife’s plans for her daughter (getting warmer and browner every day in the fair weather of hopeless distance), I could surely devise some general means to assert myself in a general way that might be later directed toward a particular occasion. One evening, Charlotte herself provided me with an opening.
|
||
|
||
‘I have a surprise for you,’ she said looking at me with fond eyes over a spoonful of soup. ‘In the fall we two are going to England.’
|
||
|
||
I swallowed my spoonful, wiped my lips with pink paper (Oh, the cool rich linens of Mirana Hotel!) and said:
|
||
|
||
‘I have also a surprise for you, my dear. We two are not going to England.’
|
||
|
||
‘Why, what’s the matter?’ she said, looking – with more surprise than I had counted upon – at my hands (I was involuntarily folding and tearing and crushing and tearing again the innocent pink napkin). My smiling face set her somewhat at ease, however.
|
||
|
||
‘The matter is quite simple,’ I replied. ‘Even in the most harmonious of households, as ours is, not all decisions are taken by the female partner. There are certain things that the husband is there to decide. I can well imagine the thrill that you, a healthy American gal, must experience at crossing the Atlantic on the same ocean liner with Lady Bumble – or Sam Bumble, the Frozen Meat King, or a Hollywood harlot. And I doubt not that you and I would make a pretty ad for the Travelling Agency when portrayed looking – you, frankly starry-eyed, I, controlling my envious admiration – at the Palace Sentries, or Scarlet Guards, or Beaver Eaters, or whatever they are called. But I happen to be allergic to Europe, including merry old England. As you well know, I have nothing but very sad associations with the Old and rotting World. No coloured ads in your magazines will change the situation.’
|
||
|
||
‘My darling,’ said Charlotte. ‘I really – ’
|
||
|
||
‘No, wait a minute. The present matter is only incidental. I am concerned with a general trend. When you wanted me to spend my afternoons sunbathing on the Lake instead of doing my work, I gladly gave in and became a bronzed glamour boy for your sake, instead of remaining a scholar and, well, an educator. When you lead me to bridge and bourbon with the charming Farlows, I meekly follow. No, please, wait. When you decorate your home, I do not interfere with your schemes. When you decide – when you decide all kinds of matters, I may be in complete, or in partial, let us say, disagreement – but I say nothing. I ignore the particular. I cannot ignore the general. I love being bossed by you, but every game has its rules. I am not cross. I am not cross at all. Don’t do that. But I am one half of this household, and have a small but distinct voice.’
|
||
|
||
She had come to my side and had fallen on her knees and was slowly, but very vehemently, shaking her head and clawing at my trousers. She said she had never realized. She said I was her ruler and her god. She said Louise had gone, and let us make love right away. She said I must forgive her or she would die.
|
||
|
||
This little incident filled me with considerable elation. I told her quietly that it was a matter not of asking forgiveness, but of changing one’s ways; and I resolved to press my advantage and spend a good deal of time, aloof and moody, working at my book – or at least pretending to work.
|
||
|
||
The ‘studio bed’ in my former room had long been converted into the sofa it had always been at heart, and Charlotte had warned me since the very beginning of our cohabitation that gradually the room would be turned into a regular ‘writer’s den’. A couple of days after the British Incident, I was sitting in a new and very comfortable easy chair, with a large volume in my lap, when Charlotte rapped with her ring finger and sauntered in. How different were her movements from those of my Lolita, when she used to visit me in her dear dirty blue jeans, smelling of orchards in nymphetland; awkward and fey, and dimly depraved, the lower buttons of her shirt unfastened. Let me tell you, however, something. Behind the brashness of little Haze, and the poise of big Haze, a trickle of shy life ran that tasted the same, that murmured the same. A great French doctor once told my father that in near relatives the faintest gastric gurgle has the same ‘voice’.
|
||
|
||
So Charlotte sauntered in. She felt all was not well between us.
|
||
|
||
I had pretended to fall asleep the night before, and the night before that, as soon as we had gone to bed, and risen at dawn.
|
||
|
||
Tenderly, she inquired if she were not ‘interrupting’.
|
||
|
||
‘Not at the moment,’ I said, turning volume G of the Girls’ Encyclopaedia around to examine a picture printed ‘bottom-edge’ as printers say.
|
||
|
||
Charlotte went up to a little table of imitation mahogany with a drawer. She put her hand upon it. The little table was ugly, no doubt, but it had done nothing to her.
|
||
|
||
‘I have always wanted to ask you,’ she said (business-like, not coquettish), ‘why is this thing locked up? Do you want it in this room? It’s so abominably uncouth.’
|
||
|
||
‘Leave it alone,’ I said. I was camping in Scandinavia.
|
||
|
||
‘Is there a key?’
|
||
|
||
‘Hidden.’
|
||
|
||
‘Oh, Hum.’
|
||
|
||
‘Locked up love letters.’
|
||
|
||
She gave me one of those wounded-doe looks that irritated me so much, and then, not quite knowing if I was serious, or how to keep up the conversation, stood for several slow pages (Campus, Canada, Candid Camera, Candy) peering at the window-pane rather than through it, drumming upon it with sharp almond-and-rose fingernails.
|
||
|
||
Presently (at Canoeing or Canvasback) she strolled up to my chair and sank down, tweedily, weightily, on its arm, inundating me with the perfume my first wife had used. ‘Would his lordship like to spend the fall here?’ she asked, pointing with her little finger at an autumn view in a conservative Eastern State. ‘Why?’ (very distinctly and slowly). She shrugged. (Probably Harold used to take a vacation at that time. Open season. Conditional reflex on her part.)
|
||
|
||
‘I think I know where that is,’ she said, still pointing. ‘There is a hotel I remember, Enchanted Hunters, quaint, isn’t it? And the food is a dream. And nobody bothers anybody.’
|
||
|
||
She rubbed her cheek against my temple. Valeria soon got over that.
|
||
|
||
‘Is there anything special you would like for dinner, dear? John and Jean will drop in later.’
|
||
|
||
I answered with a grunt. She kissed me on my underlip, and, brightly saying she would bake a cake (a tradition subsisted from my lodging days that I adored her cakes), left me to my idleness.
|
||
|
||
Carefully putting down the open book where she had sat (it attempted to send forth a rotation of waves, but an inserted pencil stopped the pages), I checked the hiding place of the key: rather self-consciously it lay under the old expensive safety razor I had used before she bought me a much better and cheaper one. Was it the perfect hiding place – there, under that razor, in the groove of its velvet-lined case? The case lay in a small trunk where I kept various business papers. Could I improve upon this? Remarkable how difficult it is to conceal things – especially when one’s wife keeps monkeying with the furniture.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
22
|
||
|
||
|
||
I think it was exactly a week after our last swim that the noon mail brought a reply from the second Miss Phalen. The lady wrote she had just returned to St. Algebra from her sister’s funeral. ‘Euphemia had never been the same after breaking that hip.’ As to the matter of Mrs. Humbert’s daughter, she wished to report that it was too late to enrol her this year; but that she, the surviving Phalen, was practically certain that if Mr. and Mrs. Humbert brought Dolores over in January, her admittance might be arranged.
|
||
|
||
Next day, after lunch, I went to see ‘our’ doctor, a friendly fellow whose perfect bedside manner and complete reliance on a few patented drugs adequately masked his ignorance of, and indifference to, medical science. The fact that Lo would have to come back to Ramsdale was a treasure of anticipation. For this event I wanted to be fully prepared. I had in fact begun my campaign earlier, before Charlotte made that cruel decision of hers. I had to be sure when my lovely child arrived, that very night, and then night after night, until St. Algebra took her away from me, I would possess the means of putting two creatures to sleep so thoroughly that neither sound nor touch should rouse them. Throughout most of July I had been experimenting with various sleeping powders, trying them out on Charlotte, a great taker of pills. The last dose I had given her (she thought it was a tablet of mild bromides – to anoint her nerves) had knocked her out for four solid hours. I had put the radio at full blast. I had blazed in her face an olisbos-like flashlight. I had pushed her, pinched her, prodded her – and nothing had disturbed the rhythm of her calm and powerful breathing. However, when I had done such a simple thing as kiss her, she had awakened at once, as fresh and strong as an octopus (I barely escaped). This would not do, I thought; had to get something still safer. At first, Dr. Byron did not seem to believe me when I said his last prescription was no match for my insomnia. He suggested I try again, and for a moment diverted my attention by showing me photographs of his family. He had a fascinating child of Dolly’s age; but I saw through his tricks and insisted he prescribe the mightiest pill extant. He suggested I play golf, but finally agreed to give me something that, he said, ‘would really work’; and going to a cabinet, he produced a vial of violet-blue capsules banded with dark purple at one end, which, he said, had just been placed on the market and were intended not for neurotics whom a draught of water could calm if properly administered, but only for great sleepless artists who had to die for a few hours in order to live for centuries. I love to fool doctors, and though inwardly rejoicing, pocketed the pills with a sceptical shrug. Incidentally, I had had to be careful with him. Once, in another connection, a stupid lapse on my part made me mention my last sanatorium, and I thought I saw the tips of his ears twitch. Being not at all keen for Charlotte or anybody else to know that period of my past, I had hastily explained that I had once done some research among the insane for a novel. But no matter; the old rogue certainly had a sweet girleen.
|
||
|
||
I left in great spirits. Steering my wife’s car with one finger, I contentedly rolled homeward. Ramsdale had, after all, lots of charm. The cicadas whirred; the avenue had been freshly watered. Smoothly, almost silkily, I turned down into our steep little street. Everything was somehow so right that day. So blue and green. I knew the sun shone because my ignition key was reflected in the windshield; and I knew it was exactly half-past three because the nurse who came to massage Miss Opposite every afternoon was tripping down the narrow sidewalk in her white stockings and shoes. As usual, Junk’s hysterical setter attacked me as I rolled downhill, and as usual, the local paper was lying on the porch where it had just been hurled by Kenny.
|
||
|
||
The day before I had ended the regime of aloofness I had imposed upon myself, and now uttered a cheerful homecoming call as I opened the door of the living room. With her cream-white nape and bronze bun to me, wearing the yellow blouse and maroon slacks she had on when I first met her, Charlotte sat at the corner bureau writing a letter. My hand still on the doorknob, I repeated my hearty cry. Her writing hand stopped. She sat still for a moment; then she slowly turned in her chair and rested her elbow on its curved back. Her face, disfigured by her emotion, was not a pretty sight as she stared at my legs and said:
|
||
|
||
‘The Haze woman, the big bitch, the old cat, the obnoxious mamma, the – the old stupid Haze is no longer your dupe. She has – she has…’
|
||
|
||
My fair accuser stopped, swallowing her venom and her tears. Whatever Humbert Humbert said – or attempted to say – is inessential. She went on:
|
||
|
||
‘You’re a monster. You’re a detestable, abominable, criminal fraud. If you come near – I’ll scream out the window. Get back!’
|
||
|
||
Again, whatever H. H. murmured may be omitted, I think.
|
||
|
||
‘I am leaving tonight. This is all yours. Only you’ll never, never see that miserable brat again. Get out of this room.’
|
||
|
||
Reader, I did. I went up to the ex-semi-studio. Arms akimbo, I stood for a moment quite still and self-composed, surveying from the threshold the raped little table with its open drawer, a key hanging from the lock, four other household keys on the table top. I walked across the landing into the Humberts’ bedroom, and calmly removed my diary from under her pillow into my pocket. Then I started to walk downstairs, but stopped halfway: she was talking on the telephone which happened to be plugged just outside the door of the living room. I wanted to hear what she was saying: she cancelled an order for something or other, and returned to the parlour. I rearranged my respiration and went through the hallway to the kitchen. There, I opened a bottle of Scotch. She could never resist Scotch. Then I walked into the dining room and from there, through the half-open door, contemplated Charlotte’s broad back.
|
||
|
||
‘You are ruining my life and yours,’ I said quietly. ‘Let us be civilized people. It is all your hallucination. You are crazy, Charlotte. The notes you found were fragments of a novel. Your name and hers were put in by mere chance. Just because they came handy. Think it over. I shall bring you a drink.’
|
||
|
||
She neither answered nor turned, but went on writing in a scorching scrawl whatever she was writing. A third letter, presumably (two in stamped envelopes were already laid out on the desk). I went back to the kitchen.
|
||
|
||
I set out two glasses (to St. Algebra? to Lo?) and opened the refrigerator. It roared at me viciously while I removed the ice from its heart. Rewrite. Let her read it again. She will not recall details. Change, forge. Write a fragment and show it to her or leave it lying around. Why do faucets sometimes whine so horribly? A horrible situation, really. The little pillow-shaped blocks of ice – pillows for polar teddy bear, Lo – emitted rasping, crackling, tortured sounds as the warm water loosened them in their cells. I bumped down the glasses side by side. I poured in the whisky and a dram of soda. She had tabooed my pin[111 - pin – напиток, смесь джина и ананасового сока]. Bark and bang went the icebox. Carrying the glasses, I walked through the dining room and spoke through the parlour door which was a fraction ajar, not quite space enough for my elbow.
|
||
|
||
‘I have made you a drink,’ I said.
|
||
|
||
She did not answer, the mad bitch, and I placed the glasses on the sideboard near the telephone, which had started to ring.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
Pride and Prejudice
|
||
Jane Austen
|
||
|
||
Chapter 1
|
||
It is a truth universally acknowledged, that a single man in possession of a good fortune, must be in want of a wife.
|
||
However little known the feelings or views of such a man may be on his first entering a neighbourhood, this truth is so well fixed in the minds of the surrounding families, that he is considered the rightful property of some one or other of their daughters.
|
||
"My dear Mr. Bennet," said his lady to him one day, "have you heard that Netherfield Park is let at last?"
|
||
Mr. Bennet replied that he had not.
|
||
"But it is, returned she; "for Mrs. Long has just been here, and she told me all about it.
|
||
Mr. Bennet made no answer.
|
||
"Do you not want to know who has taken it?" cried his wife impatiently.
|
||
"YOU want to tell me, and I have no objection to hearing it."
|
||
This was invitation enough.
|
||
"Why, my dear, you must know, Mrs. Long says that Netherfield is taken by a young man of large fortune from the north of England; that he came down on Monday in a chaise and four to see the place, and was so much delighted with it, that he agreed with Mr. Morris immediately; that he is to take possession before Michaelmas, and some of his servants are to be in the house by the end of next week."
|
||
"What is his name?"
|
||
"Bingley."
|
||
"Is he married or single?"
|
||
"Oh! Single, my dear, to be sure! A single man of large fortune; four or five thousand a year. What a fine thing for our girls!"
|
||
"How so? How can it affect them?"
|
||
"My dear Mr. Bennet," replied his wife, "how can you be so tiresome! You must know that I am thinking of his marrying one of them."
|
||
"Is that his design in settling here?"
|
||
"Design! Nonsense, how can you talk so! But it is very likely that he MAY fall in love with one of them, and therefore you must visit him as soon as he comes."
|
||
"I see no occasion for that. You and the girls may go, or you may send them by themselves, which perhaps will be still better, for as you are as handsome as any of them, Mr. Bingley may like you the best of the party."
|
||
"My dear, you flatter me. I certainly HAVE had my share of beauty, but I do not pretend to be anything extraordinary now. When a woman has five grown-up daughters, she ought to give over thinking of her own beauty."
|
||
"In such cases, a woman has not often much beauty to think of."
|
||
"But, my dear, you must indeed go and see Mr. Bingley when he comes into the neighbourhood."
|
||
"It is more than I engage for, I assure you."
|
||
"But consider your daughters. Only think what an establishment it would be for one of them. Sir William and Lady Lucas are determined to go, merely on that account, for in general, you know, they visit no newcomers. Indeed you must go, for it will be impossible for US to visit him if you do not."
|
||
"You are over-scrupulous, surely. I dare say Mr. Bingley will be very glad to see you; and I will send a few lines by you to assure him of my hearty consent to his marrying whichever he chooses of the girls; though I must throw in a good word for my little Lizzy."
|
||
"I desire you will do no such thing. Lizzy is not a bit better than the others; and I am sure she is not half so handsome as Jane, nor half so good-humoured as Lydia. But you are always giving HER the preference."
|
||
"They have none of them much to recommend them," replied he; "they are all silly and ignorant like other girls; but Lizzy has something more of quickness than her sisters."
|
||
"Mr. Bennet, how CAN you abuse your own children in such a way? You take delight in vexing me. You have no compassion for my poor nerves."
|
||
"You mistake me, my dear. I have a high respect for your nerves. They are my old friends. I have heard you mention them with consideration these last twenty years at least."
|
||
Mr. Bennet was so odd a mixture of quick parts, sarcastic humour, reserve, and caprice, that the experience of three-and-twenty years had been insufficient to make his wife understand his character. HER mind was less difficult to develop. She was a woman of mean understanding, little information, and uncertain temper. When she was discontented, she fancied herself nervous. The business of her life was to get her daughters married; its solace was visiting and news.
|
||
Chapter 2
|
||
Mr. Bennet was among the earliest of those who waited on Mr. Bingley. He had always intended to visit him, though to the last always assuring his wife that he should not go; and till the evening after the visit was paid she had no knowledge of it. It was then disclosed in the following manner. Observing his second daughter employed in trimming a hat, he suddenly addressed her with:
|
||
"I hope Mr. Bingley will like it, Lizzy."
|
||
"We are not in a way to know WHAT Mr. Bingley likes," said her mother resentfully, "since we are not to visit."
|
||
"But you forget, mamma," said Elizabeth, "that we shall meet him at the assemblies, and that Mrs. Long promised to introduce him."
|
||
"I do not believe Mrs. Long will do any such thing. She has two nieces of her own. She is a selfish, hypocritical woman, and I have no opinion of her."
|
||
"No more have I," said Mr. Bennet; "and I am glad to find that you do not depend on her serving you."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet deigned not to make any reply, but, unable to contain herself, began scolding one of her daughters.
|
||
"Don't keep coughing so, Kitty, for Heaven's sake! Have a little compassion on my nerves. You tear them to pieces."
|
||
"Kitty has no discretion in her coughs," said her father; "she times them ill."
|
||
"I do not cough for my own amusement," replied Kitty fretfully. "When is your next ball to be, Lizzy?"
|
||
"To-morrow fortnight."
|
||
"Aye, so it is," cried her mother, "and Mrs. Long does not come back till the day before; so it will be impossible for her to introduce him, for she will not know him herself."
|
||
"Then, my dear, you may have the advantage of your friend, and introduce Mr. Bingley to HER."
|
||
"Impossible, Mr. Bennet, impossible, when I am not acquainted with him myself; how can you be so teasing?"
|
||
"I honour your circumspection. A fortnight's acquaintance is certainly very little. One cannot know what a man really is by the end of a fortnight. But if WE do not venture somebody else will; and after all, Mrs. Long and her daughters must stand their chance; and, therefore, as she will think it an act of kindness, if you decline the office, I will take it on myself."
|
||
The girls stared at their father. Mrs. Bennet said only, "Nonsense, nonsense!"
|
||
"What can be the meaning of that emphatic exclamation?" cried he. "Do you consider the forms of introduction, and the stress that is laid on them, as nonsense? I cannot quite agree with you THERE. What say you, Mary? For you are a young lady of deep reflection, I know, and read great books and make extracts."
|
||
Mary wished to say something sensible, but knew not how.
|
||
"While Mary is adjusting her ideas," he continued, "let us return to Mr. Bingley."
|
||
"I am sick of Mr. Bingley," cried his wife.
|
||
"I am sorry to hear THAT; but why did not you tell me that before? If I had known as much this morning I certainly would not have called on him. It is very unlucky; but as I have actually paid the visit, we cannot escape the acquaintance now."
|
||
The astonishment of the ladies was just what he wished; that of Mrs. Bennet perhaps surpassing the rest; though, when the first tumult of joy was over, she began to declare that it was what she had expected all the while.
|
||
"How good it was in you, my dear Mr. Bennet! But I knew I should persuade you at last. I was sure you loved your girls too well to neglect such an acquaintance. Well, how pleased I am! and it is such a good joke, too, that you should have gone this morning and never said a word about it till now."
|
||
"Now, Kitty, you may cough as much as you choose," said Mr. Bennet; and, as he spoke, he left the room, fatigued with the raptures of his wife.
|
||
What an excellent father you have, girls!" said she, when the door was shut. "I do not know how you will ever make him amends for his kindness; or me, either, for that matter. At our time of life it is not so pleasant, I can tell you, to be making new acquaintances every day; but for your sakes, we would do anything. Lydia, my love, though you ARE the youngest, I dare say Mr. Bingley will dance with you at the next ball."
|
||
"Oh!" said Lydia stoutly, "I am not afraid; for though I AM the youngest, I'm the tallest."
|
||
The rest of the evening was spent in conjecturing how soon he would return Mr. Bennet's visit, and determining when they should ask him to dinner.
|
||
Chapter 3
|
||
Not all that Mrs. Bennet, however, with the assistance of her five daughters, could ask on the subject, was sufficient to draw from her husband any satisfactory description of Mr. Bingley. They attacked him in various ways—with barefaced questions, ingenious suppositions, and distant surmises; but he eluded the skill of them all, and they were at last obliged to accept the second-hand intelligence of their neighbour, Lady Lucas. Her report was highly favourable. Sir William had been delighted with him. He was quite young, wonderfully handsome, extremely agreeable, and, to crown the whole, he meant to be at the next assembly with a large party. Nothing could be more delightful! To be fond of dancing was a certain step towards falling in love; and very lively hopes of Mr. Bingley's heart were entertained.
|
||
"If I can but see one of my daughters happily settled at Netherfield," said Mrs. Bennet to her husband, "and all the others equally well married, I shall have nothing to wish for."
|
||
In a few days Mr. Bingley returned Mr. Bennet's visit, and sat about ten minutes with him in his library. He had entertained hopes of being admitted to a sight of the young ladies, of whose beauty he had heard much; but he saw only the father. The ladies were somewhat more fortunate, for they had the advantage of ascertaining from an upper window that he wore a blue coat, and rode a black horse.
|
||
An invitation to dinner was soon afterwards dispatched; and already had Mrs. Bennet planned the courses that were to do credit to her housekeeping, when an answer arrived which deferred it all. Mr. Bingley was obliged to be in town the following day, and, consequently, unable to accept the honour of their invitation, etc. Mrs. Bennet was quite disconcerted. She could not imagine what business he could have in town so soon after his arrival in Hertfordshire; and she began to fear that he might be always flying about from one place to another, and never settled at Netherfield as he ought to be. Lady Lucas quieted her fears a little by starting the idea of his being gone to London only to get a large party for the ball; and a report soon followed that Mr. Bingley was to bring twelve ladies and seven gentlemen with him to the assembly. The girls grieved over such a number of ladies, but were comforted the day before the ball by hearing, that instead of twelve he brought only six with him from London—his five sisters and a cousin. And when the party entered the assembly room it consisted of only five altogether—Mr. Bingley, his two sisters, the husband of the eldest, and another young man.
|
||
Mr. Bingley was good-looking and gentlemanlike; he had a pleasant countenance, and easy, unaffected manners. His sisters were fine women, with an air of decided fashion. His brother-in-law, Mr. Hurst, merely looked the gentleman; but his friend Mr. Darcy soon drew the attention of the room by his fine, tall person, handsome features, noble mien, and the report which was in general circulation within five minutes after his entrance, of his having ten thousand a year. The gentlemen pronounced him to be a fine figure of a man, the ladies declared he was much handsomer than Mr. Bingley, and he was looked at with great admiration for about half the evening, till his manners gave a disgust which turned the tide of his popularity; for he was discovered to be proud; to be above his company, and above being pleased; and not all his large estate in Derbyshire could then save him from having a most forbidding, disagreeable countenance, and being unworthy to be compared with his friend.
|
||
Mr. Bingley had soon made himself acquainted with all the principal people in the room; he was lively and unreserved, danced every dance, was angry that the ball closed so early, and talked of giving one himself at Netherfield. Such amiable qualities must speak for themselves. What a contrast between him and his friend! Mr. Darcy danced only once with Mrs. Hurst and once with Miss Bingley, declined being introduced to any other lady, and spent the rest of the evening in walking about the room, speaking occasionally to one of his own party. His character was decided. He was the proudest, most disagreeable man in the world, and everybody hoped that he would never come there again. Amongst the most violent against him was Mrs. Bennet, whose dislike of his general behaviour was sharpened into particular resentment by his having slighted one of her daughters.
|
||
Elizabeth Bennet had been obliged, by the scarcity of gentlemen, to sit down for two dances; and during part of that time, Mr. Darcy had been standing near enough for her to hear a conversation between him and Mr. Bingley, who came from the dance for a few minutes, to press his friend to join it.
|
||
"Come, Darcy," said he, "I must have you dance. I hate to see you standing about by yourself in this stupid manner. You had much better dance."
|
||
"I certainly shall not. You know how I detest it, unless I am particularly acquainted with my partner. At such an assembly as this it would be insupportable. Your sisters are engaged, and there is not another woman in the room whom it would not be a punishment to me to stand up with."
|
||
"I would not be so fastidious as you are," cried Mr. Bingley, "for a kingdom! Upon my honour, I never met with so many pleasant girls in my life as I have this evening; and there are several of them you see uncommonly pretty."
|
||
"YOU are dancing with the only handsome girl in the room," said Mr. Darcy, looking at the eldest Miss Bennet.
|
||
"Oh! She is the most beautiful creature I ever beheld! But there is one of her sisters sitting down just behind you, who is very pretty, and I dare say very agreeable. Do let me ask my partner to introduce you."
|
||
"Which do you mean?" and turning round he looked for a moment at Elizabeth, till catching her eye, he withdrew his own and coldly said: "She is tolerable, but not handsome enough to tempt ME; I am in no humour at present to give consequence to young ladies who are slighted by other men. You had better return to your partner and enjoy her smiles, for you are wasting your time with me."
|
||
Mr. Bingley followed his advice. Mr. Darcy walked off; and Elizabeth remained with no very cordial feelings toward him. She told the story, however, with great spirit among her friends; for she had a lively, playful disposition, which delighted in anything ridiculous.
|
||
The evening altogether passed off pleasantly to the whole family. Mrs. Bennet had seen her eldest daughter much admired by the Netherfield party. Mr. Bingley had danced with her twice, and she had been distinguished by his sisters. Jane was as much gratified by this as her mother could be, though in a quieter way. Elizabeth felt Jane's pleasure. Mary had heard herself mentioned to Miss Bingley as the most accomplished girl in the neighbourhood; and Catherine and Lydia had been fortunate enough never to be without partners, which was all that they had yet learnt to care for at a ball. They returned, therefore, in good spirits to Longbourn, the village where they lived, and of which they were the principal inhabitants. They found Mr. Bennet still up. With a book he was regardless of time; and on the present occasion he had a good deal of curiosity as to the events of an evening which had raised such splendid expectations. He had rather hoped that his wife's views on the stranger would be disappointed; but he soon found out that he had a different story to hear.
|
||
"Oh! my dear Mr. Bennet," as she entered the room, "we have had a most delightful evening, a most excellent ball. I wish you had been there. Jane was so admired, nothing could be like it. Everybody said how well she looked; and Mr. Bingley thought her quite beautiful, and danced with her twice! Only think of THAT, my dear; he actually danced with her twice! and she was the only creature in the room that he asked a second time. First of all, he asked Miss Lucas. I was so vexed to see him stand up with her! But, however, he did not admire her at all; indeed, nobody can, you know; and he seemed quite struck with Jane as she was going down the dance. So he inquired who she was, and got introduced, and asked her for the two next. Then the two third he danced with Miss King, and the two fourth with Maria Lucas, and the two fifth with Jane again, and the two sixth with Lizzy, and the BOULANGER—"
|
||
"If he had had any compassion for ME," cried her husband impatiently, "he would not have danced half so much! For God's sake, say no more of his partners. O that he had sprained his ankle in the first place!"
|
||
"Oh! my dear, I am quite delighted with him. He is so excessively handsome! And his sisters are charming women. I never in my life saw anything more elegant than their dresses. I dare say the lace upon Mrs. Hurst's gown—"
|
||
Here she was interrupted again. Mr. Bennet protested against any description of finery. She was therefore obliged to seek another branch of the subject, and related, with much bitterness of spirit and some exaggeration, the shocking rudeness of Mr. Darcy.
|
||
"But I can assure you," she added, "that Lizzy does not lose much by not suiting HIS fancy; for he is a most disagreeable, horrid man, not at all worth pleasing. So high and so conceited that there was no enduring him! He walked here, and he walked there, fancying himself so very great! Not handsome enough to dance with! I wish you had been there, my dear, to have given him one of your set-downs. I quite detest the man."
|
||
Chapter 4
|
||
When Jane and Elizabeth were alone, the former, who had been cautious in her praise of Mr. Bingley before, expressed to her sister just how very much she admired him.
|
||
"He is just what a young man ought to be," said she, "sensible, good-humoured, lively; and I never saw such happy manners!—so much ease, with such perfect good breeding!"
|
||
"He is also handsome," replied Elizabeth, "which a young man ought likewise to be, if he possibly can. His character is thereby complete."
|
||
"I was very much flattered by his asking me to dance a second time. I did not expect such a compliment."
|
||
"Did not you? I did for you. But that is one great difference between us. Compliments always take YOU by surprise, and ME never. What could be more natural than his asking you again? He could not help seeing that you were about five times as pretty as every other woman in the room. No thanks to his gallantry for that. Well, he certainly is very agreeable, and I give you leave to like him. You have liked many a stupider person."
|
||
"Dear Lizzy!"
|
||
"Oh! you are a great deal too apt, you know, to like people in general. You never see a fault in anybody. All the world are good and agreeable in your eyes. I never heard you speak ill of a human being in your life."
|
||
"I would not wish to be hasty in censuring anyone; but I always speak what I think."
|
||
"I know you do; and it is THAT which makes the wonder. With YOUR good sense, to be so honestly blind to the follies and nonsense of others! Affectation of candour is common enough—one meets with it everywhere. But to be candid without ostentation or design—to take the good of everybody's character and make it still better, and say nothing of the bad—belongs to you alone. And so you like this man's sisters, too, do you? Their manners are not equal to his."
|
||
"Certainly not—at first. But they are very pleasing women when you converse with them. Miss Bingley is to live with her brother, and keep his house; and I am much mistaken if we shall not find a very charming neighbour in her."
|
||
Elizabeth listened in silence, but was not convinced; their behaviour at the assembly had not been calculated to please in general; and with more quickness of observation and less pliancy of temper than her sister, and with a judgement too unassailed by any attention to herself, she was very little disposed to approve them. They were in fact very fine ladies; not deficient in good humour when they were pleased, nor in the power of making themselves agreeable when they chose it, but proud and conceited. They were rather handsome, had been educated in one of the first private seminaries in town, had a fortune of twenty thousand pounds, were in the habit of spending more than they ought, and of associating with people of rank, and were therefore in every respect entitled to think well of themselves, and meanly of others. They were of a respectable family in the north of England; a circumstance more deeply impressed on their memories than that their brother's fortune and their own had been acquired by trade.
|
||
Mr. Bingley inherited property to the amount of nearly a hundred thousand pounds from his father, who had intended to purchase an estate, but did not live to do it. Mr. Bingley intended it likewise, and sometimes made choice of his county; but as he was now provided with a good house and the liberty of a manor, it was doubtful to many of those who best knew the easiness of his temper, whether he might not spend the remainder of his days at Netherfield, and leave the next generation to purchase.
|
||
His sisters were anxious for his having an estate of his own; but, though he was now only established as a tenant, Miss Bingley was by no means unwilling to preside at his table—nor was Mrs. Hurst, who had married a man of more fashion than fortune, less disposed to consider his house as her home when it suited her. Mr. Bingley had not been of age two years, when he was tempted by an accidental recommendation to look at Netherfield House. He did look at it, and into it for half-an-hour—was pleased with the situation and the principal rooms, satisfied with what the owner said in its praise, and took it immediately.
|
||
Between him and Darcy there was a very steady friendship, in spite of great opposition of character. Bingley was endeared to Darcy by the easiness, openness, and ductility of his temper, though no disposition could offer a greater contrast to his own, and though with his own he never appeared dissatisfied. On the strength of Darcy's regard, Bingley had the firmest reliance, and of his judgement the highest opinion. In understanding, Darcy was the superior. Bingley was by no means deficient, but Darcy was clever. He was at the same time haughty, reserved, and fastidious, and his manners, though well-bred, were not inviting. In that respect his friend had greatly the advantage. Bingley was sure of being liked wherever he appeared, Darcy was continually giving offense.
|
||
The manner in which they spoke of the Meryton assembly was sufficiently characteristic. Bingley had never met with more pleasant people or prettier girls in his life; everybody had been most kind and attentive to him; there had been no formality, no stiffness; he had soon felt acquainted with all the room; and, as to Miss Bennet, he could not conceive an angel more beautiful. Darcy, on the contrary, had seen a collection of people in whom there was little beauty and no fashion, for none of whom he had felt the smallest interest, and from none received either attention or pleasure. Miss Bennet he acknowledged to be pretty, but she smiled too much.
|
||
Mrs. Hurst and her sister allowed it to be so—but still they admired her and liked her, and pronounced her to be a sweet girl, and one whom they would not object to know more of. Miss Bennet was therefore established as a sweet girl, and their brother felt authorized by such commendation to think of her as he chose.
|
||
Chapter 5
|
||
Within a short walk of Longbourn lived a family with whom the Bennets were particularly intimate. Sir William Lucas had been formerly in trade in Meryton, where he had made a tolerable fortune, and risen to the honour of knighthood by an address to the king during his mayoralty. The distinction had perhaps been felt too strongly. It had given him a disgust to his business, and to his residence in a small market town; and, in quitting them both, he had removed with his family to a house about a mile from Meryton, denominated from that period Lucas Lodge, where he could think with pleasure of his own importance, and, unshackled by business, occupy himself solely in being civil to all the world. For, though elated by his rank, it did not render him supercilious; on the contrary, he was all attention to everybody. By nature inoffensive, friendly, and obliging, his presentation at St. James's had made him courteous.
|
||
Lady Lucas was a very good kind of woman, not too clever to be a valuable neighbour to Mrs. Bennet. They had several children. The eldest of them, a sensible, intelligent young woman, about twenty-seven, was Elizabeth's intimate friend.
|
||
That the Miss Lucases and the Miss Bennets should meet to talk over a ball was absolutely necessary; and the morning after the assembly brought the former to Longbourn to hear and to communicate.
|
||
"YOU began the evening well, Charlotte," said Mrs. Bennet with civil self-command to Miss Lucas. "YOU were Mr. Bingley's first choice."
|
||
"Yes; but he seemed to like his second better."
|
||
"Oh! you mean Jane, I suppose, because he danced with her twice. To be sure that DID seem as if he admired her—indeed I rather believe he DID—I heard something about it—but I hardly know what—something about Mr. Robinson."
|
||
"Perhaps you mean what I overheard between him and Mr. Robinson; did not I mention it to you? Mr. Robinson's asking him how he liked our Meryton assemblies, and whether he did not think there were a great many pretty women in the room, and WHICH he thought the prettiest? and his answering immediately to the last question: 'Oh! the eldest Miss Bennet, beyond a doubt; there cannot be two opinions on that point.'"
|
||
"Upon my word! Well, that is very decided indeed—that does seem as if—but, however, it may all come to nothing, you know."
|
||
"MY overhearings were more to the purpose than YOURS, Eliza," said Charlotte. "Mr. Darcy is not so well worth listening to as his friend, is he?—poor Eliza!—to be only just TOLERABLE."
|
||
"I beg you would not put it into Lizzy's head to be vexed by his ill-treatment, for he is such a disagreeable man, that it would be quite a misfortune to be liked by him. Mrs. Long told me last night that he sat close to her for half-an-hour without once opening his lips."
|
||
"Are you quite sure, ma'am?—is not there a little mistake?" said Jane. "I certainly saw Mr. Darcy speaking to her."
|
||
"Aye—because she asked him at last how he liked Netherfield, and he could not help answering her; but she said he seemed quite angry at being spoke to."
|
||
"Miss Bingley told me," said Jane, "that he never speaks much, unless among his intimate acquaintances. With THEM he is remarkably agreeable."
|
||
"I do not believe a word of it, my dear. If he had been so very agreeable, he would have talked to Mrs. Long. But I can guess how it was; everybody says that he is eat up with pride, and I dare say he had heard somehow that Mrs. Long does not keep a carriage, and had come to the ball in a hack chaise."
|
||
"I do not mind his not talking to Mrs. Long," said Miss Lucas, "but I wish he had danced with Eliza."
|
||
"Another time, Lizzy," said her mother, "I would not dance with HIM, if I were you."
|
||
"I believe, ma'am, I may safely promise you NEVER to dance with him."
|
||
"His pride," said Miss Lucas, "does not offend ME so much as pride often does, because there is an excuse for it. One cannot wonder that so very fine a young man, with family, fortune, everything in his favour, should think highly of himself. If I may so express it, he has a RIGHT to be proud."
|
||
"That is very true," replied Elizabeth, "and I could easily forgive HIS pride, if he had not mortified MINE."
|
||
"Pride," observed Mary, who piqued herself upon the solidity of her reflections, "is a very common failing, I believe. By all that I have ever read, I am convinced that it is very common indeed; that human nature is particularly prone to it, and that there are very few of us who do not cherish a feeling of self-complacency on the score of some quality or other, real or imaginary. Vanity and pride are different things, though the words are often used synonymously. A person may be proud without being vain. Pride relates more to our opinion of ourselves, vanity to what we would have others think of us."
|
||
"If I were as rich as Mr. Darcy," cried a young Lucas, who came with his sisters, "I should not care how proud I was. I would keep a pack of foxhounds, and drink a bottle of wine a day."
|
||
"Then you would drink a great deal more than you ought," said Mrs. Bennet; "and if I were to see you at it, I should take away your bottle directly."
|
||
The boy protested that she should not; she continued to declare that she would, and the argument ended only with the visit.
|
||
Chapter 6
|
||
The ladies of Longbourn soon waited on those of Netherfield. The visit was soon returned in due form. Miss Bennet's pleasing manners grew on the goodwill of Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and though the mother was found to be intolerable, and the younger sisters not worth speaking to, a wish of being better acquainted with THEM was expressed towards the two eldest. By Jane, this attention was received with the greatest pleasure, but Elizabeth still saw superciliousness in their treatment of everybody, hardly excepting even her sister, and could not like them; though their kindness to Jane, such as it was, had a value as arising in all probability from the influence of their brother's admiration. It was generally evident whenever they met, that he DID admire her and to HER it was equally evident that Jane was yielding to the preference which she had begun to entertain for him from the first, and was in a way to be very much in love; but she considered with pleasure that it was not likely to be discovered by the world in general, since Jane united, with great strength of feeling, a composure of temper and a uniform cheerfulness of manner which would guard her from the suspicions of the impertinent. She mentioned this to her friend Miss Lucas.
|
||
"It may perhaps be pleasant," replied Charlotte, "to be able to impose on the public in such a case; but it is sometimes a disadvantage to be so very guarded. If a woman conceals her affection with the same skill from the object of it, she may lose the opportunity of fixing him; and it will then be but poor consolation to believe the world equally in the dark. There is so much of gratitude or vanity in almost every attachment, that it is not safe to leave any to itself. We can all BEGIN freely—a slight preference is natural enough; but there are very few of us who have heart enough to be really in love without encouragement. In nine cases out of ten a women had better show MORE affection than she feels. Bingley likes your sister undoubtedly; but he may never do more than like her, if she does not help him on."
|
||
"But she does help him on, as much as her nature will allow. If I can perceive her regard for him, he must be a simpleton, indeed, not to discover it too."
|
||
"Remember, Eliza, that he does not know Jane's disposition as you do."
|
||
"But if a woman is partial to a man, and does not endeavour to conceal it, he must find it out."
|
||
"Perhaps he must, if he sees enough of her. But, though Bingley and Jane meet tolerably often, it is never for many hours together; and, as they always see each other in large mixed parties, it is impossible that every moment should be employed in conversing together. Jane should therefore make the most of every half-hour in which she can command his attention. When she is secure of him, there will be more leisure for falling in love as much as she chooses."
|
||
"Your plan is a good one," replied Elizabeth, "where nothing is in question but the desire of being well married, and if I were determined to get a rich husband, or any husband, I dare say I should adopt it. But these are not Jane's feelings; she is not acting by design. As yet, she cannot even be certain of the degree of her own regard nor of its reasonableness. She has known him only a fortnight. She danced four dances with him at Meryton; she saw him one morning at his own house, and has since dined with him in company four times. This is not quite enough to make her understand his character."
|
||
"Not as you represent it. Had she merely DINED with him, she might only have discovered whether he had a good appetite; but you must remember that four evenings have also been spent together—and four evenings may do a great deal."
|
||
"Yes; these four evenings have enabled them to ascertain that they both like Vingt-un better than Commerce; but with respect to any other leading characteristic, I do not imagine that much has been unfolded."
|
||
"Well," said Charlotte, "I wish Jane success with all my heart; and if she were married to him to-morrow, I should think she had as good a chance of happiness as if she were to be studying his character for a twelvemonth. Happiness in marriage is entirely a matter of chance. If the dispositions of the parties are ever so well known to each other or ever so similar beforehand, it does not advance their felicity in the least. They always continue to grow sufficiently unlike afterwards to have their share of vexation; and it is better to know as little as possible of the defects of the person with whom you are to pass your life."
|
||
"You make me laugh, Charlotte; but it is not sound. You know it is not sound, and that you would never act in this way yourself."
|
||
Occupied in observing Mr. Bingley's attentions to her sister, Elizabeth was far from suspecting that she was herself becoming an object of some interest in the eyes of his friend. Mr. Darcy had at first scarcely allowed her to be pretty; he had looked at her without admiration at the ball; and when they next met, he looked at her only to criticise. But no sooner had he made it clear to himself and his friends that she hardly had a good feature in her face, than he began to find it was rendered uncommonly intelligent by the beautiful expression of her dark eyes. To this discovery succeeded some others equally mortifying. Though he had detected with a critical eye more than one failure of perfect symmetry in her form, he was forced to acknowledge her figure to be light and pleasing; and in spite of his asserting that her manners were not those of the fashionable world, he was caught by their easy playfulness. Of this she was perfectly unaware; to her he was only the man who made himself agreeable nowhere, and who had not thought her handsome enough to dance with.
|
||
He began to wish to know more of her, and as a step towards conversing with her himself, attended to her conversation with others. His doing so drew her notice. It was at Sir William Lucas's, where a large party were assembled.
|
||
"What does Mr. Darcy mean," said she to Charlotte, "by listening to my conversation with Colonel Forster?"
|
||
"That is a question which Mr. Darcy only can answer."
|
||
"But if he does it any more I shall certainly let him know that I see what he is about. He has a very satirical eye, and if I do not begin by being impertinent myself, I shall soon grow afraid of him."
|
||
On his approaching them soon afterwards, though without seeming to have any intention of speaking, Miss Lucas defied her friend to mention such a subject to him; which immediately provoking Elizabeth to do it, she turned to him and said:
|
||
"Did you not think, Mr. Darcy, that I expressed myself uncommonly well just now, when I was teasing Colonel Forster to give us a ball at Meryton?"
|
||
"With great energy; but it is always a subject which makes a lady energetic."
|
||
"You are severe on us."
|
||
"It will be HER turn soon to be teased," said Miss Lucas. "I am going to open the instrument, Eliza, and you know what follows."
|
||
"You are a very strange creature by way of a friend!—always wanting me to play and sing before anybody and everybody! If my vanity had taken a musical turn, you would have been invaluable; but as it is, I would really rather not sit down before those who must be in the habit of hearing the very best performers." On Miss Lucas's persevering, however, she added, "Very well, if it must be so, it must." And gravely glancing at Mr. Darcy, "There is a fine old saying, which everybody here is of course familiar with: 'Keep your breath to cool your porridge'; and I shall keep mine to swell my song."
|
||
Her performance was pleasing, though by no means capital. After a song or two, and before she could reply to the entreaties of several that she would sing again, she was eagerly succeeded at the instrument by her sister Mary, who having, in consequence of being the only plain one in the family, worked hard for knowledge and accomplishments, was always impatient for display.
|
||
Mary had neither genius nor taste; and though vanity had given her application, it had given her likewise a pedantic air and conceited manner, which would have injured a higher degree of excellence than she had reached. Elizabeth, easy and unaffected, had been listened to with much more pleasure, though not playing half so well; and Mary, at the end of a long concerto, was glad to purchase praise and gratitude by Scotch and Irish airs, at the request of her younger sisters, who, with some of the Lucases, and two or three officers, joined eagerly in dancing at one end of the room.
|
||
Mr. Darcy stood near them in silent indignation at such a mode of passing the evening, to the exclusion of all conversation, and was too much engrossed by his thoughts to perceive that Sir William Lucas was his neighbour, till Sir William thus began:
|
||
"What a charming amusement for young people this is, Mr. Darcy! There is nothing like dancing after all. I consider it as one of the first refinements of polished society."
|
||
"Certainly, sir; and it has the advantage also of being in vogue amongst the less polished societies of the world. Every savage can dance."
|
||
Sir William only smiled. "Your friend performs delightfully," he continued after a pause, on seeing Bingley join the group; "and I doubt not that you are an adept in the science yourself, Mr. Darcy."
|
||
"You saw me dance at Meryton, I believe, sir."
|
||
"Yes, indeed, and received no inconsiderable pleasure from the sight. Do you often dance at St. James's?"
|
||
"Never, sir."
|
||
"Do you not think it would be a proper compliment to the place?"
|
||
"It is a compliment which I never pay to any place if I can avoid it."
|
||
"You have a house in town, I conclude?"
|
||
Mr. Darcy bowed.
|
||
"I had once had some thought of fixing in town myself—for I am fond of superior society; but I did not feel quite certain that the air of London would agree with Lady Lucas."
|
||
He paused in hopes of an answer; but his companion was not disposed to make any; and Elizabeth at that instant moving towards them, he was struck with the action of doing a very gallant thing, and called out to her:
|
||
"My dear Miss Eliza, why are you not dancing? Mr. Darcy, you must allow me to present this young lady to you as a very desirable partner. You cannot refuse to dance, I am sure when so much beauty is before you." And, taking her hand, he would have given it to Mr. Darcy who, though extremely surprised, was not unwilling to receive it, when she instantly drew back, and said with some discomposure to Sir William:
|
||
"Indeed, sir, I have not the least intention of dancing. I entreat you not to suppose that I moved this way in order to beg for a partner."
|
||
Mr. Darcy, with grave propriety, requested to be allowed the honour of her hand, but in vain. Elizabeth was determined; nor did Sir William at all shake her purpose by his attempt at persuasion.
|
||
"You excel so much in the dance, Miss Eliza, that it is cruel to deny me the happiness of seeing you; and though this gentleman dislikes the amusement in general, he can have no objection, I am sure, to oblige us for one half-hour."
|
||
"Mr. Darcy is all politeness," said Elizabeth, smiling.
|
||
"He is, indeed; but, considering the inducement, my dear Miss Eliza, we cannot wonder at his complaisance—for who would object to such a partner?"
|
||
Elizabeth looked archly, and turned away. Her resistance had not injured her with the gentleman, and he was thinking of her with some complacency, when thus accosted by Miss Bingley:
|
||
"I can guess the subject of your reverie."
|
||
"I should imagine not."
|
||
"You are considering how insupportable it would be to pass many evenings in this manner—in such society; and indeed I am quite of you opinion. I was never more annoyed! The insipidity, and yet the noise—the nothingness, and yet the self-importance of all those people! What would I give to hear your strictures on them!"
|
||
"You conjecture is totally wrong, I assure you. My mind was more agreeably engaged. I have been meditating on the very great pleasure which a pair of fine eyes in the face of a pretty woman can bestow."
|
||
Miss Bingley immediately fixed her eyes on his face, and desired he would tell her what lady had the credit of inspiring such reflections. Mr. Darcy replied with great intrepidity:
|
||
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet."
|
||
"Miss Elizabeth Bennet!" repeated Miss Bingley. "I am all astonishment. How long has she been such a favourite?—and pray, when am I to wish you joy?"
|
||
"That is exactly the question which I expected you to ask. A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment. I knew you would be wishing me joy."
|
||
"Nay, if you are serious about it, I shall consider the matter is absolutely settled. You will be having a charming mother-in-law, indeed; and, of course, she will always be at Pemberley with you."
|
||
He listened to her with perfect indifference while she chose to entertain herself in this manner; and as his composure convinced her that all was safe, her wit flowed long.
|
||
Chapter 7
|
||
Mr. Bennet's property consisted almost entirely in an estate of two thousand a year, which, unfortunately for his daughters, was entailed, in default of heirs male, on a distant relation; and their mother's fortune, though ample for her situation in life, could but ill supply the deficiency of his. Her father had been an attorney in Meryton, and had left her four thousand pounds.
|
||
She had a sister married to a Mr. Phillips, who had been a clerk to their father and succeeded him in the business, and a brother settled in London in a respectable line of trade.
|
||
The village of Longbourn was only one mile from Meryton; a most convenient distance for the young ladies, who were usually tempted thither three or four times a week, to pay their duty to their aunt and to a milliner's shop just over the way. The two youngest of the family, Catherine and Lydia, were particularly frequent in these attentions; their minds were more vacant than their sisters', and when nothing better offered, a walk to Meryton was necessary to amuse their morning hours and furnish conversation for the evening; and however bare of news the country in general might be, they always contrived to learn some from their aunt. At present, indeed, they were well supplied both with news and happiness by the recent arrival of a militia regiment in the neighbourhood; it was to remain the whole winter, and Meryton was the headquarters.
|
||
Their visits to Mrs. Phillips were now productive of the most interesting intelligence. Every day added something to their knowledge of the officers' names and connections. Their lodgings were not long a secret, and at length they began to know the officers themselves. Mr. Phillips visited them all, and this opened to his nieces a store of felicity unknown before. They could talk of nothing but officers; and Mr. Bingley's large fortune, the mention of which gave animation to their mother, was worthless in their eyes when opposed to the regimentals of an ensign.
|
||
After listening one morning to their effusions on this subject, Mr. Bennet coolly observed:
|
||
"From all that I can collect by your manner of talking, you must be two of the silliest girls in the country. I have suspected it some time, but I am now convinced."
|
||
Catherine was disconcerted, and made no answer; but Lydia, with perfect indifference, continued to express her admiration of Captain Carter, and her hope of seeing him in the course of the day, as he was going the next morning to London.
|
||
"I am astonished, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "that you should be so ready to think your own children silly. If I wished to think slightingly of anybody's children, it should not be of my own, however."
|
||
"If my children are silly, I must hope to be always sensible of it."
|
||
"Yes—but as it happens, they are all of them very clever."
|
||
"This is the only point, I flatter myself, on which we do not agree. I had hoped that our sentiments coincided in every particular, but I must so far differ from you as to think our two youngest daughters uncommonly foolish."
|
||
"My dear Mr. Bennet, you must not expect such girls to have the sense of their father and mother. When they get to our age, I dare say they will not think about officers any more than we do. I remember the time when I liked a red coat myself very well—and, indeed, so I do still at my heart; and if a smart young colonel, with five or six thousand a year, should want one of my girls I shall not say nay to him; and I thought Colonel Forster looked very becoming the other night at Sir William's in his regimentals."
|
||
"Mamma," cried Lydia, "my aunt says that Colonel Forster and Captain Carter do not go so often to Miss Watson's as they did when they first came; she sees them now very often standing in Clarke's library."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet was prevented replying by the entrance of the footman with a note for Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield, and the servant waited for an answer. Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled with pleasure, and she was eagerly calling out, while her daughter read,
|
||
"Well, Jane, who is it from? What is it about? What does he say? Well, Jane, make haste and tell us; make haste, my love."
|
||
"It is from Miss Bingley," said Jane, and then read it aloud.
|
||
"MY DEAR FRIEND,—
|
||
"If you are not so compassionate as to dine to-day with Louisa and me, we shall be in danger of hating each other for the rest of our lives, for a whole day's tete-a-tete between two women can never end without a quarrel. Come as soon as you can on receipt of this. My brother and the gentlemen are to dine with the officers.—Yours ever,
|
||
"CAROLINE BINGLEY"
|
||
"With the officers!" cried Lydia. "I wonder my aunt did not tell us of THAT."
|
||
"Dining out," said Mrs. Bennet, "that is very unlucky."
|
||
"Can I have the carriage?" said Jane.
|
||
"No, my dear, you had better go on horseback, because it seems likely to rain; and then you must stay all night."
|
||
"That would be a good scheme," said Elizabeth, "if you were sure that they would not offer to send her home."
|
||
"Oh! but the gentlemen will have Mr. Bingley's chaise to go to Meryton, and the Hursts have no horses to theirs."
|
||
"I had much rather go in the coach."
|
||
"But, my dear, your father cannot spare the horses, I am sure. They are wanted in the farm, Mr. Bennet, are they not?"
|
||
"They are wanted in the farm much oftener than I can get them."
|
||
"But if you have got them to-day," said Elizabeth, "my mother's purpose will be answered."
|
||
She did at last extort from her father an acknowledgment that the horses were engaged. Jane was therefore obliged to go on horseback, and her mother attended her to the door with many cheerful prognostics of a bad day. Her hopes were answered; Jane had not been gone long before it rained hard. Her sisters were uneasy for her, but her mother was delighted. The rain continued the whole evening without intermission; Jane certainly could not some back.
|
||
"This was a lucky idea of mine, indeed!" said Mrs. Bennet more than once, as if the credit of making it rain were all her own. Till the next morning, however, she was not aware of all the felicity of her contrivance. Breakfast was scarcely over when a servant from Netherfield brought the following note for Elizabeth:
|
||
"MY DEAREST LIZZY,—
|
||
"I find myself very unwell this morning, which, I suppose, is to be imputed to my getting wet through yesterday. My kind friends will not hear of my returning till I am better. They insist also on my seeing Mr. Jones—therefore do not be alarmed if you should hear of his having been to me—and, excepting a sore throat and headache, there is not much the matter with me.—Yours, etc."
|
||
"Well, my dear," said Mr. Bennet, when Elizabeth had read the note aloud, "if your daughter should have a dangerous fit of illness—if she should die, it would be a comfort to know that it was all in pursuit of Mr. Bingley, and under your orders."
|
||
"Oh! I am not afraid of her dying. People do not die of little trifling colds. She will be taken good care of. As long as she stays there, it is all very well. I would go an see her if I could have the carriage."
|
||
Elizabeth, feeling really anxious, was determined to go to her, though the carriage was not to be had; and as she was no horsewoman, walking was her only alternative. She declared her resolution.
|
||
"How can you be so silly," cried her mother, "as to think of such a thing, in all this dirt! You will not be fit to be seen when you get there."
|
||
"I shall be very fit to see Jane—which is all I want."
|
||
"Is this a hint to me, Lizzy," said her father, "to send for the horses?"
|
||
"No, indeed, I do not wish to avoid the walk. The distance is nothing when one has a motive; only three miles. I shall be back by dinner."
|
||
"I admire the activity of your benevolence," observed Mary, "but every impulse of feeling should be guided by reason; and, in my opinion, exertion should always be in proportion to what is required."
|
||
"We will go as far as Meryton with you," said Catherine and Lydia. Elizabeth accepted their company, and the three young ladies set off together.
|
||
"If we make haste," said Lydia, as they walked along, "perhaps we may see something of Captain Carter before he goes."
|
||
In Meryton they parted; the two youngest repaired to the lodgings of one of the officers' wives, and Elizabeth continued her walk alone, crossing field after field at a quick pace, jumping over stiles and springing over puddles with impatient activity, and finding herself at last within view of the house, with weary ankles, dirty stockings, and a face glowing with the warmth of exercise.
|
||
She was shown into the breakfast-parlour, where all but Jane were assembled, and where her appearance created a great deal of surprise. That she should have walked three miles so early in the day, in such dirty weather, and by herself, was almost incredible to Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley; and Elizabeth was convinced that they held her in contempt for it. She was received, however, very politely by them; and in their brother's manners there was something better than politeness; there was good humour and kindness. Mr. Darcy said very little, and Mr. Hurst nothing at all. The former was divided between admiration of the brilliancy which exercise had given to her complexion, and doubt as to the occasion's justifying her coming so far alone. The latter was thinking only of his breakfast.
|
||
Her inquiries after her sister were not very favourably answered. Miss Bennet had slept ill, and though up, was very feverish, and not well enough to leave her room. Elizabeth was glad to be taken to her immediately; and Jane, who had only been withheld by the fear of giving alarm or inconvenience from expressing in her note how much she longed for such a visit, was delighted at her entrance. She was not equal, however, to much conversation, and when Miss Bingley left them together, could attempt little besides expressions of gratitude for the extraordinary kindness she was treated with. Elizabeth silently attended her.
|
||
When breakfast was over they were joined by the sisters; and Elizabeth began to like them herself, when she saw how much affection and solicitude they showed for Jane. The apothecary came, and having examined his patient, said, as might be supposed, that she had caught a violent cold, and that they must endeavour to get the better of it; advised her to return to bed, and promised her some draughts. The advice was followed readily, for the feverish symptoms increased, and her head ached acutely. Elizabeth did not quit her room for a moment; nor were the other ladies often absent; the gentlemen being out, they had, in fact, nothing to do elsewhere.
|
||
When the clock struck three, Elizabeth felt that she must go, and very unwillingly said so. Miss Bingley offered her the carriage, and she only wanted a little pressing to accept it, when Jane testified such concern in parting with her, that Miss Bingley was obliged to convert the offer of the chaise to an invitation to remain at Netherfield for the present. Elizabeth most thankfully consented, and a servant was dispatched to Longbourn to acquaint the family with her stay and bring back a supply of clothes.
|
||
Chapter 8
|
||
At five o'clock the two ladies retired to dress, and at half-past six Elizabeth was summoned to dinner. To the civil inquiries which then poured in, and amongst which she had the pleasure of distinguishing the much superior solicitude of Mr. Bingley's, she could not make a very favourable answer. Jane was by no means better. The sisters, on hearing this, repeated three or four times how much they were grieved, how shocking it was to have a bad cold, and how excessively they disliked being ill themselves; and then thought no more of the matter: and their indifference towards Jane when not immediately before them restored Elizabeth to the enjoyment of all her former dislike.
|
||
Their brother, indeed, was the only one of the party whom she could regard with any complacency. His anxiety for Jane was evident, and his attentions to herself most pleasing, and they prevented her feeling herself so much an intruder as she believed she was considered by the others. She had very little notice from any but him. Miss Bingley was engrossed by Mr. Darcy, her sister scarcely less so; and as for Mr. Hurst, by whom Elizabeth sat, he was an indolent man, who lived only to eat, drink, and play at cards; who, when he found her to prefer a plain dish to a ragout, had nothing to say to her.
|
||
When dinner was over, she returned directly to Jane, and Miss Bingley began abusing her as soon as she was out of the room. Her manners were pronounced to be very bad indeed, a mixture of pride and impertinence; she had no conversation, no style, no beauty. Mrs. Hurst thought the same, and added:
|
||
"She has nothing, in short, to recommend her, but being an excellent walker. I shall never forget her appearance this morning. She really looked almost wild."
|
||
"She did, indeed, Louisa. I could hardly keep my countenance. Very nonsensical to come at all! Why must SHE be scampering about the country, because her sister had a cold? Her hair, so untidy, so blowsy!"
|
||
"Yes, and her petticoat; I hope you saw her petticoat, six inches deep in mud, I am absolutely certain; and the gown which had been let down to hide it not doing its office."
|
||
"Your picture may be very exact, Louisa," said Bingley; "but this was all lost upon me. I thought Miss Elizabeth Bennet looked remarkably well when she came into the room this morning. Her dirty petticoat quite escaped my notice."
|
||
"YOU observed it, Mr. Darcy, I am sure," said Miss Bingley; "and I am inclined to think that you would not wish to see YOUR sister make such an exhibition."
|
||
"Certainly not."
|
||
"To walk three miles, or four miles, or five miles, or whatever it is, above her ankles in dirt, and alone, quite alone! What could she mean by it? It seems to me to show an abominable sort of conceited independence, a most country-town indifference to decorum."
|
||
"It shows an affection for her sister that is very pleasing," said Bingley.
|
||
"I am afraid, Mr. Darcy," observed Miss Bingley in a half whisper, "that this adventure has rather affected your admiration of her fine eyes."
|
||
"Not at all," he replied; "they were brightened by the exercise." A short pause followed this speech, and Mrs. Hurst began again:
|
||
"I have a excessive regard for Miss Jane Bennet, she is really a very sweet girl, and I wish with all my heart she were well settled. But with such a father and mother, and such low connections, I am afraid there is no chance of it."
|
||
"I think I have heard you say that their uncle is an attorney on Meryton."
|
||
"Yes; and they have another, who lives somewhere near Cheapside."
|
||
"That is capital," added her sister, and they both laughed heartily.
|
||
"If they had uncles enough to fill ALL Cheapside," cried Bingley, "it would not make them one jot less agreeable."
|
||
"But it must very materially lessen their chance of marrying men of any consideration in the world," replied Darcy.
|
||
To this speech Bingley made no answer; but his sisters gave it their hearty assent, and indulged their mirth for some time at the expense of their dear friend's vulgar relations.
|
||
With a renewal of tenderness, however, they returned to her room on leaving the dining-parlour, and sat with her till summoned to coffee. She was still very poorly, and Elizabeth would not quit her at all, till late in the evening, when she had the comfort of seeing her sleep, and when it seemed to her rather right than pleasant that she should go downstairs herself. On entering the drawing-room she found the whole party at loo, and was immediately invited to join them; but suspecting them to be playing high she declined it, and making her sister the excuse, said she would amuse herself for the short time she could stay below, with a book. Mr. Hurst looked at her with astonishment.
|
||
"Do you prefer reading to cards?" said he; "that is rather singular."
|
||
"Miss Eliza Bennet," said Miss Bingley, "despises cards. She is a great reader, and has no pleasure in anything else."
|
||
"I deserve neither such praise nor such censure," cried Elizabeth; "I am NOT a great reader, and I have pleasure in many things."
|
||
"In nursing your sister I am sure you have pleasure," said Bingley; "and I hope it will be soon increased by seeing her quite well."
|
||
Elizabeth thanked him from her heart, and then walked towards the table where a few books were lying. He immediately offered to fetch her others—all that his library afforded.
|
||
"And I wish my collection were larger for your benefit and my own credit; but I am an idle fellow, and though I have not many, I have more than I ever looked into."
|
||
Elizabeth assured him that she could suit herself perfectly with those in the room.
|
||
"I am astonished," said Miss Bingley, "that my father should have left so small a collection of books. What a delightful library you have at Pemberley, Mr. Darcy!"
|
||
"It ought to be good," he replied, "it has been the work of many generations."
|
||
"And then you have added so much to it yourself, you are always buying books."
|
||
"I cannot comprehend the neglect of a family library in such days as these."
|
||
"Neglect! I am sure you neglect nothing that can add to the beauties of that noble place. Charles, when you build YOUR house, I wish it may be half as delightful as Pemberley."
|
||
"I wish it may."
|
||
"But I would really advise you to make your purchase in that neighbourhood, and take Pemberley for a kind of model. There is not a finer county in England than Derbyshire."
|
||
"With all my heart; I will buy Pemberley itself if Darcy will sell it."
|
||
"I am talking of possibilities, Charles."
|
||
"Upon my word, Caroline, I should think it more possible to get Pemberley by purchase than by imitation."
|
||
Elizabeth was so much caught with what passed, as to leave her very little attention for her book; and soon laying it wholly aside, she drew near the card-table, and stationed herself between Mr. Bingley and his eldest sister, to observe the game."
|
||
"Is Miss Darcy much grown since the spring?" said Miss Bingley; "will she be as tall as I am?"
|
||
"I think she will. She is now about Miss Elizabeth Bennet's height, or rather taller."
|
||
"How I long to see her again! I never met with anybody who delighted me so much. Such a countenance, such manners! And so extremely accomplished for her age! Her performance on the pianoforte is exquisite."
|
||
"It is amazing to me," said Bingley, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."
|
||
"All young ladies accomplished! My dear Charles, what do you mean?"
|
||
"Yes, all of them, I think. They all paint tables, cover screens, and net purses. I scarcely know anyone who cannot do all this, and I am sure I never heard a young lady spoken of for the first time, without being informed that she was very accomplished."
|
||
"Your list of the common extent of accomplishments," said Darcy, "has too much truth. The word is applied to many a woman who deserves it no otherwise than by netting a purse or covering a screen. But I am very far from agreeing with you in your estimation of ladies in general. I cannot boast of knowing more than half-a-dozen, in the whole range of my acquaintance, that are really accomplished."
|
||
"Nor I, I am sure," said Miss Bingley.
|
||
"Then," observed Elizabeth, "you must comprehend a great deal in your idea of an accomplished woman."
|
||
"Yes, I do comprehend a great deal in it."
|
||
"Oh! certainly," cried his faithful assistant, "no one can be really esteemed accomplished who does not greatly surpass what is usually met with. A woman must have a thorough knowledge of music, singing, drawing, dancing, and the modern languages, to deserve the word; and besides all this, she must possess a certain something in her air and manner of walking, the tone of her voice, her address and expressions, or the word will be but half-deserved."
|
||
"All this she must possess," added Darcy, "and to all this she must yet add something more substantial, in the improvement of her mind by extensive reading."
|
||
"I am no longer surprised at your knowing ONLY six accomplished women. I rather wonder now at your knowing ANY."
|
||
"Are you so severe upon your own sex as to doubt the possibility of all this?
|
||
"I never saw such a woman. I never saw such capacity, and taste, and application, and elegance, as you describe united."
|
||
Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley both cried out against the injustice of her implied doubt, and were both protesting that they knew many women who answered this description, when Mr. Hurst called them to order, with bitter complaints of their inattention to what was going forward. As all conversation was thereby at an end, Elizabeth soon afterwards left the room.
|
||
"Elizabeth Bennet," said Miss Bingley, when the door was closed on her, "is one of those young ladies who seek to recommend themselves to the other sex by undervaluing their own; and with many men, I dare say, it succeeds. But, in my opinion, it is a paltry device, a very mean art."
|
||
"Undoubtedly," replied Darcy, to whom this remark was chiefly addressed, "there is a meanness in ALL the arts which ladies sometimes condescend to employ for captivation. Whatever bears affinity to cunning is despicable."
|
||
Miss Bingley was not so entirely satisfied with this reply as to continue the subject.
|
||
Elizabeth joined them again only to say that her sister was worse, and that she could not leave her. Bingley urged Mr. Jones being sent for immediately; while his sisters, convinced that no country advice could be of any service, recommended an express to town for one of the most eminent physicians. This she would not hear of; but she was not so unwilling to comply with their brother's proposal; and it was settled that Mr. Jones should be sent for early in the morning, if Miss Bennet were not decidedly better. Bingley was quite uncomfortable; his sisters declared that they were miserable. They solaced their wretchedness, however, by duets after supper, while he could find no better relief to his feelings than by giving his housekeeper directions that every attention might be paid to the sick lady and her sister.
|
||
Chapter 9
|
||
Elizabeth passed the chief of the night in her sister's room, and in the morning had the pleasure of being able to send a tolerable answer to the inquiries which she very early received from Mr. Bingley by a housemaid, and some time afterwards from the two elegant ladies who waited on his sisters. In spite of this amendment, however, she requested to have a note sent to Longbourn, desiring her mother to visit Jane, and form her own judgement of her situation. The note was immediately dispatched, and its contents as quickly complied with. Mrs. Bennet, accompanied by her two youngest girls, reached Netherfield soon after the family breakfast.
|
||
Had she found Jane in any apparent danger, Mrs. Bennet would have been very miserable; but being satisfied on seeing her that her illness was not alarming, she had no wish of her recovering immediately, as her restoration to health would probably remove her from Netherfield. She would not listen, therefore, to her daughter's proposal of being carried home; neither did the apothecary, who arrived about the same time, think it at all advisable. After sitting a little while with Jane, on Miss Bingley's appearance and invitation, the mother and three daughter all attended her into the breakfast parlour. Bingley met them with hopes that Mrs. Bennet had not found Miss Bennet worse than she expected.
|
||
"Indeed I have, sir," was her answer. "She is a great deal too ill to be moved. Mr. Jones says we must not think of moving her. We must trespass a little longer on your kindness."
|
||
"Removed!" cried Bingley. "It must not be thought of. My sister, I am sure, will not hear of her removal."
|
||
"You may depend upon it, Madam," said Miss Bingley, with cold civility, "that Miss Bennet will receive every possible attention while she remains with us."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet was profuse in her acknowledgements.
|
||
"I am sure," she added, "if it was not for such good friends I do not know what would become of her, for she is very ill indeed, and suffers a vast deal, though with the greatest patience in the world, which is always the way with her, for she has, without exception, the sweetest temper I have ever met with. I often tell my other girls they are nothing to HER. You have a sweet room here, Mr. Bingley, and a charming prospect over the gravel walk. I do not know a place in the country that is equal to Netherfield. You will not think of quitting it in a hurry, I hope, though you have but a short lease."
|
||
"Whatever I do is done in a hurry," replied he; "and therefore if I should resolve to quit Netherfield, I should probably be off in five minutes. At present, however, I consider myself as quite fixed here."
|
||
"That is exactly what I should have supposed of you," said Elizabeth.
|
||
"You begin to comprehend me, do you?" cried he, turning towards her.
|
||
"Oh! yes—I understand you perfectly."
|
||
"I wish I might take this for a compliment; but to be so easily seen through I am afraid is pitiful."
|
||
"That is as it happens. It does not follow that a deep, intricate character is more or less estimable than such a one as yours."
|
||
"Lizzy," cried her mother, "remember where you are, and do not run on in the wild manner that you are suffered to do at home."
|
||
"I did not know before," continued Bingley immediately, "that your were a studier of character. It must be an amusing study."
|
||
"Yes, but intricate characters are the MOST amusing. They have at least that advantage."
|
||
"The country," said Darcy, "can in general supply but a few subjects for such a study. In a country neighbourhood you move in a very confined and unvarying society."
|
||
"But people themselves alter so much, that there is something new to be observed in them for ever."
|
||
"Yes, indeed," cried Mrs. Bennet, offended by his manner of mentioning a country neighbourhood. "I assure you there is quite as much of THAT going on in the country as in town."
|
||
Everybody was surprised, and Darcy, after looking at her for a moment, turned silently away. Mrs. Bennet, who fancied she had gained a complete victory over him, continued her triumph.
|
||
"I cannot see that London has any great advantage over the country, for my part, except the shops and public places. The country is a vast deal pleasanter, is it not, Mr. Bingley?"
|
||
"When I am in the country," he replied, "I never wish to leave it; and when I am in town it is pretty much the same. They have each their advantages, and I can be equally happy in either."
|
||
"Aye—that is because you have the right disposition. But that gentleman," looking at Darcy, "seemed to think the country was nothing at all."
|
||
"Indeed, Mamma, you are mistaken," said Elizabeth, blushing for her mother. "You quite mistook Mr. Darcy. He only meant that there was not such a variety of people to be met with in the country as in the town, which you must acknowledge to be true."
|
||
"Certainly, my dear, nobody said there were; but as to not meeting with many people in this neighbourhood, I believe there are few neighbourhoods larger. I know we dine with four-and-twenty families."
|
||
Nothing but concern for Elizabeth could enable Bingley to keep his countenance. His sister was less delicate, and directed her eyes towards Mr. Darcy with a very expressive smile. Elizabeth, for the sake of saying something that might turn her mother's thoughts, now asked her if Charlotte Lucas had been at Longbourn since HER coming away.
|
||
"Yes, she called yesterday with her father. What an agreeable man Sir William is, Mr. Bingley, is not he? So much the man of fashion! So genteel and easy! He had always something to say to everybody. THAT is my idea of good breeding; and those persons who fancy themselves very important, and never open their mouths, quite mistake the matter."
|
||
"Did Charlotte dine with you?"
|
||
"No, she would go home. I fancy she was wanted about the mince-pies. For my part, Mr. Bingley, I always keep servants that can do their own work; MY daughters are brought up very differently. But everybody is to judge for themselves, and the Lucases are a very good sort of girls, I assure you. It is a pity they are not handsome! Not that I think Charlotte so VERY plain—but then she is our particular friend."
|
||
"She seems a very pleasant young woman."
|
||
"Oh! dear, yes; but you must own she is very plain. Lady Lucas herself has often said so, and envied me Jane's beauty. I do not like to boast of my own child, but to be sure, Jane—one does not often see anybody better looking. It is what everybody says. I do not trust my own partiality. When she was only fifteen, there was a man at my brother Gardiner's in town so much in love with her that my sister-in-law was sure he would make her an offer before we came away. But, however, he did not. Perhaps he thought her too young. However, he wrote some verses on her, and very pretty they were."
|
||
"And so ended his affection," said Elizabeth impatiently. "There has been many a one, I fancy, overcome in the same way. I wonder who first discovered the efficacy of poetry in driving away love!"
|
||
"I have been used to consider poetry as the FOOD of love," said Darcy.
|
||
"Of a fine, stout, healthy love it may. Everything nourishes what is strong already. But if it be only a slight, thin sort of inclination, I am convinced that one good sonnet will starve it entirely away."
|
||
Darcy only smiled; and the general pause which ensued made Elizabeth tremble lest her mother should be exposing herself again. She longed to speak, but could think of nothing to say; and after a short silence Mrs. Bennet began repeating her thanks to Mr. Bingley for his kindness to Jane, with an apology for troubling him also with Lizzy. Mr. Bingley was unaffectedly civil in his answer, and forced his younger sister to be civil also, and say what the occasion required. She performed her part indeed without much graciousness, but Mrs. Bennet was satisfied, and soon afterwards ordered her carriage. Upon this signal, the youngest of her daughters put herself forward. The two girls had been whispering to each other during the whole visit, and the result of it was, that the youngest should tax Mr. Bingley with having promised on his first coming into the country to give a ball at Netherfield.
|
||
Lydia was a stout, well-grown girl of fifteen, with a fine complexion and good-humoured countenance; a favourite with her mother, whose affection had brought her into public at an early age. She had high animal spirits, and a sort of natural self-consequence, which the attention of the officers, to whom her uncle's good dinners, and her own easy manners recommended her, had increased into assurance. She was very equal, therefore, to address Mr. Bingley on the subject of the ball, and abruptly reminded him of his promise; adding, that it would be the most shameful thing in the world if he did not keep it. His answer to this sudden attack was delightful to their mother's ear:
|
||
"I am perfectly ready, I assure you, to keep my engagement; and when your sister is recovered, you shall, if you please, name the very day of the ball. But you would not wish to be dancing when she is ill."
|
||
Lydia declared herself satisfied. "Oh! yes—it would be much better to wait till Jane was well, and by that time most likely Captain Carter would be at Meryton again. And when you have given YOUR ball," she added, "I shall insist on their giving one also. I shall tell Colonel Forster it will be quite a shame if he does not."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet and her daughters then departed, and Elizabeth returned instantly to Jane, leaving her own and her relations' behaviour to the remarks of the two ladies and Mr. Darcy; the latter of whom, however, could not be prevailed on to join in their censure of HER, in spite of all Miss Bingley's witticisms on FINE EYES.
|
||
Chapter 10
|
||
The day passed much as the day before had done. Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley had spent some hours of the morning with the invalid, who continued, though slowly, to mend; and in the evening Elizabeth joined their party in the drawing-room. The loo-table, however, did not appear. Mr. Darcy was writing, and Miss Bingley, seated near him, was watching the progress of his letter and repeatedly calling off his attention by messages to his sister. Mr. Hurst and Mr. Bingley were at piquet, and Mrs. Hurst was observing their game.
|
||
Elizabeth took up some needlework, and was sufficiently amused in attending to what passed between Darcy and his companion. The perpetual commendations of the lady, either on his handwriting, or on the evenness of his lines, or on the length of his letter, with the perfect unconcern with which her praises were received, formed a curious dialogue, and was exactly in union with her opinion of each.
|
||
"How delighted Miss Darcy will be to receive such a letter!"
|
||
He made no answer.
|
||
"You write uncommonly fast."
|
||
"You are mistaken. I write rather slowly."
|
||
"How many letters you must have occasion to write in the course of a year! Letters of business, too! How odious I should think them!"
|
||
"It is fortunate, then, that they fall to my lot instead of yours."
|
||
"Pray tell your sister that I long to see her."
|
||
"I have already told her so once, by your desire."
|
||
"I am afraid you do not like your pen. Let me mend it for you. I mend pens remarkably well."
|
||
"Thank you—but I always mend my own."
|
||
"How can you contrive to write so even?"
|
||
He was silent.
|
||
"Tell your sister I am delighted to hear of her improvement on the harp; and pray let her know that I am quite in raptures with her beautiful little design for a table, and I think it infinitely superior to Miss Grantley's."
|
||
"Will you give me leave to defer your raptures till I write again? At present I have not room to do them justice."
|
||
"Oh! it is of no consequence. I shall see her in January. But do you always write such charming long letters to her, Mr. Darcy?"
|
||
"They are generally long; but whether always charming it is not for me to determine."
|
||
"It is a rule with me, that a person who can write a long letter with ease, cannot write ill."
|
||
"That will not do for a compliment to Darcy, Caroline," cried her brother, "because he does NOT write with ease. He studies too much for words of four syllables. Do not you, Darcy?"
|
||
"My style of writing is very different from yours."
|
||
"Oh!" cried Miss Bingley, "Charles writes in the most careless way imaginable. He leaves out half his words, and blots the rest."
|
||
"My ideas flow so rapidly that I have not time to express them—by which means my letters sometimes convey no ideas at all to my correspondents."
|
||
"Your humility, Mr. Bingley," said Elizabeth, "must disarm reproof."
|
||
"Nothing is more deceitful," said Darcy, "than the appearance of humility. It is often only carelessness of opinion, and sometimes an indirect boast."
|
||
"And which of the two do you call MY little recent piece of modesty?"
|
||
"The indirect boast; for you are really proud of your defects in writing, because you consider them as proceeding from a rapidity of thought and carelessness of execution, which, if not estimable, you think at least highly interesting. The power of doing anything with quickness is always prized much by the possessor, and often without any attention to the imperfection of the performance. When you told Mrs. Bennet this morning that if you ever resolved upon quitting Netherfield you should be gone in five minutes, you meant it to be a sort of panegyric, of compliment to yourself—and yet what is there so very laudable in a precipitance which must leave very necessary business undone, and can be of no real advantage to yourself or anyone else?"
|
||
"Nay," cried Bingley, "this is too much, to remember at night all the foolish things that were said in the morning. And yet, upon my honour, I believe what I said of myself to be true, and I believe it at this moment. At least, therefore, I did not assume the character of needless precipitance merely to show off before the ladies."
|
||
"I dare say you believed it; but I am by no means convinced that you would be gone with such celerity. Your conduct would be quite as dependent on chance as that of any man I know; and if, as you were mounting your horse, a friend were to say, 'Bingley, you had better stay till next week,' you would probably do it, you would probably not go—and at another word, might stay a month."
|
||
"You have only proved by this," cried Elizabeth, "that Mr. Bingley did not do justice to his own disposition. You have shown him off now much more than he did himself."
|
||
"I am exceedingly gratified," said Bingley, "by your converting what my friend says into a compliment on the sweetness of my temper. But I am afraid you are giving it a turn which that gentleman did by no means intend; for he would certainly think better of me, if under such a circumstance I were to give a flat denial, and ride off as fast as I could."
|
||
"Would Mr. Darcy then consider the rashness of your original intentions as atoned for by your obstinacy in adhering to it?"
|
||
"Upon my word, I cannot exactly explain the matter; Darcy must speak for himself."
|
||
"You expect me to account for opinions which you choose to call mine, but which I have never acknowledged. Allowing the case, however, to stand according to your representation, you must remember, Miss Bennet, that the friend who is supposed to desire his return to the house, and the delay of his plan, has merely desired it, asked it without offering one argument in favour of its propriety."
|
||
"To yield readily—easily—to the PERSUASION of a friend is no merit with you."
|
||
"To yield without conviction is no compliment to the understanding of either."
|
||
"You appear to me, Mr. Darcy, to allow nothing for the influence of friendship and affection. A regard for the requester would often make one readily yield to a request, without waiting for arguments to reason one into it. I am not particularly speaking of such a case as you have supposed about Mr. Bingley. We may as well wait, perhaps, till the circumstance occurs before we discuss the discretion of his behaviour thereupon. But in general and ordinary cases between friend and friend, where one of them is desired by the other to change a resolution of no very great moment, should you think ill of that person for complying with the desire, without waiting to be argued into it?"
|
||
"Will it not be advisable, before we proceed on this subject, to arrange with rather more precision the degree of importance which is to appertain to this request, as well as the degree of intimacy subsisting between the parties?"
|
||
"By all means," cried Bingley; "let us hear all the particulars, not forgetting their comparative height and size; for that will have more weight in the argument, Miss Bennet, than you may be aware of. I assure you, that if Darcy were not such a great tall fellow, in comparison with myself, I should not pay him half so much deference. I declare I do not know a more awful object than Darcy, on particular occasions, and in particular places; at his own house especially, and of a Sunday evening, when he has nothing to do."
|
||
Mr. Darcy smiled; but Elizabeth thought she could perceive that he was rather offended, and therefore checked her laugh. Miss Bingley warmly resented the indignity he had received, in an expostulation with her brother for talking such nonsense.
|
||
"I see your design, Bingley," said his friend. "You dislike an argument, and want to silence this."
|
||
"Perhaps I do. Arguments are too much like disputes. If you and Miss Bennet will defer yours till I am out of the room, I shall be very thankful; and then you may say whatever you like of me."
|
||
"What you ask," said Elizabeth, "is no sacrifice on my side; and Mr. Darcy had much better finish his letter."
|
||
Mr. Darcy took her advice, and did finish his letter.
|
||
When that business was over, he applied to Miss Bingley and Elizabeth for an indulgence of some music. Miss Bingley moved with some alacrity to the pianoforte; and, after a polite request that Elizabeth would lead the way which the other as politely and more earnestly negatived, she seated herself.
|
||
Mrs. Hurst sang with her sister, and while they were thus employed, Elizabeth could not help observing, as she turned over some music-books that lay on the instrument, how frequently Mr. Darcy's eyes were fixed on her. She hardly knew how to suppose that she could be an object of admiration to so great a man; and yet that he should look at her because he disliked her, was still more strange. She could only imagine, however, at last that she drew his notice because there was something more wrong and reprehensible, according to his ideas of right, than in any other person present. The supposition did not pain her. She liked him too little to care for his approbation.
|
||
After playing some Italian songs, Miss Bingley varied the charm by a lively Scotch air; and soon afterwards Mr. Darcy, drawing near Elizabeth, said to her:
|
||
"Do not you feel a great inclination, Miss Bennet, to seize such an opportunity of dancing a reel?"
|
||
She smiled, but made no answer. He repeated the question, with some surprise at her silence.
|
||
"Oh!" said she, "I heard you before, but I could not immediately determine what to say in reply. You wanted me, I know, to say 'Yes,' that you might have the pleasure of despising my taste; but I always delight in overthrowing those kind of schemes, and cheating a person of their premeditated contempt. I have, therefore, made up my mind to tell you, that I do not want to dance a reel at all—and now despise me if you dare."
|
||
"Indeed I do not dare."
|
||
Elizabeth, having rather expected to affront him, was amazed at his gallantry; but there was a mixture of sweetness and archness in her manner which made it difficult for her to affront anybody; and Darcy had never been so bewitched by any woman as he was by her. He really believed, that were it not for the inferiority of her connections, he should be in some danger.
|
||
Miss Bingley saw, or suspected enough to be jealous; and her great anxiety for the recovery of her dear friend Jane received some assistance from her desire of getting rid of Elizabeth.
|
||
She often tried to provoke Darcy into disliking her guest, by talking of their supposed marriage, and planning his happiness in such an alliance.
|
||
"I hope," said she, as they were walking together in the shrubbery the next day, "you will give your mother-in-law a few hints, when this desirable event takes place, as to the advantage of holding her tongue; and if you can compass it, do sure the younger girls of running after officers. And, if I may mention so delicate a subject, endeavour to check that little something, bordering on conceit and impertinence, which your lady possesses."
|
||
"Have you anything else to propose for my domestic felicity?"
|
||
"Oh! yes. Do let the portraits of your uncle and aunt Phillips be placed in the gallery at Pemberley. Put them next to your great-uncle the judge. They are in the same profession, you know, only in different lines. As for your Elizabeth's picture, you must not have it taken, for what painter could do justice to those beautiful eyes?"
|
||
"It would not be easy, indeed, to catch their expression, but their colour and shape, and the eyelashes, so remarkably fine, might be copied."
|
||
At that moment they were met from another walk by Mrs. Hurst and Elizabeth herself.
|
||
"I did not know that you intended to walk," said Miss Bingley, in some confusion, lest they had been overheard.
|
||
"You used us abominably ill," answered Mrs. Hurst, "running away without telling us that you were coming out."
|
||
Then taking the disengaged arm of Mr. Darcy, she left Elizabeth to walk by herself. The path just admitted three. Mr. Darcy felt their rudeness, and immediately said:
|
||
"This walk is not wide enough for our party. We had better go into the avenue."
|
||
But Elizabeth, who had not the least inclination to remain with them, laughingly answered:
|
||
"No, no; stay where you are. You are charmingly grouped, and appear to uncommon advantage. The picturesque would be spoilt by admitting a fourth. Good-bye."
|
||
She then ran gaily off, rejoicing as she rambled about, in the hope of being at home again in a day or two. Jane was already so much recovered as to intend leaving her room for a couple of hours that evening.
|
||
Chapter 11
|
||
When the ladies removed after dinner, Elizabeth ran up to her sister, and seeing her well guarded from cold, attended her into the drawing-room, where she was welcomed by her two friends with many professions of pleasure; and Elizabeth had never seen them so agreeable as they were during the hour which passed before the gentlemen appeared. Their powers of conversation were considerable. They could describe an entertainment with accuracy, relate an anecdote with humour, and laugh at their acquaintance with spirit.
|
||
But when the gentlemen entered, Jane was no longer the first object; Miss Bingley's eyes were instantly turned toward Darcy, and she had something to say to him before he had advanced many steps. He addressed himself to Miss Bennet, with a polite congratulation; Mr. Hurst also made her a slight bow, and said he was "very glad;" but diffuseness and warmth remained for Bingley's salutation. He was full of joy and attention. The first half-hour was spent in piling up the fire, lest she should suffer from the change of room; and she removed at his desire to the other side of the fireplace, that she might be further from the door. He then sat down by her, and talked scarcely to anyone else. Elizabeth, at work in the opposite corner, saw it all with great delight.
|
||
When tea was over, Mr. Hurst reminded his sister-in-law of the card-table—but in vain. She had obtained private intelligence that Mr. Darcy did not wish for cards; and Mr. Hurst soon found even his open petition rejected. She assured him that no one intended to play, and the silence of the whole party on the subject seemed to justify her. Mr. Hurst had therefore nothing to do, but to stretch himself on one of the sofas and go to sleep. Darcy took up a book; Miss Bingley did the same; and Mrs. Hurst, principally occupied in playing with her bracelets and rings, joined now and then in her brother's conversation with Miss Bennet.
|
||
Miss Bingley's attention was quite as much engaged in watching Mr. Darcy's progress through HIS book, as in reading her own; and she was perpetually either making some inquiry, or looking at his page. She could not win him, however, to any conversation; he merely answered her question, and read on. At length, quite exhausted by the attempt to be amused with her own book, which she had only chosen because it was the second volume of his, she gave a great yawn and said, "How pleasant it is to spend an evening in this way! I declare after all there is no enjoyment like reading! How much sooner one tires of anything than of a book! When I have a house of my own, I shall be miserable if I have not an excellent library."
|
||
No one made any reply. She then yawned again, threw aside her book, and cast her eyes round the room in quest for some amusement; when hearing her brother mentioning a ball to Miss Bennet, she turned suddenly towards him and said:
|
||
"By the bye, Charles, are you really serious in meditating a dance at Netherfield? I would advise you, before you determine on it, to consult the wishes of the present party; I am much mistaken if there are not some among us to whom a ball would be rather a punishment than a pleasure."
|
||
"If you mean Darcy," cried her brother, "he may go to bed, if he chooses, before it begins—but as for the ball, it is quite a settled thing; and as soon as Nicholls has made white soup enough, I shall send round my cards."
|
||
"I should like balls infinitely better," she replied, "if they were carried on in a different manner; but there is something insufferably tedious in the usual process of such a meeting. It would surely be much more rational if conversation instead of dancing were made the order of the day."
|
||
"Much more rational, my dear Caroline, I dare say, but it would not be near so much like a ball."
|
||
Miss Bingley made no answer, and soon afterwards she got up and walked about the room. Her figure was elegant, and she walked well; but Darcy, at whom it was all aimed, was still inflexibly studious. In the desperation of her feelings, she resolved on one effort more, and, turning to Elizabeth, said:
|
||
"Miss Eliza Bennet, let me persuade you to follow my example, and take a turn about the room. I assure you it is very refreshing after sitting so long in one attitude."
|
||
Elizabeth was surprised, but agreed to it immediately. Miss Bingley succeeded no less in the real object of her civility; Mr. Darcy looked up. He was as much awake to the novelty of attention in that quarter as Elizabeth herself could be, and unconsciously closed his book. He was directly invited to join their party, but he declined it, observing that he could imagine but two motives for their choosing to walk up and down the room together, with either of which motives his joining them would interfere. "What could he mean? She was dying to know what could be his meaning?"—and asked Elizabeth whether she could at all understand him?
|
||
"Not at all," was her answer; "but depend upon it, he means to be severe on us, and our surest way of disappointing him will be to ask nothing about it."
|
||
Miss Bingley, however, was incapable of disappointing Mr. Darcy in anything, and persevered therefore in requiring an explanation of his two motives.
|
||
"I have not the smallest objection to explaining them," said he, as soon as she allowed him to speak. "You either choose this method of passing the evening because you are in each other's confidence, and have secret affairs to discuss, or because you are conscious that your figures appear to the greatest advantage in walking; if the first, I would be completely in your way, and if the second, I can admire you much better as I sit by the fire."
|
||
"Oh! shocking!" cried Miss Bingley. "I never heard anything so abominable. How shall we punish him for such a speech?"
|
||
"Nothing so easy, if you have but the inclination," said Elizabeth. "We can all plague and punish one another. Tease him—laugh at him. Intimate as you are, you must know how it is to be done."
|
||
"But upon my honour, I do NOT. I do assure you that my intimacy has not yet taught me THAT. Tease calmness of manner and presence of mind! No, no—feel he may defy us there. And as to laughter, we will not expose ourselves, if you please, by attempting to laugh without a subject. Mr. Darcy may hug himself."
|
||
"Mr. Darcy is not to be laughed at!" cried Elizabeth. "That is an uncommon advantage, and uncommon I hope it will continue, for it would be a great loss to ME to have many such acquaintances. I dearly love a laugh."
|
||
"Miss Bingley," said he, "has given me more credit than can be. The wisest and the best of men—nay, the wisest and best of their actions—may be rendered ridiculous by a person whose first object in life is a joke."
|
||
"Certainly," replied Elizabeth—"there are such people, but I hope I am not one of THEM. I hope I never ridicule what is wise and good. Follies and nonsense, whims and inconsistencies, DO divert me, I own, and I laugh at them whenever I can. But these, I suppose, are precisely what you are without."
|
||
"Perhaps that is not possible for anyone. But it has been the study of my life to avoid those weaknesses which often expose a strong understanding to ridicule."
|
||
"Such as vanity and pride."
|
||
"Yes, vanity is a weakness indeed. But pride—where there is a real superiority of mind, pride will be always under good regulation."
|
||
Elizabeth turned away to hide a smile.
|
||
"Your examination of Mr. Darcy is over, I presume," said Miss Bingley; "and pray what is the result?"
|
||
"I am perfectly convinced by it that Mr. Darcy has no defect. He owns it himself without disguise."
|
||
"No," said Darcy, "I have made no such pretension. I have faults enough, but they are not, I hope, of understanding. My temper I dare not vouch for. It is, I believe, too little yielding—certainly too little for the convenience of the world. I cannot forget the follies and vices of other so soon as I ought, nor their offenses against myself. My feelings are not puffed about with every attempt to move them. My temper would perhaps be called resentful. My good opinion once lost, is lost forever."
|
||
"THAT is a failing indeed!" cried Elizabeth. "Implacable resentment IS a shade in a character. But you have chosen your fault well. I really cannot LAUGH at it. You are safe from me."
|
||
"There is, I believe, in every disposition a tendency to some particular evil—a natural defect, which not even the best education can overcome."
|
||
"And YOUR defect is to hate everybody."
|
||
"And yours," he replied with a smile, "is willfully to misunderstand them."
|
||
"Do let us have a little music," cried Miss Bingley, tired of a conversation in which she had no share. "Louisa, you will not mind my waking Mr. Hurst?"
|
||
Her sister had not the smallest objection, and the pianoforte was opened; and Darcy, after a few moments' recollection, was not sorry for it. He began to feel the danger of paying Elizabeth too much attention.
|
||
Chapter 12
|
||
In consequence of an agreement between the sisters, Elizabeth wrote the next morning to their mother, to beg that the carriage might be sent for them in the course of the day. But Mrs. Bennet, who had calculated on her daughters remaining at Netherfield till the following Tuesday, which would exactly finish Jane's week, could not bring herself to receive them with pleasure before. Her answer, therefore, was not propitious, at least not to Elizabeth's wishes, for she was impatient to get home. Mrs. Bennet sent them word that they could not possibly have the carriage before Tuesday; and in her postscript it was added, that if Mr. Bingley and his sister pressed them to stay longer, she could spare them very well. Against staying longer, however, Elizabeth was positively resolved—nor did she much expect it would be asked; and fearful, on the contrary, as being considered as intruding themselves needlessly long, she urged Jane to borrow Mr. Bingley's carriage immediately, and at length it was settled that their original design of leaving Netherfield that morning should be mentioned, and the request made.
|
||
The communication excited many professions of concern; and enough was said of wishing them to stay at least till the following day to work on Jane; and till the morrow their going was deferred. Miss Bingley was then sorry that she had proposed the delay, for her jealousy and dislike of one sister much exceeded her affection for the other.
|
||
The master of the house heard with real sorrow that they were to go so soon, and repeatedly tried to persuade Miss Bennet that it would not be safe for her—that she was not enough recovered; but Jane was firm where she felt herself to be right.
|
||
To Mr. Darcy it was welcome intelligence—Elizabeth had been at Netherfield long enough. She attracted him more than he liked—and Miss Bingley was uncivil to HER, and more teasing than usual to himself. He wisely resolved to be particularly careful that no sign of admiration should NOW escape him, nothing that could elevate her with the hope of influencing his felicity; sensible that if such an idea had been suggested, his behaviour during the last day must have material weight in confirming or crushing it. Steady to his purpose, he scarcely spoke ten words to her through the whole of Saturday, and though they were at one time left by themselves for half-an-hour, he adhered most conscientiously to his book, and would not even look at her.
|
||
On Sunday, after morning service, the separation, so agreeable to almost all, took place. Miss Bingley's civility to Elizabeth increased at last very rapidly, as well as her affection for Jane; and when they parted, after assuring the latter of the pleasure it would always give her to see her either at Longbourn or Netherfield, and embracing her most tenderly, she even shook hands with the former. Elizabeth took leave of the whole party in the liveliest of spirits.
|
||
They were not welcomed home very cordially by their mother. Mrs. Bennet wondered at their coming, and thought them very wrong to give so much trouble, and was sure Jane would have caught cold again. But their father, though very laconic in his expressions of pleasure, was really glad to see them; he had felt their importance in the family circle. The evening conversation, when they were all assembled, had lost much of its animation, and almost all its sense by the absence of Jane and Elizabeth.
|
||
They found Mary, as usual, deep in the study of thorough-bass and human nature; and had some extracts to admire, and some new observations of threadbare morality to listen to. Catherine and Lydia had information for them of a different sort. Much had been done and much had been said in the regiment since the preceding Wednesday; several of the officers had dined lately with their uncle, a private had been flogged, and it had actually been hinted that colonel Foster was going to be married.
|
||
Chapter 13
|
||
"I hope, my dear," said Mr. Bennet to his wife, as they were at breakfast the next morning, "that you have ordered a good dinner to-day, because I have reason to expect an addition to our family party."
|
||
"Who do you mean, my dear? I know of nobody that is coming, I am sure, unless Charlotte Lucas should happen to call in—and I hope MY dinners are good enough for her. I do not believe she often sees such at home."
|
||
"The person of whom I speak is a gentleman, and a stranger."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet's eyes sparkled. "A gentleman and a stranger! It is Mr. Bingley, I am sure! Well, I am sure I shall be extremely glad to see Mr. Bingley. But—good Lord! how unlucky! There is not a bit of fish to be got to-day. Lydia, my love, ring the bell—I must speak to Hill this moment."
|
||
"It is NOT Mr. Bingley," said her husband; "it is a person whom I never saw in the whole course of my life."
|
||
This roused a general astonishment; and he had the pleasure of being eagerly questioned by his wife and his five daughters at once.
|
||
After amusing himself some time with their curiosity, he thus explained:
|
||
"About a month ago I received this letter; and about a fortnight ago I answered it, for I thought it a case of some delicacy, and requiring early attention. It is from my cousin, Mr. Collins, who, when I am dead, may turn you all out of this house as soon as he pleases."
|
||
"Oh! my dear," cried his wife, "I cannot bear to hear that mentioned. Pray do not talk of that odious man. I do think it is the hardest thing in the world, that your estate should be entailed away from your own children; and I am sure, if I had been you, I should have tried long ago to do something or other about it."
|
||
Jane and Elizabeth tried to explain to her the nature of an entail. They had often attempted to do it before, but it was a subject on which Mrs. Bennet was beyond the reach of reason, and she continued to rail bitterly against the cruelty of settling an estate away from a family of five daughters, in favour of a man whom nobody cared anything about.
|
||
"It certainly is a most iniquitous affair," said Mr. Bennet, "and nothing can clear Mr. Collins from the guilt of inheriting Longbourn. But if you will listen to his letter, you may perhaps be a little softened by his manner of expressing himself."
|
||
"No, that I am sure I shall not; and I think it is very impertinent of him to write to you at all, and very hypocritical. I hate such false friends. Why could he not keep on quarreling with you, as his father did before him?"
|
||
"Why, indeed; he does seem to have had some filial scruples on that head, as you will hear."
|
||
"Hunsford, near Westerham, Kent, 15th October.
|
||
"Dear Sir,—
|
||
"The disagreement subsisting between yourself and my late honoured father always gave me much uneasiness, and since I have had the misfortune to lose him, I have frequently wished to heal the breach; but for some time I was kept back by my own doubts, fearing lest it might seem disrespectful to his memory for me to be on good terms with anyone with whom it had always pleased him to be at variance.—'There, Mrs. Bennet.'—My mind, however, is now made up on the subject, for having received ordination at Easter, I have been so fortunate as to be distinguished by the patronage of the Right Honourable Lady Catherine de Bourgh, widow of Sir Lewis de Bourgh, whose bounty and beneficence has preferred me to the valuable rectory of this parish, where it shall be my earnest endeavour to demean myself with grateful respect towards her ladyship, and be ever ready to perform those rites and ceremonies which are instituted by the Church of England. As a clergyman, moreover, I feel it my duty to promote and establish the blessing of peace in all families within in the reach of my influence; and on these grounds I flatter myself that my present overtures are highly commendable, and that the circumstance of my being next in the entail of Longbourn estate will be kindly overlooked on your side, and not lead you to reject the offered olive-branch. I cannot be otherwise than concerned at being the means of injuring your amiable daughters, and beg leave to apologise for it, as well as to assure you of my readiness to make them every possible amends—but of this hereafter. If you should have no objection to receive me into your house, I propose myself the satisfaction of waiting on you and your family, Monday, November 18th, by four o'clock, and shall probably trespass on your hospitality till the Saturday se'ennight following, which I can do without any inconvenience, as Lady Catherine is far from objecting to my occasional absence on a Sunday, provided that some other clergyman is engaged to do the duty of the day.—I remain, dear sir, with respectful compliments to your lady and daughters, your well-wisher and friend,
|
||
"WILLIAM COLLINS"
|
||
"At four o'clock, therefore, we may expect this peace-making gentleman," said Mr. Bennet, as he folded up the letter. "He seems to be a most conscientious and polite young man, upon my word, and I doubt not will prove a valuable acquaintance, especially if Lady Catherine should be so indulgent as to let him come to us again."
|
||
"There is some sense in what he says about the girls, however, and if he is disposed to make them any amends, I shall not be the person to discourage him."
|
||
"Though it is difficult," said Jane, "to guess in what way he can mean to make us the atonement he thinks our due, the wish is certainly to his credit."
|
||
Elizabeth was chiefly struck by his extraordinary deference for Lady Catherine, and his kind intention of christening, marrying, and burying his parishioners whenever it were required.
|
||
"He must be an oddity, I think," said she. "I cannot make him out.—There is something very pompous in his style.—And what can he mean by apologising for being next in the entail?—We cannot suppose he would help it if he could.—Could he be a sensible man, sir?"
|
||
"No, my dear, I think not. I have great hopes of finding him quite the reverse. There is a mixture of servility and self-importance in his letter, which promises well. I am impatient to see him."
|
||
"In point of composition," said Mary, "the letter does not seem defective. The idea of the olive-branch perhaps is not wholly new, yet I think it is well expressed."
|
||
To Catherine and Lydia, neither the letter nor its writer were in any degree interesting. It was next to impossible that their cousin should come in a scarlet coat, and it was now some weeks since they had received pleasure from the society of a man in any other colour. As for their mother, Mr. Collins's letter had done away much of her ill-will, and she was preparing to see him with a degree of composure which astonished her husband and daughters.
|
||
Mr. Collins was punctual to his time, and was received with great politeness by the whole family. Mr. Bennet indeed said little; but the ladies were ready enough to talk, and Mr. Collins seemed neither in need of encouragement, nor inclined to be silent himself. He was a tall, heavy-looking young man of five-and-twenty. His air was grave and stately, and his manners were very formal. He had not been long seated before he complimented Mrs. Bennet on having so fine a family of daughters; said he had heard much of their beauty, but that in this instance fame had fallen short of the truth; and added, that he did not doubt her seeing them all in due time disposed of in marriage. This gallantry was not much to the taste of some of his hearers; but Mrs. Bennet, who quarreled with no compliments, answered most readily.
|
||
"You are very kind, I am sure; and I wish with all my heart it may prove so, for else they will be destitute enough. Things are settled so oddly."
|
||
"You allude, perhaps, to the entail of this estate."
|
||
"Ah! sir, I do indeed. It is a grievous affair to my poor girls, you must confess. Not that I mean to find fault with YOU, for such things I know are all chance in this world. There is no knowing how estates will go when once they come to be entailed."
|
||
"I am very sensible, madam, of the hardship to my fair cousins, and could say much on the subject, but that I am cautious of appearing forward and precipitate. But I can assure the young ladies that I come prepared to admire them. At present I will not say more; but, perhaps, when we are better acquainted—"
|
||
He was interrupted by a summons to dinner; and the girls smiled on each other. They were not the only objects of Mr. Collin's admiration. The hall, the dining-room, and all its furniture, were examined and praised; and his commendation of everything would have touched Mrs. Bennet's heart, but for the mortifying supposition of his viewing it all as his own future property. The dinner too in its turn was highly admired; and he begged to know to which of his fair cousins the excellency of its cooking was owing. But he was set right there by Mrs. Bennet, who assured him with some asperity that they were very well able to keep a good cook, and that her daughters had nothing to do in the kitchen. He begged pardon for having displeased her. In a softened tone she declared herself not at all offended; but he continued to apologise for about a quarter of an hour.
|
||
Chapter 14
|
||
During dinner, Mr. Bennet scarcely spoke at all; but when the servants were withdrawn, he thought it time to have some conversation with his guest, and therefore started a subject in which he expected him to shine, by observing that he seemed very fortunate in his patroness. Lady Catherine de Bourgh's attention to his wishes, and consideration for his comfort, appeared very remarkable. Mr. Bennet could not have chosen better. Mr. Collins was eloquent in her praise. The subject elevated him to more than usual solemnity of manner, and with a most important aspect he protested that "he had never in his life witnessed such behaviour in a person of rank—such affability and condescension, as he had himself experienced from Lady Catherine. She had been graciously pleased to approve of both of the discourses which he had already had the honour of preaching before her. She had also asked him twice to dine at Rosings, and had sent for him only the Saturday before, to make up her pool of quadrille in the evening. Lady Catherine was reckoned proud by many people he knew, but HE had never seen anything but affability in her. She had always spoken to him as she would to any other gentleman; she made not the smallest objection to his joining in the society of the neighbourhood nor to his leaving the parish occasionally for a week or two, to visit his relations. She had even condescended to advise him to marry as soon as he could, provided he chose with discretion; and had once paid him a visit in his humble parsonage, where she had perfectly approved all the alterations he had been making, and had even vouchsafed to suggest some herself—some shelves in the closet upstairs."
|
||
"That is all very proper and civil, I am sure," said Mrs. Bennet, "and I dare say she is a very agreeable woman. It is a pity that great ladies in general are not more like her. Does she live near you, sir?"
|
||
"The garden in which stands my humble abode is separated only by a lane from Rosings Park, her ladyship's residence."
|
||
"I think you said she was a widow, sir? Has she any family?"
|
||
"She has only one daughter, the heiress of Rosings, and of very extensive property."
|
||
"Ah!" said Mrs. Bennet, shaking her head, "then she is better off than many girls. And what sort of young lady is she? Is she handsome?"
|
||
"She is a most charming young lady indeed. Lady Catherine herself says that, in point of true beauty, Miss de Bourgh is far superior to the handsomest of her sex, because there is that in her features which marks the young lady of distinguished birth. She is unfortunately of a sickly constitution, which has prevented her from making that progress in many accomplishments which she could not have otherwise failed of, as I am informed by the lady who superintended her education, and who still resides with them. But she is perfectly amiable, and often condescends to drive by my humble abode in her little phaeton and ponies."
|
||
"Has she been presented? I do not remember her name among the ladies at court."
|
||
"Her indifferent state of health unhappily prevents her being in town; and by that means, as I told Lady Catherine one day, has deprived the British court of its brightest ornaments. Her ladyship seemed pleased with the idea; and you may imagine that I am happy on every occasion to offer those little delicate compliments which are always acceptable to ladies. I have more than once observed to Lady Catherine, that her charming daughter seemed born to be a duchess, and that the most elevated rank, instead of giving her consequence, would be adorned by her. These are the kind of little things which please her ladyship, and it is a sort of attention which I conceive myself peculiarly bound to pay."
|
||
"You judge very properly," said Mr. Bennet, "and it is happy for you that you possess the talent of flattering with delicacy. May I ask whether these pleasing attentions proceed from the impulse of the moment, or are the result of previous study?"
|
||
"They arise chiefly from what is passing at the time, and though I sometimes amuse myself with suggesting and arranging such little elegant compliments as may be adapted to ordinary occasions, I always wish to give them as unstudied an air as possible."
|
||
Mr. Bennet's expectations were fully answered. His cousin was as absurd as he had hoped, and he listened to him with the keenest enjoyment, maintaining at the same time the most resolute composure of countenance, and, except in an occasional glance at Elizabeth, requiring no partner in his pleasure.
|
||
By tea-time, however, the dose had been enough, and Mr. Bennet was glad to take his guest into the drawing-room again, and, when tea was over, glad to invite him to read aloud to the ladies. Mr. Collins readily assented, and a book was produced; but, on beholding it (for everything announced it to be from a circulating library), he started back, and begging pardon, protested that he never read novels. Kitty stared at him, and Lydia exclaimed. Other books were produced, and after some deliberation he chose Fordyce's Sermons. Lydia gaped as he opened the volume, and before he had, with very monotonous solemnity, read three pages, she interrupted him with:
|
||
"Do you know, mamma, that my uncle Phillips talks of turning away Richard; and if he does, Colonel Forster will hire him. My aunt told me so herself on Saturday. I shall walk to Meryton to-morrow to hear more about it, and to ask when Mr. Denny comes back from town."
|
||
Lydia was bid by her two eldest sisters to hold her tongue; but Mr. Collins, much offended, laid aside his book, and said:
|
||
"I have often observed how little young ladies are interested by books of a serious stamp, though written solely for their benefit. It amazes me, I confess; for, certainly, there can be nothing so advantageous to them as instruction. But I will no longer importune my young cousin."
|
||
Then turning to Mr. Bennet, he offered himself as his antagonist at backgammon. Mr. Bennet accepted the challenge, observing that he acted very wisely in leaving the girls to their own trifling amusements. Mrs. Bennet and her daughters apologised most civilly for Lydia's interruption, and promised that it should not occur again, if he would resume his book; but Mr. Collins, after assuring them that he bore his young cousin no ill-will, and should never resent her behaviour as any affront, seated himself at another table with Mr. Bennet, and prepared for backgammon.
|
||
Chapter 15
|
||
Mr. Collins was not a sensible man, and the deficiency of nature had been but little assisted by education or society; the greatest part of his life having been spent under the guidance of an illiterate and miserly father; and though he belonged to one of the universities, he had merely kept the necessary terms, without forming at it any useful acquaintance. The subjection in which his father had brought him up had given him originally great humility of manner; but it was now a good deal counteracted by the self-conceit of a weak head, living in retirement, and the consequential feelings of early and unexpected prosperity. A fortunate chance had recommended him to Lady Catherine de Bourgh when the living of Hunsford was vacant; and the respect which he felt for her high rank, and his veneration for her as his patroness, mingling with a very good opinion of himself, of his authority as a clergyman, and his right as a rector, made him altogether a mixture of pride and obsequiousness, self-importance and humility.
|
||
Having now a good house and a very sufficient income, he intended to marry; and in seeking a reconciliation with the Longbourn family he had a wife in view, as he meant to choose one of the daughters, if he found them as handsome and amiable as they were represented by common report. This was his plan of amends—of atonement—for inheriting their father's estate; and he thought it an excellent one, full of eligibility and suitableness, and excessively generous and disinterested on his own part.
|
||
His plan did not vary on seeing them. Miss Bennet's lovely face confirmed his views, and established all his strictest notions of what was due to seniority; and for the first evening SHE was his settled choice. The next morning, however, made an alteration; for in a quarter of an hour's tete-a-tete with Mrs. Bennet before breakfast, a conversation beginning with his parsonage-house, and leading naturally to the avowal of his hopes, that a mistress might be found for it at Longbourn, produced from her, amid very complaisant smiles and general encouragement, a caution against the very Jane he had fixed on. "As to her YOUNGER daughters, she could not take upon her to say—she could not positively answer—but she did not KNOW of any prepossession; her ELDEST daughter, she must just mention—she felt it incumbent on her to hint, was likely to be very soon engaged."
|
||
Mr. Collins had only to change from Jane to Elizabeth—and it was soon done—done while Mrs. Bennet was stirring the fire. Elizabeth, equally next to Jane in birth and beauty, succeeded her of course.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet treasured up the hint, and trusted that she might soon have two daughters married; and the man whom she could not bear to speak of the day before was now high in her good graces.
|
||
Lydia's intention of walking to Meryton was not forgotten; every sister except Mary agreed to go with her; and Mr. Collins was to attend them, at the request of Mr. Bennet, who was most anxious to get rid of him, and have his library to himself; for thither Mr. Collins had followed him after breakfast; and there he would continue, nominally engaged with one of the largest folios in the collection, but really talking to Mr. Bennet, with little cessation, of his house and garden at Hunsford. Such doings discomposed Mr. Bennet exceedingly. In his library he had been always sure of leisure and tranquillity; and though prepared, as he told Elizabeth, to meet with folly and conceit in every other room of the house, he was used to be free from them there; his civility, therefore, was most prompt in inviting Mr. Collins to join his daughters in their walk; and Mr. Collins, being in fact much better fitted for a walker than a reader, was extremely pleased to close his large book, and go.
|
||
In pompous nothings on his side, and civil assents on that of his cousins, their time passed till they entered Meryton. The attention of the younger ones was then no longer to be gained by him. Their eyes were immediately wandering up in the street in quest of the officers, and nothing less than a very smart bonnet indeed, or a really new muslin in a shop window, could recall them.
|
||
But the attention of every lady was soon caught by a young man, whom they had never seen before, of most gentlemanlike appearance, walking with another officer on the other side of the way. The officer was the very Mr. Denny concerning whose return from London Lydia came to inquire, and he bowed as they passed. All were struck with the stranger's air, all wondered who he could be; and Kitty and Lydia, determined if possible to find out, led the way across the street, under pretense of wanting something in an opposite shop, and fortunately had just gained the pavement when the two gentlemen, turning back, had reached the same spot. Mr. Denny addressed them directly, and entreated permission to introduce his friend, Mr. Wickham, who had returned with him the day before from town, and he was happy to say had accepted a commission in their corps. This was exactly as it should be; for the young man wanted only regimentals to make him completely charming. His appearance was greatly in his favour; he had all the best part of beauty, a fine countenance, a good figure, and very pleasing address. The introduction was followed up on his side by a happy readiness of conversation—a readiness at the same time perfectly correct and unassuming; and the whole party were still standing and talking together very agreeably, when the sound of horses drew their notice, and Darcy and Bingley were seen riding down the street. On distinguishing the ladies of the group, the two gentlemen came directly towards them, and began the usual civilities. Bingley was the principal spokesman, and Miss Bennet the principal object. He was then, he said, on his way to Longbourn on purpose to inquire after her. Mr. Darcy corroborated it with a bow, and was beginning to determine not to fix his eyes on Elizabeth, when they were suddenly arrested by the sight of the stranger, and Elizabeth happening to see the countenance of both as they looked at each other, was all astonishment at the effect of the meeting. Both changed colour, one looked white, the other red. Mr. Wickham, after a few moments, touched his hat—a salutation which Mr. Darcy just deigned to return. What could be the meaning of it? It was impossible to imagine; it was impossible not to long to know.
|
||
In another minute, Mr. Bingley, but without seeming to have noticed what passed, took leave and rode on with his friend.
|
||
Mr. Denny and Mr. Wickham walked with the young ladies to the door of Mr. Phillip's house, and then made their bows, in spite of Miss Lydia's pressing entreaties that they should come in, and even in spite of Mrs. Phillips's throwing up the parlour window and loudly seconding the invitation.
|
||
Mrs. Phillips was always glad to see her nieces; and the two eldest, from their recent absence, were particularly welcome, and she was eagerly expressing her surprise at their sudden return home, which, as their own carriage had not fetched them, she should have known nothing about, if she had not happened to see Mr. Jones's shop-boy in the street, who had told her that they were not to send any more draughts to Netherfield because the Miss Bennets were come away, when her civility was claimed towards Mr. Collins by Jane's introduction of him. She received him with her very best politeness, which he returned with as much more, apologising for his intrusion, without any previous acquaintance with her, which he could not help flattering himself, however, might be justified by his relationship to the young ladies who introduced him to her notice. Mrs. Phillips was quite awed by such an excess of good breeding; but her contemplation of one stranger was soon put to an end by exclamations and inquiries about the other; of whom, however, she could only tell her nieces what they already knew, that Mr. Denny had brought him from London, and that he was to have a lieutenant's commission in the ——shire. She had been watching him the last hour, she said, as he walked up and down the street, and had Mr. Wickham appeared, Kitty and Lydia would certainly have continued the occupation, but unluckily no one passed windows now except a few of the officers, who, in comparison with the stranger, were become "stupid, disagreeable fellows." Some of them were to dine with the Phillipses the next day, and their aunt promised to make her husband call on Mr. Wickham, and give him an invitation also, if the family from Longbourn would come in the evening. This was agreed to, and Mrs. Phillips protested that they would have a nice comfortable noisy game of lottery tickets, and a little bit of hot supper afterwards. The prospect of such delights was very cheering, and they parted in mutual good spirits. Mr. Collins repeated his apologies in quitting the room, and was assured with unwearying civility that they were perfectly needless.
|
||
As they walked home, Elizabeth related to Jane what she had seen pass between the two gentlemen; but though Jane would have defended either or both, had they appeared to be in the wrong, she could no more explain such behaviour than her sister.
|
||
Mr. Collins on his return highly gratified Mrs. Bennet by admiring Mrs. Phillips's manners and politeness. He protested that, except Lady Catherine and her daughter, he had never seen a more elegant woman; for she had not only received him with the utmost civility, but even pointedly included him in her invitation for the next evening, although utterly unknown to her before. Something, he supposed, might be attributed to his connection with them, but yet he had never met with so much attention in the whole course of his life.
|
||
Chapter 16
|
||
As no objection was made to the young people's engagement with their aunt, and all Mr. Collins's scruples of leaving Mr. and Mrs. Bennet for a single evening during his visit were most steadily resisted, the coach conveyed him and his five cousins at a suitable hour to Meryton; and the girls had the pleasure of hearing, as they entered the drawing-room, that Mr. Wickham had accepted their uncle's invitation, and was then in the house.
|
||
When this information was given, and they had all taken their seats, Mr. Collins was at leisure to look around him and admire, and he was so much struck with the size and furniture of the apartment, that he declared he might almost have supposed himself in the small summer breakfast parlour at Rosings; a comparison that did not at first convey much gratification; but when Mrs. Phillips understood from him what Rosings was, and who was its proprietor—when she had listened to the description of only one of Lady Catherine's drawing-rooms, and found that the chimney-piece alone had cost eight hundred pounds, she felt all the force of the compliment, and would hardly have resented a comparison with the housekeeper's room.
|
||
In describing to her all the grandeur of Lady Catherine and her mansion, with occasional digressions in praise of his own humble abode, and the improvements it was receiving, he was happily employed until the gentlemen joined them; and he found in Mrs. Phillips a very attentive listener, whose opinion of his consequence increased with what she heard, and who was resolving to retail it all among her neighbours as soon as she could. To the girls, who could not listen to their cousin, and who had nothing to do but to wish for an instrument, and examine their own indifferent imitations of china on the mantelpiece, the interval of waiting appeared very long. It was over at last, however. The gentlemen did approach, and when Mr. Wickham walked into the room, Elizabeth felt that she had neither been seeing him before, nor thinking of him since, with the smallest degree of unreasonable admiration. The officers of the ——shire were in general a very creditable, gentlemanlike set, and the best of them were of the present party; but Mr. Wickham was as far beyond them all in person, countenance, air, and walk, as THEY were superior to the broad-faced, stuffy uncle Phillips, breathing port wine, who followed them into the room.
|
||
Mr. Wickham was the happy man towards whom almost every female eye was turned, and Elizabeth was the happy woman by whom he finally seated himself; and the agreeable manner in which he immediately fell into conversation, though it was only on its being a wet night, made her feel that the commonest, dullest, most threadbare topic might be rendered interesting by the skill of the speaker.
|
||
With such rivals for the notice of the fair as Mr. Wickham and the officers, Mr. Collins seemed to sink into insignificance; to the young ladies he certainly was nothing; but he had still at intervals a kind listener in Mrs. Phillips, and was by her watchfulness, most abundantly supplied with coffee and muffin. When the card-tables were placed, he had the opportunity of obliging her in turn, by sitting down to whist.
|
||
"I know little of the game at present," said he, "but I shall be glad to improve myself, for in my situation in life—" Mrs. Phillips was very glad for his compliance, but could not wait for his reason.
|
||
Mr. Wickham did not play at whist, and with ready delight was he received at the other table between Elizabeth and Lydia. At first there seemed danger of Lydia's engrossing him entirely, for she was a most determined talker; but being likewise extremely fond of lottery tickets, she soon grew too much interested in the game, too eager in making bets and exclaiming after prizes to have attention for anyone in particular. Allowing for the common demands of the game, Mr. Wickham was therefore at leisure to talk to Elizabeth, and she was very willing to hear him, though what she chiefly wished to hear she could not hope to be told—the history of his acquaintance with Mr. Darcy. She dared not even mention that gentleman. Her curiosity, however, was unexpectedly relieved. Mr. Wickham began the subject himself. He inquired how far Netherfield was from Meryton; and, after receiving her answer, asked in a hesitating manner how long Mr. Darcy had been staying there.
|
||
"About a month," said Elizabeth; and then, unwilling to let the subject drop, added, "He is a man of very large property in Derbyshire, I understand."
|
||
"Yes," replied Mr. Wickham; "his estate there is a noble one. A clear ten thousand per annum. You could not have met with a person more capable of giving you certain information on that head than myself, for I have been connected with his family in a particular manner from my infancy."
|
||
Elizabeth could not but look surprised.
|
||
"You may well be surprised, Miss Bennet, at such an assertion, after seeing, as you probably might, the very cold manner of our meeting yesterday. Are you much acquainted with Mr. Darcy?"
|
||
"As much as I ever wish to be," cried Elizabeth very warmly. "I have spent four days in the same house with him, and I think him very disagreeable."
|
||
"I have no right to give MY opinion," said Wickham, "as to his being agreeable or otherwise. I am not qualified to form one. I have known him too long and too well to be a fair judge. It is impossible for ME to be impartial. But I believe your opinion of him would in general astonish—and perhaps you would not express it quite so strongly anywhere else. Here you are in your own family."
|
||
"Upon my word, I say no more HERE than I might say in any house in the neighbourhood, except Netherfield. He is not at all liked in Hertfordshire. Everybody is disgusted with his pride. You will not find him more favourably spoken of by anyone."
|
||
"I cannot pretend to be sorry," said Wickham, after a short interruption, "that he or that any man should not be estimated beyond their deserts; but with HIM I believe it does not often happen. The world is blinded by his fortune and consequence, or frightened by his high and imposing manners, and sees him only as he chooses to be seen."
|
||
"I should take him, even on MY slight acquaintance, to be an ill-tempered man." Wickham only shook his head.
|
||
"I wonder," said he, at the next opportunity of speaking, "whether he is likely to be in this country much longer."
|
||
"I do not at all know; but I HEARD nothing of his going away when I was at Netherfield. I hope your plans in favour of the ——shire will not be affected by his being in the neighbourhood."
|
||
"Oh! no—it is not for ME to be driven away by Mr. Darcy. If HE wishes to avoid seeing ME, he must go. We are not on friendly terms, and it always gives me pain to meet him, but I have no reason for avoiding HIM but what I might proclaim before all the world, a sense of very great ill-usage, and most painful regrets at his being what he is. His father, Miss Bennet, the late Mr. Darcy, was one of the best men that ever breathed, and the truest friend I ever had; and I can never be in company with this Mr. Darcy without being grieved to the soul by a thousand tender recollections. His behaviour to myself has been scandalous; but I verily believe I could forgive him anything and everything, rather than his disappointing the hopes and disgracing the memory of his father."
|
||
Elizabeth found the interest of the subject increase, and listened with all her heart; but the delicacy of it prevented further inquiry.
|
||
Mr. Wickham began to speak on more general topics, Meryton, the neighbourhood, the society, appearing highly pleased with all that he had yet seen, and speaking of the latter with gentle but very intelligible gallantry.
|
||
"It was the prospect of constant society, and good society," he added, "which was my chief inducement to enter the ——shire. I knew it to be a most respectable, agreeable corps, and my friend Denny tempted me further by his account of their present quarters, and the very great attentions and excellent acquaintances Meryton had procured them. Society, I own, is necessary to me. I have been a disappointed man, and my spirits will not bear solitude. I MUST have employment and society. A military life is not what I was intended for, but circumstances have now made it eligible. The church OUGHT to have been my profession—I was brought up for the church, and I should at this time have been in possession of a most valuable living, had it pleased the gentleman we were speaking of just now."
|
||
"Indeed!"
|
||
"Yes—the late Mr. Darcy bequeathed me the next presentation of the best living in his gift. He was my godfather, and excessively attached to me. I cannot do justice to his kindness. He meant to provide for me amply, and thought he had done it; but when the living fell, it was given elsewhere."
|
||
"Good heavens!" cried Elizabeth; "but how could THAT be? How could his will be disregarded? Why did you not seek legal redress?"
|
||
"There was just such an informality in the terms of the bequest as to give me no hope from law. A man of honour could not have doubted the intention, but Mr. Darcy chose to doubt it—or to treat it as a merely conditional recommendation, and to assert that I had forfeited all claim to it by extravagance, imprudence—in short anything or nothing. Certain it is, that the living became vacant two years ago, exactly as I was of an age to hold it, and that it was given to another man; and no less certain is it, that I cannot accuse myself of having really done anything to deserve to lose it. I have a warm, unguarded temper, and I may have spoken my opinion OF him, and TO him, too freely. I can recall nothing worse. But the fact is, that we are very different sort of men, and that he hates me."
|
||
"This is quite shocking! He deserves to be publicly disgraced."
|
||
"Some time or other he WILL be—but it shall not be by ME. Till I can forget his father, I can never defy or expose HIM."
|
||
Elizabeth honoured him for such feelings, and thought him handsomer than ever as he expressed them.
|
||
"But what," said she, after a pause, "can have been his motive? What can have induced him to behave so cruelly?"
|
||
"A thorough, determined dislike of me—a dislike which I cannot but attribute in some measure to jealousy. Had the late Mr. Darcy liked me less, his son might have borne with me better; but his father's uncommon attachment to me irritated him, I believe, very early in life. He had not a temper to bear the sort of competition in which we stood—the sort of preference which was often given me."
|
||
"I had not thought Mr. Darcy so bad as this—though I have never liked him. I had not thought so very ill of him. I had supposed him to be despising his fellow-creatures in general, but did not suspect him of descending to such malicious revenge, such injustice, such inhumanity as this."
|
||
After a few minutes' reflection, however, she continued, "I DO remember his boasting one day, at Netherfield, of the implacability of his resentments, of his having an unforgiving temper. His disposition must be dreadful."
|
||
"I will not trust myself on the subject," replied Wickham; "I can hardly be just to him."
|
||
Elizabeth was again deep in thought, and after a time exclaimed, "To treat in such a manner the godson, the friend, the favourite of his father!" She could have added, "A young man, too, like YOU, whose very countenance may vouch for your being amiable"—but she contented herself with, "and one, too, who had probably been his companion from childhood, connected together, as I think you said, in the closest manner!"
|
||
"We were born in the same parish, within the same park; the greatest part of our youth was passed together; inmates of the same house, sharing the same amusements, objects of the same parental care. MY father began life in the profession which your uncle, Mr. Phillips, appears to do so much credit to—but he gave up everything to be of use to the late Mr. Darcy and devoted all his time to the care of the Pemberley property. He was most highly esteemed by Mr. Darcy, a most intimate, confidential friend. Mr. Darcy often acknowledged himself to be under the greatest obligations to my father's active superintendence, and when, immediately before my father's death, Mr. Darcy gave him a voluntary promise of providing for me, I am convinced that he felt it to be as much a debt of gratitude to HIM, as of his affection to myself."
|
||
"How strange!" cried Elizabeth. "How abominable! I wonder that the very pride of this Mr. Darcy has not made him just to you! If from no better motive, that he should not have been too proud to be dishonest—for dishonesty I must call it."
|
||
"It IS wonderful," replied Wickham, "for almost all his actions may be traced to pride; and pride had often been his best friend. It has connected him nearer with virtue than with any other feeling. But we are none of us consistent, and in his behaviour to me there were stronger impulses even than pride."
|
||
"Can such abominable pride as his have ever done him good?"
|
||
"Yes. It has often led him to be liberal and generous, to give his money freely, to display hospitality, to assist his tenants, and relieve the poor. Family pride, and FILIAL pride—for he is very proud of what his father was—have done this. Not to appear to disgrace his family, to degenerate from the popular qualities, or lose the influence of the Pemberley House, is a powerful motive. He has also BROTHERLY pride, which, with SOME brotherly affection, makes him a very kind and careful guardian of his sister, and you will hear him generally cried up as the most attentive and best of brothers."
|
||
"What sort of girl is Miss Darcy?"
|
||
He shook his head. "I wish I could call her amiable. It gives me pain to speak ill of a Darcy. But she is too much like her brother—very, very proud. As a child, she was affectionate and pleasing, and extremely fond of me; and I have devoted hours and hours to her amusement. But she is nothing to me now. She is a handsome girl, about fifteen or sixteen, and, I understand, highly accomplished. Since her father's death, her home has been London, where a lady lives with her, and superintends her education."
|
||
After many pauses and many trials of other subjects, Elizabeth could not help reverting once more to the first, and saying:
|
||
"I am astonished at his intimacy with Mr. Bingley! How can Mr. Bingley, who seems good humour itself, and is, I really believe, truly amiable, be in friendship with such a man? How can they suit each other? Do you know Mr. Bingley?"
|
||
"Not at all."
|
||
"He is a sweet-tempered, amiable, charming man. He cannot know what Mr. Darcy is."
|
||
"Probably not; but Mr. Darcy can please where he chooses. He does not want abilities. He can be a conversible companion if he thinks it worth his while. Among those who are at all his equals in consequence, he is a very different man from what he is to the less prosperous. His pride never deserts him; but with the rich he is liberal-minded, just, sincere, rational, honourable, and perhaps agreeable—allowing something for fortune and figure."
|
||
The whist party soon afterwards breaking up, the players gathered round the other table and Mr. Collins took his station between his cousin Elizabeth and Mrs. Phillips. The usual inquiries as to his success was made by the latter. It had not been very great; he had lost every point; but when Mrs. Phillips began to express her concern thereupon, he assured her with much earnest gravity that it was not of the least importance, that he considered the money as a mere trifle, and begged that she would not make herself uneasy.
|
||
"I know very well, madam," said he, "that when persons sit down to a card-table, they must take their chances of these things, and happily I am not in such circumstances as to make five shillings any object. There are undoubtedly many who could not say the same, but thanks to Lady Catherine de Bourgh, I am removed far beyond the necessity of regarding little matters."
|
||
Mr. Wickham's attention was caught; and after observing Mr. Collins for a few moments, he asked Elizabeth in a low voice whether her relation was very intimately acquainted with the family of de Bourgh.
|
||
"Lady Catherine de Bourgh," she replied, "has very lately given him a living. I hardly know how Mr. Collins was first introduced to her notice, but he certainly has not known her long."
|
||
"You know of course that Lady Catherine de Bourgh and Lady Anne Darcy were sisters; consequently that she is aunt to the present Mr. Darcy."
|
||
"No, indeed, I did not. I knew nothing at all of Lady Catherine's connections. I never heard of her existence till the day before yesterday."
|
||
"Her daughter, Miss de Bourgh, will have a very large fortune, and it is believed that she and her cousin will unite the two estates."
|
||
This information made Elizabeth smile, as she thought of poor Miss Bingley. Vain indeed must be all her attentions, vain and useless her affection for his sister and her praise of himself, if he were already self-destined for another.
|
||
"Mr. Collins," said she, "speaks highly both of Lady Catherine and her daughter; but from some particulars that he has related of her ladyship, I suspect his gratitude misleads him, and that in spite of her being his patroness, she is an arrogant, conceited woman."
|
||
"I believe her to be both in a great degree," replied Wickham; "I have not seen her for many years, but I very well remember that I never liked her, and that her manners were dictatorial and insolent. She has the reputation of being remarkably sensible and clever; but I rather believe she derives part of her abilities from her rank and fortune, part from her authoritative manner, and the rest from the pride for her nephew, who chooses that everyone connected with him should have an understanding of the first class."
|
||
Elizabeth allowed that he had given a very rational account of it, and they continued talking together, with mutual satisfaction till supper put an end to cards, and gave the rest of the ladies their share of Mr. Wickham's attentions. There could be no conversation in the noise of Mrs. Phillips's supper party, but his manners recommended him to everybody. Whatever he said, was said well; and whatever he did, done gracefully. Elizabeth went away with her head full of him. She could think of nothing but of Mr. Wickham, and of what he had told her, all the way home; but there was not time for her even to mention his name as they went, for neither Lydia nor Mr. Collins were once silent. Lydia talked incessantly of lottery tickets, of the fish she had lost and the fish she had won; and Mr. Collins in describing the civility of Mr. and Mrs. Phillips, protesting that he did not in the least regard his losses at whist, enumerating all the dishes at supper, and repeatedly fearing that he crowded his cousins, had more to say than he could well manage before the carriage stopped at Longbourn House.
|
||
Chapter 17
|
||
Elizabeth related to Jane the next day what had passed between Mr. Wickham and herself. Jane listened with astonishment and concern; she knew not how to believe that Mr. Darcy could be so unworthy of Mr. Bingley's regard; and yet, it was not in her nature to question the veracity of a young man of such amiable appearance as Wickham. The possibility of his having endured such unkindness, was enough to interest all her tender feelings; and nothing remained therefore to be done, but to think well of them both, to defend the conduct of each, and throw into the account of accident or mistake whatever could not be otherwise explained.
|
||
"They have both," said she, "been deceived, I dare say, in some way or other, of which we can form no idea. Interested people have perhaps misrepresented each to the other. It is, in short, impossible for us to conjecture the causes or circumstances which may have alienated them, without actual blame on either side."
|
||
"Very true, indeed; and now, my dear Jane, what have you got to say on behalf of the interested people who have probably been concerned in the business? Do clear THEM too, or we shall be obliged to think ill of somebody."
|
||
"Laugh as much as you choose, but you will not laugh me out of my opinion. My dearest Lizzy, do but consider in what a disgraceful light it places Mr. Darcy, to be treating his father's favourite in such a manner, one whom his father had promised to provide for. It is impossible. No man of common humanity, no man who had any value for his character, could be capable of it. Can his most intimate friends be so excessively deceived in him? Oh! no."
|
||
"I can much more easily believe Mr. Bingley's being imposed on, than that Mr. Wickham should invent such a history of himself as he gave me last night; names, facts, everything mentioned without ceremony. If it be not so, let Mr. Darcy contradict it. Besides, there was truth in his looks."
|
||
"It is difficult indeed—it is distressing. One does not know what to think."
|
||
"I beg your pardon; one knows exactly what to think."
|
||
But Jane could think with certainty on only one point—that Mr. Bingley, if he HAD been imposed on, would have much to suffer when the affair became public.
|
||
The two young ladies were summoned from the shrubbery, where this conversation passed, by the arrival of the very persons of whom they had been speaking; Mr. Bingley and his sisters came to give their personal invitation for the long-expected ball at Netherfield, which was fixed for the following Tuesday. The two ladies were delighted to see their dear friend again, called it an age since they had met, and repeatedly asked what she had been doing with herself since their separation. To the rest of the family they paid little attention; avoiding Mrs. Bennet as much as possible, saying not much to Elizabeth, and nothing at all to the others. They were soon gone again, rising from their seats with an activity which took their brother by surprise, and hurrying off as if eager to escape from Mrs. Bennet's civilities.
|
||
The prospect of the Netherfield ball was extremely agreeable to every female of the family. Mrs. Bennet chose to consider it as given in compliment to her eldest daughter, and was particularly flattered by receiving the invitation from Mr. Bingley himself, instead of a ceremonious card. Jane pictured to herself a happy evening in the society of her two friends, and the attentions of her brother; and Elizabeth thought with pleasure of dancing a great deal with Mr. Wickham, and of seeing a confirmation of everything in Mr. Darcy's look and behavior. The happiness anticipated by Catherine and Lydia depended less on any single event, or any particular person, for though they each, like Elizabeth, meant to dance half the evening with Mr. Wickham, he was by no means the only partner who could satisfy them, and a ball was, at any rate, a ball. And even Mary could assure her family that she had no disinclination for it.
|
||
"While I can have my mornings to myself," said she, "it is enough—I think it is no sacrifice to join occasionally in evening engagements. Society has claims on us all; and I profess myself one of those who consider intervals of recreation and amusement as desirable for everybody."
|
||
Elizabeth's spirits were so high on this occasion, that though she did not often speak unnecessarily to Mr. Collins, she could not help asking him whether he intended to accept Mr. Bingley's invitation, and if he did, whether he would think it proper to join in the evening's amusement; and she was rather surprised to find that he entertained no scruple whatever on that head, and was very far from dreading a rebuke either from the Archbishop, or Lady Catherine de Bourgh, by venturing to dance.
|
||
"I am by no means of the opinion, I assure you," said he, "that a ball of this kind, given by a young man of character, to respectable people, can have any evil tendency; and I am so far from objecting to dancing myself, that I shall hope to be honoured with the hands of all my fair cousins in the course of the evening; and I take this opportunity of soliciting yours, Miss Elizabeth, for the two first dances especially, a preference which I trust my cousin Jane will attribute to the right cause, and not to any disrespect for her."
|
||
Elizabeth felt herself completely taken in. She had fully proposed being engaged by Mr. Wickham for those very dances; and to have Mr. Collins instead! her liveliness had never been worse timed. There was no help for it, however. Mr. Wickham's happiness and her own were perforce delayed a little longer, and Mr. Collins' proposal accepted with as good a grace as she could. She was not the better pleased with his gallantry from the idea it suggested of something more. It now first struck her, that SHE was selected from among her sisters as worthy of being mistress of Hunsford Parsonage, and of assisting to form a quadrille table at Rosings, in the absence of more eligible visitors. The idea soon reached to conviction, as she observed his increasing civilities toward herself, and heard his frequent attempt at a compliment on her wit and vivacity; and though more astonished than gratified herself by this effect of her charms, it was not long before her mother gave her to understand that the probability of their marriage was extremely agreeable to HER. Elizabeth, however, did not choose to take the hint, being well aware that a serious dispute must be the consequence of any reply. Mr. Collins might never make the offer, and till he did, it was useless to quarrel about him.
|
||
If there had not been a Netherfield ball to prepare for and talk of, the younger Miss Bennets would have been in a very pitiable state at this time, for from the day of the invitation, to the day of the ball, there was such a succession of rain as prevented their walking to Meryton once. No aunt, no officers, no news could be sought after—the very shoe-roses for Netherfield were got by proxy. Even Elizabeth might have found some trial of her patience in weather which totally suspended the improvement of her acquaintance with Mr. Wickham; and nothing less than a dance on Tuesday, could have made such a Friday, Saturday, Sunday, and Monday endurable to Kitty and Lydia.
|
||
Chapter 18
|
||
Till Elizabeth entered the drawing-room at Netherfield, and looked in vain for Mr. Wickham among the cluster of red coats there assembled, a doubt of his being present had never occurred to her. The certainty of meeting him had not been checked by any of those recollections that might not unreasonably have alarmed her. She had dressed with more than usual care, and prepared in the highest spirits for the conquest of all that remained unsubdued of his heart, trusting that it was not more than might be won in the course of the evening. But in an instant arose the dreadful suspicion of his being purposely omitted for Mr. Darcy's pleasure in the Bingleys' invitation to the officers; and though this was not exactly the case, the absolute fact of his absence was pronounced by his friend Denny, to whom Lydia eagerly applied, and who told them that Wickham had been obliged to go to town on business the day before, and was not yet returned; adding, with a significant smile, "I do not imagine his business would have called him away just now, if he had not wanted to avoid a certain gentleman here."
|
||
This part of his intelligence, though unheard by Lydia, was caught by Elizabeth, and, as it assured her that Darcy was not less answerable for Wickham's absence than if her first surmise had been just, every feeling of displeasure against the former was so sharpened by immediate disappointment, that she could hardly reply with tolerable civility to the polite inquiries which he directly afterwards approached to make. Attendance, forbearance, patience with Darcy, was injury to Wickham. She was resolved against any sort of conversation with him, and turned away with a degree of ill-humour which she could not wholly surmount even in speaking to Mr. Bingley, whose blind partiality provoked her.
|
||
But Elizabeth was not formed for ill-humour; and though every prospect of her own was destroyed for the evening, it could not dwell long on her spirits; and having told all her griefs to Charlotte Lucas, whom she had not seen for a week, she was soon able to make a voluntary transition to the oddities of her cousin, and to point him out to her particular notice. The first two dances, however, brought a return of distress; they were dances of mortification. Mr. Collins, awkward and solemn, apologising instead of attending, and often moving wrong without being aware of it, gave her all the shame and misery which a disagreeable partner for a couple of dances can give. The moment of her release from him was ecstasy.
|
||
She danced next with an officer, and had the refreshment of talking of Wickham, and of hearing that he was universally liked. When those dances were over, she returned to Charlotte Lucas, and was in conversation with her, when she found herself suddenly addressed by Mr. Darcy who took her so much by surprise in his application for her hand, that, without knowing what she did, she accepted him. He walked away again immediately, and she was left to fret over her own want of presence of mind; Charlotte tried to console her:
|
||
"I dare say you will find him very agreeable."
|
||
"Heaven forbid! THAT would be the greatest misfortune of all! To find a man agreeable whom on is determined to hate! Do not wish me such an evil."
|
||
When the dancing recommenced, however, and Darcy approached to claim her hand, Charlotte could not help cautioning her in a whisper, not to be a simpleton, and allow her fancy for Wickham to make her appear unpleasant in the eyes of a man ten times his consequence. Elizabeth made no answer, and took her place in the set, amazed at the dignity to which she was arrived in being allowed to stand opposite to Mr. Darcy, and reading in her neighbours' looks, their equal amazement in beholding it. They stood for some time without speaking a word; and she began to imagine that their silence was to last through the two dances, and at first was resolved not to break it; till suddenly fancying that it would be the greater punishment to her partner to oblige him to talk, she made some slight observation on the dance. He replied, and was again silent. After a pause of some minutes, she addressed him a second time with:—"It is YOUR turn to say something now, Mr. Darcy. I talked about the dance, and YOU ought to make some sort of remark on the size of the room, or the number of couples."
|
||
He smiled, and assured her that whatever she wished him to say should be said.
|
||
"Very well. That reply will do for the present. Perhaps by and by I may observe that private balls are much pleasanter than public ones. But NOW we may be silent."
|
||
"Do you talk by rule, then, while you are dancing?"
|
||
"Sometimes. One must speak a little, you know. It would look odd to be entirely silent for half an hour together; and yet for the advantage of SOME, conversation ought to be so arranged, as that they may have the trouble of saying as little as possible."
|
||
"Are you consulting your own feelings in the present case, or do you imagine that you are gratifying mine?"
|
||
"Both," replied Elizabeth archly; "for I have always seen a great similarity in the turn of our minds. We are each of an unsocial, taciturn disposition, unwilling to speak, unless we expect to say something that will amaze the whole room, and be handed down to posterity with all the eclat of a proverb."
|
||
"This is no very striking resemblance of your own character, I am sure," said he. "How near it may be to MINE, I cannot pretend to say. YOU think it a faithful portrait undoubtedly."
|
||
"I must not decide on my own performance."
|
||
He made no answer, and they were again silent till they had gone down the dance, when he asked her if she and her sisters did not very often walk to Meryton. She answered in the affirmative, and, unable to resist the temptation, added, "When you met us there the other day, we had just been forming a new acquaintance."
|
||
The effect was immediate. A deeper shade of hauteur overspread his features, but he said not a word, and Elizabeth, though blaming herself for her own weakness, could not go on. At length Darcy spoke, and in a constrained manner said, "Mr. Wickham is blessed with such happy manners as may ensure his MAKING friends—whether he may be equally capable of RETAINING them, is less certain."
|
||
"He has been so unlucky as to lose YOUR friendship," replied Elizabeth with emphasis, "and in a manner which he is likely to suffer from all his life."
|
||
Darcy made no answer, and seemed desirous of changing the subject. At that moment, Sir William Lucas appeared close to them, meaning to pass through the set to the other side of the room; but on perceiving Mr. Darcy, he stopped with a bow of superior courtesy to compliment him on his dancing and his partner.
|
||
"I have been most highly gratified indeed, my dear sir. Such very superior dancing is not often seen. It is evident that you belong to the first circles. Allow me to say, however, that your fair partner does not disgrace you, and that I must hope to have this pleasure often repeated, especially when a certain desirable event, my dear Eliza (glancing at her sister and Bingley) shall take place. What congratulations will then flow in! I appeal to Mr. Darcy:—but let me not interrupt you, sir. You will not thank me for detaining you from the bewitching converse of that young lady, whose bright eyes are also upbraiding me."
|
||
The latter part of this address was scarcely heard by Darcy; but Sir William's allusion to his friend seemed to strike him forcibly, and his eyes were directed with a very serious expression towards Bingley and Jane, who were dancing together. Recovering himself, however, shortly, he turned to his partner, and said, "Sir William's interruption has made me forget what we were talking of."
|
||
"I do not think we were speaking at all. Sir William could not have interrupted two people in the room who had less to say for themselves. We have tried two or three subjects already without success, and what we are to talk of next I cannot imagine."
|
||
"What think you of books?" said he, smiling.
|
||
"Books—oh! no. I am sure we never read the same, or not with the same feelings."
|
||
"I am sorry you think so; but if that be the case, there can at least be no want of subject. We may compare our different opinions."
|
||
"No—I cannot talk of books in a ball-room; my head is always full of something else."
|
||
"The PRESENT always occupies you in such scenes—does it?" said he, with a look of doubt.
|
||
"Yes, always," she replied, without knowing what she said, for her thoughts had wandered far from the subject, as soon afterwards appeared by her suddenly exclaiming, "I remember hearing you once say, Mr. Darcy, that you hardly ever forgave, that you resentment once created was unappeasable. You are very cautious, I suppose, as to its BEING CREATED."
|
||
"I am," said he, with a firm voice.
|
||
"And never allow yourself to be blinded by prejudice?"
|
||
"I hope not."
|
||
"It is particularly incumbent on those who never change their opinion, to be secure of judging properly at first.
|
||
"May I ask to what these questions tend?"
|
||
"Merely to the illustration of YOUR character," said she, endeavouring to shake off her gravity. "I am trying to make it out."
|
||
"And what is your success?"
|
||
She shook her head. "I do not get on at all. I hear such different accounts of you as puzzle me exceedingly."
|
||
"I can readily believe," answered he gravely, "that reports may vary greatly with respect to me; and I could wish, Miss Bennet, that you were not to sketch my character at the present moment, as there is reason to fear that the performance would reflect no credit on either."
|
||
"But if I do not take your likeness now, I may never have another opportunity."
|
||
"I would by no means suspend any pleasure of yours," he coldly replied. She said no more, and they went down the other dance and parted in silence; and on each side dissatisfied, though not to an equal degree, for in Darcy's breast there was a tolerable powerful feeling towards her, which soon procured her pardon, and directed all his anger against another.
|
||
They had not long separated, when Miss Bingley came towards her, and with an expression of civil disdain accosted her:
|
||
"So, Miss Eliza, I hear you are quite delighted with George Wickham! Your sister has been talking to me about him, and asking me a thousand questions; and I find that the young man quite forgot to tell you, among his other communication, that he was the son of old Wickham, the late Mr. Darcy's steward. Let me recommend you, however, as a friend, not to give implicit confidence to all his assertions; for as to Mr. Darcy's using him ill, it is perfectly false; for, on the contrary, he has always been remarkably kind to him, though George Wickham has treated Mr. Darcy in a most infamous manner. I do not know the particulars, but I know very well that Mr. Darcy is not in the least to blame, that he cannot bear to hear George Wickham mentioned, and that though my brother thought that he could not well avoid including him in his invitation to the officers, he was excessively glad to find that he had taken himself out of the way. His coming into the country at all is a most insolent thing, indeed, and I wonder how he could presume to do it. I pity you, Miss Eliza, for this discovery of your favourite's guilt; but really, considering his descent, one could not expect much better."
|
||
"His guilt and his descent appear by your account to be the same," said Elizabeth angrily; "for I have heard you accuse him of nothing worse than of being the son of Mr. Darcy's steward, and of THAT, I can assure you, he informed me himself."
|
||
"I beg your pardon," replied Miss Bingley, turning away with a sneer. "Excuse my interference—it was kindly meant."
|
||
"Insolent girl!" said Elizabeth to herself. "You are much mistaken if you expect to influence me by such a paltry attack as this. I see nothing in it but your own wilful ignorance and the malice of Mr. Darcy." She then sought her eldest sister, who has undertaken to make inquiries on the same subject of Bingley. Jane met her with a smile of such sweet complacency, a glow of such happy expression, as sufficiently marked how well she was satisfied with the occurrences of the evening. Elizabeth instantly read her feelings, and at that moment solicitude for Wickham, resentment against his enemies, and everything else, gave way before the hope of Jane's being in the fairest way for happiness.
|
||
"I want to know," said she, with a countenance no less smiling than her sister's, "what you have learnt about Mr. Wickham. But perhaps you have been too pleasantly engaged to think of any third person; in which case you may be sure of my pardon."
|
||
"No," replied Jane, "I have not forgotten him; but I have nothing satisfactory to tell you. Mr. Bingley does not know the whole of his history, and is quite ignorant of the circumstances which have principally offended Mr. Darcy; but he will vouch for the good conduct, the probity, and honour of his friend, and is perfectly convinced that Mr. Wickham has deserved much less attention from Mr. Darcy than he has received; and I am sorry to say by his account as well as his sister's, Mr. Wickham is by no means a respectable young man. I am afraid he has been very imprudent, and has deserved to lose Mr. Darcy's regard."
|
||
"Mr. Bingley does not know Mr. Wickham himself?"
|
||
"No; he never saw him till the other morning at Meryton."
|
||
"This account then is what he has received from Mr. Darcy. I am satisfied. But what does he say of the living?"
|
||
"He does not exactly recollect the circumstances, though he has heard them from Mr. Darcy more than once, but he believes that it was left to him CONDITIONALLY only."
|
||
"I have not a doubt of Mr. Bingley's sincerity," said Elizabeth warmly; "but you must excuse my not being convinced by assurances only. Mr. Bingley's defense of his friend was a very able one, I dare say; but since he is unacquainted with several parts of the story, and has learnt the rest from that friend himself, I shall venture to still think of both gentlemen as I did before."
|
||
She then changed the discourse to one more gratifying to each, and on which there could be no difference of sentiment. Elizabeth listened with delight to the happy, though modest hopes which Jane entertained of Mr. Bingley's regard, and said all in her power to heighten her confidence in it. On their being joined by Mr. Bingley himself, Elizabeth withdrew to Miss Lucas; to whose inquiry after the pleasantness of her last partner she had scarcely replied, before Mr. Collins came up to them, and told her with great exultation that he had just been so fortunate as to make a most important discovery.
|
||
"I have found out," said he, "by a singular accident, that there is now in the room a near relation of my patroness. I happened to overhear the gentleman himself mentioning to the young lady who does the honours of the house the names of his cousin Miss de Bourgh, and of her mother Lady Catherine. How wonderfully these sort of things occur! Who would have thought of my meeting with, perhaps, a nephew of Lady Catherine de Bourgh in this assembly! I am most thankful that the discovery is made in time for me to pay my respects to him, which I am now going to do, and trust he will excuse my not having done it before. My total ignorance of the connection must plead my apology."
|
||
"You are not going to introduce yourself to Mr. Darcy!"
|
||
"Indeed I am. I shall entreat his pardon for not having done it earlier. I believe him to be Lady Catherine's NEPHEW. It will be in my power to assure him that her ladyship was quite well yesterday se'nnight."
|
||
Elizabeth tried hard to dissuade him from such a scheme, assuring him that Mr. Darcy would consider his addressing him without introduction as an impertinent freedom, rather than a compliment to his aunt; that it was not in the least necessary there should be any notice on either side; and that if it were, it must belong to Mr. Darcy, the superior in consequence, to begin the acquaintance. Mr. Collins listened to her with the determined air of following his own inclination, and, when she ceased speaking, replied thus:
|
||
"My dear Miss Elizabeth, I have the highest opinion in the world in your excellent judgement in all matters within the scope of your understanding; but permit me to say, that there must be a wide difference between the established forms of ceremony amongst the laity, and those which regulate the clergy; for, give me leave to observe that I consider the clerical office as equal in point of dignity with the highest rank in the kingdom—provided that a proper humility of behaviour is at the same time maintained. You must therefore allow me to follow the dictates of my conscience on this occasion, which leads me to perform what I look on as a point of duty. Pardon me for neglecting to profit by your advice, which on every other subject shall be my constant guide, though in the case before us I consider myself more fitted by education and habitual study to decide on what is right than a young lady like yourself." And with a low bow he left her to attack Mr. Darcy, whose reception of his advances she eagerly watched, and whose astonishment at being so addressed was very evident. Her cousin prefaced his speech with a solemn bow and though she could not hear a word of it, she felt as if hearing it all, and saw in the motion of his lips the words "apology," "Hunsford," and "Lady Catherine de Bourgh." It vexed her to see him expose himself to such a man. Mr. Darcy was eyeing him with unrestrained wonder, and when at last Mr. Collins allowed him time to speak, replied with an air of distant civility. Mr. Collins, however, was not discouraged from speaking again, and Mr. Darcy's contempt seemed abundantly increasing with the length of his second speech, and at the end of it he only made him a slight bow, and moved another way. Mr. Collins then returned to Elizabeth.
|
||
"I have no reason, I assure you," said he, "to be dissatisfied with my reception. Mr. Darcy seemed much pleased with the attention. He answered me with the utmost civility, and even paid me the compliment of saying that he was so well convinced of Lady Catherine's discernment as to be certain she could never bestow a favour unworthily. It was really a very handsome thought. Upon the whole, I am much pleased with him."
|
||
As Elizabeth had no longer any interest of her own to pursue, she turned her attention almost entirely on her sister and Mr. Bingley; and the train of agreeable reflections which her observations gave birth to, made her perhaps almost as happy as Jane. She saw her in idea settled in that very house, in all the felicity which a marriage of true affection could bestow; and she felt capable, under such circumstances, of endeavouring even to like Bingley's two sisters. Her mother's thoughts she plainly saw were bent the same way, and she determined not to venture near her, lest she might hear too much. When they sat down to supper, therefore, she considered it a most unlucky perverseness which placed them within one of each other; and deeply was she vexed to find that her mother was talking to that one person (Lady Lucas) freely, openly, and of nothing else but her expectation that Jane would soon be married to Mr. Bingley. It was an animating subject, and Mrs. Bennet seemed incapable of fatigue while enumerating the advantages of the match. His being such a charming young man, and so rich, and living but three miles from them, were the first points of self-gratulation; and then it was such a comfort to think how fond the two sisters were of Jane, and to be certain that they must desire the connection as much as she could do. It was, moreover, such a promising thing for her younger daughters, as Jane's marrying so greatly must throw them in the way of other rich men; and lastly, it was so pleasant at her time of life to be able to consign her single daughters to the care of their sister, that she might not be obliged to go into company more than she liked. It was necessary to make this circumstance a matter of pleasure, because on such occasions it is the etiquette; but no one was less likely than Mrs. Bennet to find comfort in staying home at any period of her life. She concluded with many good wishes that Lady Lucas might soon be equally fortunate, though evidently and triumphantly believing there was no chance of it.
|
||
In vain did Elizabeth endeavour to check the rapidity of her mother's words, or persuade her to describe her felicity in a less audible whisper; for, to her inexpressible vexation, she could perceive that the chief of it was overheard by Mr. Darcy, who sat opposite to them. Her mother only scolded her for being nonsensical.
|
||
"What is Mr. Darcy to me, pray, that I should be afraid of him? I am sure we owe him no such particular civility as to be obliged to say nothing HE may not like to hear."
|
||
"For heaven's sake, madam, speak lower. What advantage can it be for you to offend Mr. Darcy? You will never recommend yourself to his friend by so doing!"
|
||
Nothing that she could say, however, had any influence. Her mother would talk of her views in the same intelligible tone. Elizabeth blushed and blushed again with shame and vexation. She could not help frequently glancing her eye at Mr. Darcy, though every glance convinced her of what she dreaded; for though he was not always looking at her mother, she was convinced that his attention was invariably fixed by her. The expression of his face changed gradually from indignant contempt to a composed and steady gravity.
|
||
At length, however, Mrs. Bennet had no more to say; and Lady Lucas, who had been long yawning at the repetition of delights which she saw no likelihood of sharing, was left to the comforts of cold ham and chicken. Elizabeth now began to revive. But not long was the interval of tranquillity; for, when supper was over, singing was talked of, and she had the mortification of seeing Mary, after very little entreaty, preparing to oblige the company. By many significant looks and silent entreaties, did she endeavour to prevent such a proof of complaisance, but in vain; Mary would not understand them; such an opportunity of exhibiting was delightful to her, and she began her song. Elizabeth's eyes were fixed on her with most painful sensations, and she watched her progress through the several stanzas with an impatience which was very ill rewarded at their close; for Mary, on receiving, amongst the thanks of the table, the hint of a hope that she might be prevailed on to favour them again, after the pause of half a minute began another. Mary's powers were by no means fitted for such a display; her voice was weak, and her manner affected. Elizabeth was in agonies. She looked at Jane, to see how she bore it; but Jane was very composedly talking to Bingley. She looked at his two sisters, and saw them making signs of derision at each other, and at Darcy, who continued, however, imperturbably grave. She looked at her father to entreat his interference, lest Mary should be singing all night. He took the hint, and when Mary had finished her second song, said aloud, "That will do extremely well, child. You have delighted us long enough. Let the other young ladies have time to exhibit."
|
||
Mary, though pretending not to hear, was somewhat disconcerted; and Elizabeth, sorry for her, and sorry for her father's speech, was afraid her anxiety had done no good. Others of the party were now applied to.
|
||
"If I," said Mr. Collins, "were so fortunate as to be able to sing, I should have great pleasure, I am sure, in obliging the company with an air; for I consider music as a very innocent diversion, and perfectly compatible with the profession of a clergyman. I do not mean, however, to assert that we can be justified in devoting too much of our time to music, for there are certainly other things to be attended to. The rector of a parish has much to do. In the first place, he must make such an agreement for tithes as a may be beneficial to himself and not offensive to his patron. He must write his own sermons; and the time that remains will not be too much for his parish duties, and the care and improvement of his dwelling, which he cannot be excused from making as a comfortable as possible. And I do not think it of light importance that he should have attentive and conciliatory manner towards everybody, especially towards those to whom he owes his preferment. I cannot acquit him of that duty; nor could I think well of the man who should omit an occasion of testifying his respect towards anybody connected with the family." And with a bow to Mr. Darcy, he concluded his speech, which had been spoken so loud as a to be heard by half the room. Many stared—many smiled; but no one looked more amused than Mr. Bennet himself, while his wife seriously commended Mr. Collins for having spoken so sensibly, and observed in a half-whisper to Lady Lucas, that he was a remarkably clever, good kind of young man.
|
||
To Elizabeth it appeared that, had her family made an agreement to expose themselves as a much as a they could during the evening, it would have been impossible for them to play their parts with more spirit or finer success; and happy did she think it for Bingley and her sister that some of the exhibition had escaped his notice, and that his feelings were not of a sort to be much distressed by the folly which he must have witnessed. That his two sisters and Mr. Darcy, however, should have such an opportunity of ridiculing her relations, was bad enough, and she could not determine whether the silent contempt of the gentleman, or the insolent smiles of the ladies, were more intolerable.
|
||
The rest of the evening brought her little amusement. She was teased by Mr. Collins, who continued most perseveringly by her side, and though he could not prevail on her to dance with him again, put it out of her power to dance with others. In vain did she entreat him to stand up with somebody else, and offer to introduce him to any young lady in the room. He assured her, that as to dancing, he was perfectly indifferent to it; that his chief object was by delicate attentions to recommend himself to her and that he should therefore make a point of remaining close to her the whole evening. There was no arguing upon such a project. She owed her greatest relief to her friend Miss Lucas, who often joined them, and good-naturedly engaged Mr. Collins's conversation to herself.
|
||
She was at least free from the offense of Mr. Darcy's further notice; though often standing within a very short distance of her, quite disengaged, he never came near enough to speak. She felt it to be the probable consequence of her allusions to Mr. Wickham, and rejoiced in it.
|
||
The Longbourn party were the last of all the company to depart, and, by a manoeuvre of Mrs. Bennet, had to wait for their carriage a quarter of an hour after everybody else was gone, which gave them time to see how heartily they were wished away by some of the family. Mrs. Hurst and her sister scarcely opened their mouths, except to complain of fatigue, and were evidently impatient to have the house to themselves. They repulsed every attempt of Mrs. Bennet at conversation, and by so doing threw a languor over the whole party, which was very little relieved by the long speeches of Mr. Collins, who was complimenting Mr. Bingley and his sisters on the elegance of their entertainment, and the hospitality and politeness which had marked their behaviour to their guests. Darcy said nothing at all. Mr. Bennet, in equal silence, was enjoying the scene. Mr. Bingley and Jane were standing together, a little detached from the rest, and talked only to each other. Elizabeth preserved as steady a silence as either Mrs. Hurst or Miss Bingley; and even Lydia was too much fatigued to utter more than the occasional exclamation of "Lord, how tired I am!" accompanied by a violent yawn.
|
||
When at length they arose to take leave, Mrs. Bennet was most pressingly civil in her hope of seeing the whole family soon at Longbourn, and addressed herself especially to Mr. Bingley, to assure him how happy he would make them by eating a family dinner with them at any time, without the ceremony of a formal invitation. Bingley was all grateful pleasure, and he readily engaged for taking the earliest opportunity of waiting on her, after his return from London, whither he was obliged to go the next day for a short time.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet was perfectly satisfied, and quitted the house under the delightful persuasion that, allowing for the necessary preparations of settlements, new carriages, and wedding clothes, she should undoubtedly see her daughter settled at Netherfield in the course of three or four months. Of having another daughter married to Mr. Collins, she thought with equal certainty, and with considerable, though not equal, pleasure. Elizabeth was the least dear to her of all her children; and though the man and the match were quite good enough for HER, the worth of each was eclipsed by Mr. Bingley and Netherfield.
|
||
Chapter 19
|
||
The next day opened a new scene at Longbourn. Mr. Collins made his declaration in form. Having resolved to do it without loss of time, as his leave of absence extended only to the following Saturday, and having no feelings of diffidence to make it distressing to himself even at the moment, he set about it in a very orderly manner, with all the observances, which he supposed a regular part of the business. On finding Mrs. Bennet, Elizabeth, and one of the younger girls together, soon after breakfast, he addressed the mother in these words:
|
||
"May I hope, madam, for your interest with your fair daughter Elizabeth, when I solicit for the honour of a private audience with her in the course of this morning?"
|
||
Before Elizabeth had time for anything but a blush of surprise, Mrs. Bennet answered instantly, "Oh dear!—yes—certainly. I am sure Lizzy will be very happy—I am sure she can have no objection. Come, Kitty, I want you upstairs." And, gathering her work together, she was hastening away, when Elizabeth called out:
|
||
"Dear madam, do not go. I beg you will not go. Mr. Collins must excuse me. He can have nothing to say to me that anybody need not hear. I am going away myself."
|
||
"No, no, nonsense, Lizzy. I desire you to stay where you are." And upon Elizabeth's seeming really, with vexed and embarrassed looks, about to escape, she added: "Lizzy, I INSIST upon your staying and hearing Mr. Collins."
|
||
Elizabeth would not oppose such an injunction—and a moment's consideration making her also sensible that it would be wisest to get it over as soon and as quietly as possible, she sat down again and tried to conceal, by incessant employment the feelings which were divided between distress and diversion. Mrs. Bennet and Kitty walked off, and as soon as they were gone, Mr. Collins began.
|
||
"Believe me, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that your modesty, so far from doing you any disservice, rather adds to your other perfections. You would have been less amiable in my eyes had there NOT been this little unwillingness; but allow me to assure you, that I have your respected mother's permission for this address. You can hardly doubt the purport of my discourse, however your natural delicacy may lead you to dissemble; my attentions have been too marked to be mistaken. Almost as soon as I entered the house, I singled you out as the companion of my future life. But before I am run away with by my feelings on this subject, perhaps it would be advisable for me to state my reasons for marrying—and, moreover, for coming into Hertfordshire with the design of selecting a wife, as I certainly did."
|
||
The idea of Mr. Collins, with all his solemn composure, being run away with by his feelings, made Elizabeth so near laughing, that she could not use the short pause he allowed in any attempt to stop him further, and he continued:
|
||
"My reasons for marrying are, first, that I think it a right thing for every clergyman in easy circumstances (like myself) to set the example of matrimony in his parish; secondly, that I am convinced that it will add very greatly to my happiness; and thirdly—which perhaps I ought to have mentioned earlier, that it is the particular advice and recommendation of the very noble lady whom I have the honour of calling patroness. Twice has she condescended to give me her opinion (unasked too!) on this subject; and it was but the very Saturday night before I left Hunsford—between our pools at quadrille, while Mrs. Jenkinson was arranging Miss de Bourgh's footstool, that she said, 'Mr. Collins, you must marry. A clergyman like you must marry. Choose properly, choose a gentlewoman for MY sake; and for your OWN, let her be an active, useful sort of person, not brought up high, but able to make a small income go a good way. This is my advice. Find such a woman as soon as you can, bring her to Hunsford, and I will visit her.' Allow me, by the way, to observe, my fair cousin, that I do not reckon the notice and kindness of Lady Catherine de Bourgh as among the least of the advantages in my power to offer. You will find her manners beyond anything I can describe; and your wit and vivacity, I think, must be acceptable to her, especially when tempered with the silence and respect which her rank will inevitably excite. Thus much for my general intention in favour of matrimony; it remains to be told why my views were directed towards Longbourn instead of my own neighbourhood, where I can assure you there are many amiable young women. But the fact is, that being, as I am, to inherit this estate after the death of your honoured father (who, however, may live many years longer), I could not satisfy myself without resolving to choose a wife from among his daughters, that the loss to them might be as little as possible, when the melancholy event takes place—which, however, as I have already said, may not be for several years. This has been my motive, my fair cousin, and I flatter myself it will not sink me in your esteem. And now nothing remains but for me but to assure you in the most animated language of the violence of my affection. To fortune I am perfectly indifferent, and shall make no demand of that nature on your father, since I am well aware that it could not be complied with; and that one thousand pounds in the four per cents, which will not be yours till after your mother's decease, is all that you may ever be entitled to. On that head, therefore, I shall be uniformly silent; and you may assure yourself that no ungenerous reproach shall ever pass my lips when we are married."
|
||
It was absolutely necessary to interrupt him now.
|
||
"You are too hasty, sir," she cried. "You forget that I have made no answer. Let me do it without further loss of time. Accept my thanks for the compliment you are paying me. I am very sensible of the honour of your proposals, but it is impossible for me to do otherwise than to decline them."
|
||
"I am not now to learn," replied Mr. Collins, with a formal wave of the hand, "that it is usual with young ladies to reject the addresses of the man whom they secretly mean to accept, when he first applies for their favour; and that sometimes the refusal is repeated a second, or even a third time. I am therefore by no means discouraged by what you have just said, and shall hope to lead you to the altar ere long."
|
||
"Upon my word, sir," cried Elizabeth, "your hope is a rather extraordinary one after my declaration. I do assure you that I am not one of those young ladies (if such young ladies there are) who are so daring as to risk their happiness on the chance of being asked a second time. I am perfectly serious in my refusal. You could not make ME happy, and I am convinced that I am the last woman in the world who could make you so. Nay, were your friend Lady Catherine to know me, I am persuaded she would find me in every respect ill qualified for the situation."
|
||
"Were it certain that Lady Catherine would think so," said Mr. Collins very gravely—"but I cannot imagine that her ladyship would at all disapprove of you. And you may be certain when I have the honour of seeing her again, I shall speak in the very highest terms of your modesty, economy, and other amiable qualification."
|
||
"Indeed, Mr. Collins, all praise of me will be unnecessary. You must give me leave to judge for myself, and pay me the compliment of believing what I say. I wish you very happy and very rich, and by refusing you hand, do all in my power to prevent your being otherwise. In making me the offer, you must have satisfied the delicacy of your feelings with regard to my family, and may take possession of Longbourn estate whenever it falls, without any self-reproach. This matter may be considered, therefore, as finally settled." And rising as she thus spoke, she would have quitted the room, had Mr. Collins not thus addressed her:
|
||
"When I do myself the honour of speaking to you next on the subject, I shall hope to receive a more favourable answer than you have now given me; though I am far from accusing you of cruelty at present, because I know it to be the established custom of your sex to reject a man on the first application, and perhaps you have even now said as much to encourage my suit as would be consistent with the true delicacy of the female character."
|
||
"Really, Mr. Collins," cried Elizabeth with some warmth, "you puzzle me exceedingly. If what I have hitherto said can appear to you in the form of encouragement, I know not how to express my refusal in such a way as to convince you of its being one."
|
||
"You must give me leave to flatter myself, my dear cousin, that your refusal of my addresses is merely words of course. My reasons for believing it are briefly these: It does not appear to me that my hand is unworthy your acceptance, or that the establishment I can offer would be any other than highly desirable. My situation in life, my connections with the family of de Bourgh, and my relationship to your own, are circumstances highly in my favour; and you should take it into further consideration, that in spite of your manifold attractions, it is by no means certain that another offer of marriage may ever be made you. Your portion is unhappily so small that it will in all likelihood undo the effects of your loveliness and amiable qualifications. As I must therefore conclude that you are not serious in your rejection of me, I shall choose to attribute it to your wish of increasing my love by suspense, according to the usual practice of elegant females."
|
||
"I do assure you, sir, that I have no pretensions whatever to that kind of elegance which consists in tormenting a respectable man. I would rather be paid the compliment of being believed sincere. I thank you again and again for the honour you have done me in your proposals, but to accept them is absolutely impossible. My feelings in every respect forbid it. Can I speak plainer? Do not consider me now as an elegant female, intending to plague you, but as a rational creature, speaking the truth from her heart."
|
||
"You are uniformly charming!" cried he, with an air of awkward gallantry; "and I am persuaded that when sanctioned by the express authority of both your excellent parents, my proposals will not fail of being acceptable."
|
||
To such perseverance in wilful self-deception Elizabeth would make no reply, and immediately and in silence withdrew; determined, if he persisted in considering her repeated refusals as flattering encouragement, to apply to her father, whose negative might be uttered in such a manner as to be decisive, and whose behavior at least could not be mistaken for the affectation and coquetry of an elegant female.
|
||
Chapter 20
|
||
Mr. Collins was not left long to the silent contemplation of his successful love; for Mrs. Bennet, having dawdled about in the vestibule to watch for the end of the conference, no sooner saw Elizabeth open the door and with quick step pass her towards the staircase, than she entered the breakfast-room, and congratulated both him and herself in warm terms on the happy prospect or their nearer connection. Mr. Collins received and returned these felicitations with equal pleasure, and then proceeded to relate the particulars of their interview, with the result of which he trusted he had every reason to be satisfied, since the refusal which his cousin had steadfastly given him would naturally flow from her bashful modesty and the genuine delicacy of her character.
|
||
This information, however, startled Mrs. Bennet; she would have been glad to be equally satisfied that her daughter had meant to encourage him by protesting against his proposals, but she dared not believe it, and could not help saying so.
|
||
"But, depend upon it, Mr. Collins," she added, "that Lizzy shall be brought to reason. I will speak to her about it directly. She is a very headstrong, foolish girl, and does not know her own interest but I will MAKE her know it."
|
||
"Pardon me for interrupting you, madam," cried Mr. Collins; "but if she is really headstrong and foolish, I know not whether she would altogether be a very desirable wife to a man in my situation, who naturally looks for happiness in the marriage state. If therefore she actually persists in rejecting my suit, perhaps it were better not to force her into accepting me, because if liable to such defects of temper, she could not contribute much to my felicity."
|
||
"Sir, you quite misunderstand me," said Mrs. Bennet, alarmed. "Lizzy is only headstrong in such matters as these. In everything else she is as good-natured a girl as ever lived. I will go directly to Mr. Bennet, and we shall very soon settle it with her, I am sure."
|
||
She would not give him time to reply, but hurrying instantly to her husband, called out as she entered the library, "Oh! Mr. Bennet, you are wanted immediately; we are all in an uproar. You must come and make Lizzy marry Mr. Collins, for she vows she will not have him, and if you do not make haste he will change his mind and not have HER."
|
||
Mr. Bennet raised his eyes from his book as she entered, and fixed them on her face with a calm unconcern which was not in the least altered by her communication.
|
||
"I have not the pleasure of understanding you," said he, when she had finished her speech. "Of what are you talking?"
|
||
"Of Mr. Collins and Lizzy. Lizzy declares she will not have Mr. Collins, and Mr. Collins begins to say that he will not have Lizzy."
|
||
"And what am I to do on the occasion? It seems an hopeless business."
|
||
"Speak to Lizzy about it yourself. Tell her that you insist upon her marrying him."
|
||
"Let her be called down. She shall hear my opinion."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet rang the bell, and Miss Elizabeth was summoned to the library.
|
||
"Come here, child," cried her father as she appeared. "I have sent for you on an affair of importance. I understand that Mr. Collins has made you an offer of marriage. Is it true?" Elizabeth replied that it was. "Very well—and this offer of marriage you have refused?"
|
||
"I have, sir."
|
||
"Very well. We now come to the point. Your mother insists upon your accepting it. Is it not so, Mrs. Bennet?"
|
||
"Yes, or I will never see her again."
|
||
"An unhappy alternative is before you, Elizabeth. From this day you must be a stranger to one of your parents. Your mother will never see you again if you do NOT marry Mr. Collins, and I will never see you again if you DO."
|
||
Elizabeth could not but smile at such a conclusion of such a beginning, but Mrs. Bennet, who had persuaded herself that her husband regarded the affair as she wished, was excessively disappointed.
|
||
"What do you mean, Mr. Bennet, in talking this way? You promised me to INSIST upon her marrying him."
|
||
"My dear," replied her husband, "I have two small favours to request. First, that you will allow me the free use of my understanding on the present occasion; and secondly, of my room. I shall be glad to have the library to myself as soon as may be."
|
||
Not yet, however, in spite of her disappointment in her husband, did Mrs. Bennet give up the point. She talked to Elizabeth again and again; coaxed and threatened her by turns. She endeavoured to secure Jane in her interest; but Jane, with all possible mildness, declined interfering; and Elizabeth, sometimes with real earnestness, and sometimes with playful gaiety, replied to her attacks. Though her manner varied, however, her determination never did.
|
||
Mr. Collins, meanwhile, was meditating in solitude on what had passed. He thought too well of himself to comprehend on what motives his cousin could refuse him; and though his pride was hurt, he suffered in no other way. His regard for her was quite imaginary; and the possibility of her deserving her mother's reproach prevented his feeling any regret.
|
||
While the family were in this confusion, Charlotte Lucas came to spend the day with them. She was met in the vestibule by Lydia, who, flying to her, cried in a half whisper, "I am glad you are come, for there is such fun here! What do you think has happened this morning? Mr. Collins has made an offer to Lizzy, and she will not have him."
|
||
Charlotte hardly had time to answer, before they were joined by Kitty, who came to tell the same news; and no sooner had they entered the breakfast-room, where Mrs. Bennet was alone, than she likewise began on the subject, calling on Miss Lucas for her compassion, and entreating her to persuade her friend Lizzy to comply with the wishes of all her family. "Pray do, my dear Miss Lucas," she added in a melancholy tone, "for nobody is on my side, nobody takes part with me. I am cruelly used, nobody feels for my poor nerves."
|
||
Charlotte's reply was spared by the entrance of Jane and Elizabeth.
|
||
"Aye, there she comes," continued Mrs. Bennet, "looking as unconcerned as may be, and caring no more for us than if we were at York, provided she can have her own way. But I tell you, Miss Lizzy—if you take it into your head to go on refusing every offer of marriage in this way, you will never get a husband at all—and I am sure I do not know who is to maintain you when your father is dead. I shall not be able to keep you—and so I warn you. I have done with you from this very day. I told you in the library, you know, that I should never speak to you again, and you will find me as good as my word. I have no pleasure in talking to undutiful children. Not that I have much pleasure, indeed, in talking to anybody. People who suffer as I do from nervous complaints can have no great inclination for talking. Nobody can tell what I suffer! But it is always so. Those who do not complain are never pitied."
|
||
Her daughters listened in silence to this effusion, sensible that any attempt to reason with her or soothe her would only increase the irritation. She talked on, therefore, without interruption from any of them, till they were joined by Mr. Collins, who entered the room with an air more stately than usual, and on perceiving whom, she said to the girls, "Now, I do insist upon it, that you, all of you, hold your tongues, and let me and Mr. Collins have a little conversation together."
|
||
Elizabeth passed quietly out of the room, Jane and Kitty followed, but Lydia stood her ground, determined to hear all she could; and Charlotte, detained first by the civility of Mr. Collins, whose inquiries after herself and all her family were very minute, and then by a little curiosity, satisfied herself with walking to the window and pretending not to hear. In a doleful voice Mrs. Bennet began the projected conversation: "Oh! Mr. Collins!"
|
||
"My dear madam," replied he, "let us be for ever silent on this point. Far be it from me," he presently continued, in a voice that marked his displeasure, "to resent the behaviour of your daughter. Resignation to inevitable evils is the evil duty of us all; the peculiar duty of a young man who has been so fortunate as I have been in early preferment; and I trust I am resigned. Perhaps not the less so from feeling a doubt of my positive happiness had my fair cousin honoured me with her hand; for I have often observed that resignation is never so perfect as when the blessing denied begins to lose somewhat of its value in our estimation. You will not, I hope, consider me as showing any disrespect to your family, my dear madam, by thus withdrawing my pretensions to your daughter's favour, without having paid yourself and Mr. Bennet the compliment of requesting you to interpose your authority in my behalf. My conduct may, I fear, be objectionable in having accepted my dismission from your daughter's lips instead of your own. But we are all liable to error. I have certainly meant well through the whole affair. My object has been to secure an amiable companion for myself, with due consideration for the advantage of all your family, and if my MANNER has been at all reprehensible, I here beg leave to apologise."
|
||
Chapter 21
|
||
The discussion of Mr. Collins's offer was now nearly at an end, and Elizabeth had only to suffer from the uncomfortable feelings necessarily attending it, and occasionally from some peevish allusions of her mother. As for the gentleman himself, HIS feelings were chiefly expressed, not by embarrassment or dejection, or by trying to avoid her, but by stiffness of manner and resentful silence. He scarcely ever spoke to her, and the assiduous attentions which he had been so sensible of himself were transferred for the rest of the day to Miss Lucas, whose civility in listening to him was a seasonable relief to them all, and especially to her friend.
|
||
The morrow produced no abatement of Mrs. Bennet's ill-humour or ill health. Mr. Collins was also in the same state of angry pride. Elizabeth had hoped that his resentment might shorten his visit, but his plan did not appear in the least affected by it. He was always to have gone on Saturday, and to Saturday he meant to stay.
|
||
After breakfast, the girls walked to Meryton to inquire if Mr. Wickham were returned, and to lament over his absence from the Netherfield ball. He joined them on their entering the town, and attended them to their aunt's where his regret and vexation, and the concern of everybody, was well talked over. To Elizabeth, however, he voluntarily acknowledged that the necessity of his absence HAD been self-imposed.
|
||
"I found," said he, "as the time drew near that I had better not meet Mr. Darcy; that to be in the same room, the same party with him for so many hours together, might be more than I could bear, and that scenes might arise unpleasant to more than myself."
|
||
She highly approved his forbearance, and they had leisure for a full discussion of it, and for all the commendation which they civilly bestowed on each other, as Wickham and another officer walked back with them to Longbourn, and during the walk he particularly attended to her. His accompanying them was a double advantage; she felt all the compliment it offered to herself, and it was most acceptable as an occasion of introducing him to her father and mother.
|
||
Soon after their return, a letter was delivered to Miss Bennet; it came from Netherfield. The envelope contained a sheet of elegant, little, hot-pressed paper, well covered with a lady's fair, flowing hand; and Elizabeth saw her sister's countenance change as she read it, and saw her dwelling intently on some particular passages. Jane recollected herself soon, and putting the letter away, tried to join with her usual cheerfulness in the general conversation; but Elizabeth felt an anxiety on the subject which drew off her attention even from Wickham; and no sooner had he and he companion taken leave, than a glance from Jane invited her to follow her upstairs. When they had gained their own room, Jane, taking out the letter, said:
|
||
"This is from Caroline Bingley; what it contains has surprised me a good deal. The whole party have left Netherfield by this time, and are on their way to town—and without any intention of coming back again. You shall hear what she says."
|
||
She then read the first sentence aloud, which comprised the information of their having just resolved to follow their brother to town directly, and of their meaning to dine in Grosvenor Street, where Mr. Hurst had a house. The next was in these words: "I do not pretend to regret anything I shall leave in Hertfordshire, except your society, my dearest friend; but we will hope, at some future period, to enjoy many returns of that delightful intercourse we have known, and in the meanwhile may lessen the pain of separation by a very frequent and most unreserved correspondence. I depend on you for that." To these highflown expressions Elizabeth listened with all the insensibility of distrust; and though the suddenness of their removal surprised her, she saw nothing in it really to lament; it was not to be supposed that their absence from Netherfield would prevent Mr. Bingley's being there; and as to the loss of their society, she was persuaded that Jane must cease to regard it, in the enjoyment of his.
|
||
"It is unlucky," said she, after a short pause, "that you should not be able to see your friends before they leave the country. But may we not hope that the period of future happiness to which Miss Bingley looks forward may arrive earlier than she is aware, and that the delightful intercourse you have known as friends will be renewed with yet greater satisfaction as sisters? Mr. Bingley will not be detained in London by them."
|
||
"Caroline decidedly says that none of the party will return into Hertfordshire this winter. I will read it to you:
|
||
"When my brother left us yesterday, he imagined that the business which took him to London might be concluded in three or four days; but as we are certain it cannot be so, and at the same time convinced that when Charles gets to town he will be in no hurry to leave it again, we have determined on following him thither, that he may not be obliged to spend his vacant hours in a comfortless hotel. Many of my acquaintances are already there for the winter; I wish that I could hear that you, my dearest friend, had any intention of making one of the crowd—but of that I despair. I sincerely hope your Christmas in Hertfordshire may abound in the gaieties which that season generally brings, and that your beaux will be so numerous as to prevent your feeling the loss of the three of whom we shall deprive you."
|
||
"It is evident by this," added Jane, "that he comes back no more this winter."
|
||
"It is only evident that Miss Bingley does not mean that he SHOULD."
|
||
"Why will you think so? It must be his own doing. He is his own master. But you do not know ALL. I WILL read you the passage which particularly hurts me. I will have no reserves from YOU."
|
||
"Mr. Darcy is impatient to see his sister; and, to confess the truth, WE are scarcely less eager to meet her again. I really do not think Georgiana Darcy has her equal for beauty, elegance, and accomplishments; and the affection she inspires in Louisa and myself is heightened into something still more interesting, from the hope we dare entertain of her being hereafter our sister. I do not know whether I ever before mentioned to you my feelings on this subject; but I will not leave the country without confiding them, and I trust you will not esteem them unreasonable. My brother admires her greatly already; he will have frequent opportunity now of seeing her on the most intimate footing; her relations all wish the connection as much as his own; and a sister's partiality is not misleading me, I think, when I call Charles most capable of engaging any woman's heart. With all these circumstances to favour an attachment, and nothing to prevent it, am I wrong, my dearest Jane, in indulging the hope of an event which will secure the happiness of so many?"
|
||
"What do you think of THIS sentence, my dear Lizzy?" said Jane as she finished it. "Is it not clear enough? Does it not expressly declare that Caroline neither expects nor wishes me to be her sister; that she is perfectly convinced of her brother's indifference; and that if she suspects the nature of my feelings for him, she means (most kindly!) to put me on my guard? Can there be any other opinion on the subject?"
|
||
"Yes, there can; for mine is totally different. Will you hear it?"
|
||
"Most willingly."
|
||
"You shall have it in a few words. Miss Bingley sees that her brother is in love with you, and wants him to marry Miss Darcy. She follows him to town in hope of keeping him there, and tries to persuade you that he does not care about you."
|
||
Jane shook her head.
|
||
"Indeed, Jane, you ought to believe me. No one who has ever seen you together can doubt his affection. Miss Bingley, I am sure, cannot. She is not such a simpleton. Could she have seen half as much love in Mr. Darcy for herself, she would have ordered her wedding clothes. But the case is this: We are not rich enough or grand enough for them; and she is the more anxious to get Miss Darcy for her brother, from the notion that when there has been ONE intermarriage, she may have less trouble in achieving a second; in which there is certainly some ingenuity, and I dare say it would succeed, if Miss de Bourgh were out of the way. But, my dearest Jane, you cannot seriously imagine that because Miss Bingley tells you her brother greatly admires Miss Darcy, he is in the smallest degree less sensible of YOUR merit than when he took leave of you on Tuesday, or that it will be in her power to persuade him that, instead of being in love with you, he is very much in love with her friend."
|
||
"If we thought alike of Miss Bingley," replied Jane, "your representation of all this might make me quite easy. But I know the foundation is unjust. Caroline is incapable of wilfully deceiving anyone; and all that I can hope in this case is that she is deceiving herself."
|
||
"That is right. You could not have started a more happy idea, since you will not take comfort in mine. Believe her to be deceived, by all means. You have now done your duty by her, and must fret no longer."
|
||
"But, my dear sister, can I be happy, even supposing the best, in accepting a man whose sisters and friends are all wishing him to marry elsewhere?"
|
||
"You must decide for yourself," said Elizabeth; "and if, upon mature deliberation, you find that the misery of disobliging his two sisters is more than equivalent to the happiness of being his wife, I advise you by all means to refuse him."
|
||
"How can you talk so?" said Jane, faintly smiling. "You must know that though I should be exceedingly grieved at their disapprobation, I could not hesitate."
|
||
"I did not think you would; and that being the case, I cannot consider your situation with much compassion."
|
||
"But if he returns no more this winter, my choice will never be required. A thousand things may arise in six months!"
|
||
The idea of his returning no more Elizabeth treated with the utmost contempt. It appeared to her merely the suggestion of Caroline's interested wishes, and she could not for a moment suppose that those wishes, however openly or artfully spoken, could influence a young man so totally independent of everyone.
|
||
She represented to her sister as forcibly as possible what she felt on the subject, and had soon the pleasure of seeing its happy effect. Jane's temper was not desponding, and she was gradually led to hope, though the diffidence of affection sometimes overcame the hope, that Bingley would return to Netherfield and answer every wish of her heart.
|
||
They agreed that Mrs. Bennet should only hear of the departure of the family, without being alarmed on the score of the gentleman's conduct; but even this partial communication gave her a great deal of concern, and she bewailed it as exceedingly unlucky that the ladies should happen to go away just as they were all getting so intimate together. After lamenting it, however, at some length, she had the consolation that Mr. Bingley would be soon down again and soon dining at Longbourn, and the conclusion of all was the comfortable declaration, that though he had been invited only to a family dinner, she would take care to have two full courses.
|
||
Chapter 22
|
||
The Bennets were engaged to dine with the Lucases and again during the chief of the day was Miss Lucas so kind as to listen to Mr. Collins. Elizabeth took an opportunity of thanking her. "It keeps him in good humour," said she, "and I am more obliged to you than I can express." Charlotte assured her friend of her satisfaction in being useful, and that it amply repaid her for the little sacrifice of her time. This was very amiable, but Charlotte's kindness extended farther than Elizabeth had any conception of; its object was nothing else than to secure her from any return of Mr. Collins's addresses, by engaging them towards herself. Such was Miss Lucas's scheme; and appearances were so favourable, that when they parted at night, she would have felt almost secure of success if he had not been to leave Hertfordshire so very soon. But here she did injustice to the fire and independence of his character, for it led him to escape out of Longbourn House the next morning with admirable slyness, and hasten to Lucas Lodge to throw himself at her feet. He was anxious to avoid the notice of his cousins, from a conviction that if they saw him depart, they could not fail to conjecture his design, and he was not willing to have the attempt known till its success might be known likewise; for though feeling almost secure, and with reason, for Charlotte had been tolerably encouraging, he was comparatively diffident since the adventure of Wednesday. His reception, however, was of the most flattering kind. Miss Lucas perceived him from an upper window as he walked towards the house, and instantly set out to meet him accidentally in the lane. But little had she dared to hope that so much love and eloquence awaited her there.
|
||
In as short a time as Mr. Collins's long speeches would allow, everything was settled between them to the satisfaction of both; and as they entered the house he earnestly entreated her to name the day that was to make him the happiest of men; and though such a solicitation must be waived for the present, the lady felt no inclination to trifle with his happiness. The stupidity with which he was favoured by nature must guard his courtship from any charm that could make a woman wish for its continuance; and Miss Lucas, who accepted him solely from the pure and disinterested desire of an establishment, cared not how soon that establishment were gained.
|
||
Sir William and Lady Lucas were speedily applied to for their consent; and it was bestowed with a most joyful alacrity. Mr. Collins's present circumstances made it a most eligible match for their daughter, to whom they could give little fortune; and his prospects of future wealth were exceedingly fair. Lady Lucas began directly to calculate, with more interest than the matter had ever excited before, how many years longer Mr. Bennet was likely to live; and Sir William gave it as his decided opinion, that whenever Mr. Collins should be in possession of the Longbourn estate, it would be highly expedient that both he and his wife should make their appearance at St. James's. The whole family, in short, were properly overjoyed on the occasion. The younger girls formed hopes of COMING OUT a year or two sooner than they might otherwise have done; and the boys were relieved from their apprehension of Charlotte's dying an old maid. Charlotte herself was tolerably composed. She had gained her point, and had time to consider of it. Her reflections were in general satisfactory. Mr. Collins, to be sure, was neither sensible nor agreeable; his society was irksome, and his attachment to her must be imaginary. But still he would be her husband. Without thinking highly either of men or matrimony, marriage had always been her object; it was the only provision for well-educated young women of small fortune, and however uncertain of giving happiness, must be their pleasantest preservative from want. This preservative she had now obtained; and at the age of twenty-seven, without having ever been handsome, she felt all the good luck of it. The least agreeable circumstance in the business was the surprise it must occasion to Elizabeth Bennet, whose friendship she valued beyond that of any other person. Elizabeth would wonder, and probably would blame her; and though her resolution was not to be shaken, her feelings must be hurt by such a disapprobation. She resolved to give her the information herself, and therefore charged Mr. Collins, when he returned to Longbourn to dinner, to drop no hint of what had passed before any of the family. A promise of secrecy was of course very dutifully given, but it could not be kept without difficulty; for the curiosity excited by his long absence burst forth in such very direct questions on his return as required some ingenuity to evade, and he was at the same time exercising great self-denial, for he was longing to publish his prosperous love.
|
||
As he was to begin his journey too early on the morrow to see any of the family, the ceremony of leave-taking was performed when the ladies moved for the night; and Mrs. Bennet, with great politeness and cordiality, said how happy they should be to see him at Longbourn again, whenever his engagements might allow him to visit them.
|
||
"My dear madam," he replied, "this invitation is particularly gratifying, because it is what I have been hoping to receive; and you may be very certain that I shall avail myself of it as soon as possible."
|
||
They were all astonished; and Mr. Bennet, who could by no means wish for so speedy a return, immediately said:
|
||
"But is there not danger of Lady Catherine's disapprobation here, my good sir? You had better neglect your relations than run the risk of offending your patroness."
|
||
"My dear sir," replied Mr. Collins," I am particularly obliged to you for this friendly caution, and you may depend upon my not taking so material a step without her ladyship's concurrence."
|
||
"You cannot be too much upon your guard. Risk anything rather than her displeasure; and if you find it likely to be raised by your coming to us again, which I should think exceedingly probable, stay quietly at home, and be satisfied that WE shall take no offence."
|
||
"Believe me, my dear sir, my gratitude is warmly excited by such affectionate attention; and depend upon it, you will speedily receive from me a letter of thanks for this, and for every other mark of your regard during my stay in Hertfordshire. As for my fair cousins, though my absence may not be long enough to render it necessary, I shall now take the liberty of wishing them health and happiness, not excepting my cousin Elizabeth."
|
||
With proper civilities the ladies then withdrew; all of them equally surprised that he meditated a quick return. Mrs. Bennet wished to understand by it that he thought of paying his addresses to one of her younger girls, and Mary might have been prevailed on to accept him. She rated his abilities much higher than any of the others; there was a solidity in his reflections which often struck her, and though by no means so clever as herself, she thought that if encouraged to read and improve himself by such an example as hers, he might become a very agreeable companion. But on the following morning, every hope of this kind was done away. Miss Lucas called soon after breakfast, and in a private conference with Elizabeth related the event of the day before.
|
||
The possibility of Mr. Collins's fancying herself in love with her friend had once occurred to Elizabeth within the last day or two; but that Charlotte could encourage him seemed almost as far from possibility as she could encourage him herself, and her astonishment was consequently so great as to overcome at first the bounds of decorum, and she could not help crying out:
|
||
"Engaged to Mr. Collins! My dear Charlotte—impossible!"
|
||
The steady countenance which Miss Lucas had commanded in telling her story, gave way to a momentary confusion here on receiving so direct a reproach; though, as it was no more than she expected, she soon regained her composure, and calmly replied:
|
||
"Why should you be surprised, my dear Eliza? Do you think it incredible that Mr. Collins should be able to procure any woman's good opinion, because he was not so happy as to succeed with you?"
|
||
But Elizabeth had now recollected herself, and making a strong effort for it, was able to assure with tolerable firmness that the prospect of their relationship was highly grateful to her, and that she wished her all imaginable happiness.
|
||
"I see what you are feeling," replied Charlotte. "You must be surprised, very much surprised—so lately as Mr. Collins was wishing to marry you. But when you have had time to think it over, I hope you will be satisfied with what I have done. I am not romantic, you know; I never was. I ask only a comfortable home; and considering Mr. Collins's character, connection, and situation in life, I am convinced that my chance of happiness with him is as fair as most people can boast on entering the marriage state."
|
||
Elizabeth quietly answered "Undoubtedly;" and after an awkward pause, they returned to the rest of the family. Charlotte did not stay much longer, and Elizabeth was then left to reflect on what she had heard. It was a long time before she became at all reconciled to the idea of so unsuitable a match. The strangeness of Mr. Collins's making two offers of marriage within three days was nothing in comparison of his being now accepted. She had always felt that Charlotte's opinion of matrimony was not exactly like her own, but she had not supposed it to be possible that, when called into action, she would have sacrificed every better feeling to worldly advantage. Charlotte the wife of Mr. Collins was a most humiliating picture! And to the pang of a friend disgracing herself and sunk in her esteem, was added the distressing conviction that it was impossible for that friend to be tolerably happy in the lot she had chosen.
|
||
Chapter 23
|
||
Elizabeth was sitting with her mother and sisters, reflecting on what she had heard, and doubting whether she was authorised to mention it, when Sir William Lucas himself appeared, sent by his daughter, to announce her engagement to the family. With many compliments to them, and much self-gratulation on the prospect of a connection between the houses, he unfolded the matter—to an audience not merely wondering, but incredulous; for Mrs. Bennet, with more perseverance than politeness, protested he must be entirely mistaken; and Lydia, always unguarded and often uncivil, boisterously exclaimed:
|
||
"Good Lord! Sir William, how can you tell such a story? Do not you know that Mr. Collins wants to marry Lizzy?"
|
||
Nothing less than the complaisance of a courtier could have borne without anger such treatment; but Sir William's good breeding carried him through it all; and though he begged leave to be positive as to the truth of his information, he listened to all their impertinence with the most forbearing courtesy.
|
||
Elizabeth, feeling it incumbent on her to relieve him from so unpleasant a situation, now put herself forward to confirm his account, by mentioning her prior knowledge of it from Charlotte herself; and endeavoured to put a stop to the exclamations of her mother and sisters by the earnestness of her congratulations to Sir William, in which she was readily joined by Jane, and by making a variety of remarks on the happiness that might be expected from the match, the excellent character of Mr. Collins, and the convenient distance of Hunsford from London.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet was in fact too much overpowered to say a great deal while Sir William remained; but no sooner had he left them than her feelings found a rapid vent. In the first place, she persisted in disbelieving the whole of the matter; secondly, she was very sure that Mr. Collins had been taken in; thirdly, she trusted that they would never be happy together; and fourthly, that the match might be broken off. Two inferences, however, were plainly deduced from the whole: one, that Elizabeth was the real cause of the mischief; and the other that she herself had been barbarously misused by them all; and on these two points she principally dwelt during the rest of the day. Nothing could console and nothing could appease her. Nor did that day wear out her resentment. A week elapsed before she could see Elizabeth without scolding her, a month passed away before she could speak to Sir William or Lady Lucas without being rude, and many months were gone before she could at all forgive their daughter.
|
||
Mr. Bennet's emotions were much more tranquil on the occasion, and such as he did experience he pronounced to be of a most agreeable sort; for it gratified him, he said, to discover that Charlotte Lucas, whom he had been used to think tolerably sensible, was as foolish as his wife, and more foolish than his daughter!
|
||
Jane confessed herself a little surprised at the match; but she said less of her astonishment than of her earnest desire for their happiness; nor could Elizabeth persuade her to consider it as improbable. Kitty and Lydia were far from envying Miss Lucas, for Mr. Collins was only a clergyman; and it affected them in no other way than as a piece of news to spread at Meryton.
|
||
Lady Lucas could not be insensible of triumph on being able to retort on Mrs. Bennet the comfort of having a daughter well married; and she called at Longbourn rather oftener than usual to say how happy she was, though Mrs. Bennet's sour looks and ill-natured remarks might have been enough to drive happiness away.
|
||
Between Elizabeth and Charlotte there was a restraint which kept them mutually silent on the subject; and Elizabeth felt persuaded that no real confidence could ever subsist between them again. Her disappointment in Charlotte made her turn with fonder regard to her sister, of whose rectitude and delicacy she was sure her opinion could never be shaken, and for whose happiness she grew daily more anxious, as Bingley had now been gone a week and nothing more was heard of his return.
|
||
Jane had sent Caroline an early answer to her letter, and was counting the days till she might reasonably hope to hear again. The promised letter of thanks from Mr. Collins arrived on Tuesday, addressed to their father, and written with all the solemnity of gratitude which a twelvemonth's abode in the family might have prompted. After discharging his conscience on that head, he proceeded to inform them, with many rapturous expressions, of his happiness in having obtained the affection of their amiable neighbour, Miss Lucas, and then explained that it was merely with the view of enjoying her society that he had been so ready to close with their kind wish of seeing him again at Longbourn, whither he hoped to be able to return on Monday fortnight; for Lady Catherine, he added, so heartily approved his marriage, that she wished it to take place as soon as possible, which he trusted would be an unanswerable argument with his amiable Charlotte to name an early day for making him the happiest of men.
|
||
Mr. Collins's return into Hertfordshire was no longer a matter of pleasure to Mrs. Bennet. On the contrary, she was as much disposed to complain of it as her husband. It was very strange that he should come to Longbourn instead of to Lucas Lodge; it was also very inconvenient and exceedingly troublesome. She hated having visitors in the house while her health was so indifferent, and lovers were of all people the most disagreeable. Such were the gentle murmurs of Mrs. Bennet, and they gave way only to the greater distress of Mr. Bingley's continued absence.
|
||
Neither Jane nor Elizabeth were comfortable on this subject. Day after day passed away without bringing any other tidings of him than the report which shortly prevailed in Meryton of his coming no more to Netherfield the whole winter; a report which highly incensed Mrs. Bennet, and which she never failed to contradict as a most scandalous falsehood.
|
||
Even Elizabeth began to fear—not that Bingley was indifferent—but that his sisters would be successful in keeping him away. Unwilling as she was to admit an idea so destructive of Jane's happiness, and so dishonorable to the stability of her lover, she could not prevent its frequently occurring. The united efforts of his two unfeeling sisters and of his overpowering friend, assisted by the attractions of Miss Darcy and the amusements of London might be too much, she feared, for the strength of his attachment.
|
||
As for Jane, HER anxiety under this suspense was, of course, more painful than Elizabeth's, but whatever she felt she was desirous of concealing, and between herself and Elizabeth, therefore, the subject was never alluded to. But as no such delicacy restrained her mother, an hour seldom passed in which she did not talk of Bingley, express her impatience for his arrival, or even require Jane to confess that if he did not come back she would think herself very ill used. It needed all Jane's steady mildness to bear these attacks with tolerable tranquillity.
|
||
Mr. Collins returned most punctually on Monday fortnight, but his reception at Longbourn was not quite so gracious as it had been on his first introduction. He was too happy, however, to need much attention; and luckily for the others, the business of love-making relieved them from a great deal of his company. The chief of every day was spent by him at Lucas Lodge, and he sometimes returned to Longbourn only in time to make an apology for his absence before the family went to bed.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet was really in a most pitiable state. The very mention of anything concerning the match threw her into an agony of ill-humour, and wherever she went she was sure of hearing it talked of. The sight of Miss Lucas was odious to her. As her successor in that house, she regarded her with jealous abhorrence. Whenever Charlotte came to see them, she concluded her to be anticipating the hour of possession; and whenever she spoke in a low voice to Mr. Collins, was convinced that they were talking of the Longbourn estate, and resolving to turn herself and her daughters out of the house, as soon as Mr. Bennet were dead. She complained bitterly of all this to her husband.
|
||
"Indeed, Mr. Bennet," said she, "it is very hard to think that Charlotte Lucas should ever be mistress of this house, that I should be forced to make way for HER, and live to see her take her place in it!"
|
||
"My dear, do not give way to such gloomy thoughts. Let us hope for better things. Let us flatter ourselves that I may be the survivor."
|
||
This was not very consoling to Mrs. Bennet, and therefore, instead of making any answer, she went on as before.
|
||
"I cannot bear to think that they should have all this estate. If it was not for the entail, I should not mind it."
|
||
"What should not you mind?"
|
||
"I should not mind anything at all."
|
||
"Let us be thankful that you are preserved from a state of such insensibility."
|
||
"I never can be thankful, Mr. Bennet, for anything about the entail. How anyone could have the conscience to entail away an estate from one's own daughters, I cannot understand; and all for the sake of Mr. Collins too! Why should HE have it more than anybody else?"
|
||
"I leave it to yourself to determine," said Mr. Bennet.
|
||
Chapter 24
|
||
Miss Bingley's letter arrived, and put an end to doubt. The very first sentence conveyed the assurance of their being all settled in London for the winter, and concluded with her brother's regret at not having had time to pay his respects to his friends in Hertfordshire before he left the country.
|
||
Hope was over, entirely over; and when Jane could attend to the rest of the letter, she found little, except the professed affection of the writer, that could give her any comfort. Miss Darcy's praise occupied the chief of it. Her many attractions were again dwelt on, and Caroline boasted joyfully of their increasing intimacy, and ventured to predict the accomplishment of the wishes which had been unfolded in her former letter. She wrote also with great pleasure of her brother's being an inmate of Mr. Darcy's house, and mentioned with raptures some plans of the latter with regard to new furniture.
|
||
Elizabeth, to whom Jane very soon communicated the chief of all this, heard it in silent indignation. Her heart was divided between concern for her sister, and resentment against all others. To Caroline's assertion of her brother's being partial to Miss Darcy she paid no credit. That he was really fond of Jane, she doubted no more than she had ever done; and much as she had always been disposed to like him, she could not think without anger, hardly without contempt, on that easiness of temper, that want of proper resolution, which now made him the slave of his designing friends, and led him to sacrifice of his own happiness to the caprice of their inclination. Had his own happiness, however, been the only sacrifice, he might have been allowed to sport with it in whatever manner he thought best, but her sister's was involved in it, as she thought he must be sensible himself. It was a subject, in short, on which reflection would be long indulged, and must be unavailing. She could think of nothing else; and yet whether Bingley's regard had really died away, or were suppressed by his friends' interference; whether he had been aware of Jane's attachment, or whether it had escaped his observation; whatever were the case, though her opinion of him must be materially affected by the difference, her sister's situation remained the same, her peace equally wounded.
|
||
A day or two passed before Jane had courage to speak of her feelings to Elizabeth; but at last, on Mrs. Bennet's leaving them together, after a longer irritation than usual about Netherfield and its master, she could not help saying:
|
||
"Oh, that my dear mother had more command over herself! She can have no idea of the pain she gives me by her continual reflections on him. But I will not repine. It cannot last long. He will be forgot, and we shall all be as we were before."
|
||
Elizabeth looked at her sister with incredulous solicitude, but said nothing.
|
||
"You doubt me," cried Jane, slightly colouring; "indeed, you have no reason. He may live in my memory as the most amiable man of my acquaintance, but that is all. I have nothing either to hope or fear, and nothing to reproach him with. Thank God! I have not THAT pain. A little time, therefore—I shall certainly try to get the better."
|
||
With a stronger voice she soon added, "I have this comfort immediately, that it has not been more than an error of fancy on my side, and that it has done no harm to anyone but myself."
|
||
"My dear Jane!" exclaimed Elizabeth, "you are too good. Your sweetness and disinterestedness are really angelic; I do not know what to say to you. I feel as if I had never done you justice, or loved you as you deserve."
|
||
Miss Bennet eagerly disclaimed all extraordinary merit, and threw back the praise on her sister's warm affection.
|
||
"Nay," said Elizabeth, "this is not fair. YOU wish to think all the world respectable, and are hurt if I speak ill of anybody. I only want to think YOU perfect, and you set yourself against it. Do not be afraid of my running into any excess, of my encroaching on your privilege of universal good-will. You need not. There are few people whom I really love, and still fewer of whom I think well. The more I see of the world, the more am I dissatisfied with it; and every day confirms my belief of the inconsistency of all human characters, and of the little dependence that can be placed on the appearance of merit or sense. I have met with two instances lately, one I will not mention; the other is Charlotte's marriage. It is unaccountable! In every view it is unaccountable!"
|
||
"My dear Lizzy, do not give way to such feelings as these. They will ruin your happiness. You do not make allowance enough for difference of situation and temper. Consider Mr. Collins's respectability, and Charlotte's steady, prudent character. Remember that she is one of a large family; that as to fortune, it is a most eligible match; and be ready to believe, for everybody's sake, that she may feel something like regard and esteem for our cousin."
|
||
"To oblige you, I would try to believe almost anything, but no one else could be benefited by such a belief as this; for were I persuaded that Charlotte had any regard for him, I should only think worse of her understanding than I now do of her heart. My dear Jane, Mr. Collins is a conceited, pompous, narrow-minded, silly man; you know he is, as well as I do; and you must feel, as well as I do, that the woman who married him cannot have a proper way of thinking. You shall not defend her, though it is Charlotte Lucas. You shall not, for the sake of one individual, change the meaning of principle and integrity, nor endeavour to persuade yourself or me, that selfishness is prudence, and insensibility of danger security for happiness."
|
||
"I must think your language too strong in speaking of both," replied Jane; "and I hope you will be convinced of it by seeing them happy together. But enough of this. You alluded to something else. You mentioned TWO instances. I cannot misunderstand you, but I entreat you, dear Lizzy, not to pain me by thinking THAT PERSON to blame, and saying your opinion of him is sunk. We must not be so ready to fancy ourselves intentionally injured. We must not expect a lively young man to be always so guarded and circumspect. It is very often nothing but our own vanity that deceives us. Women fancy admiration means more than it does."
|
||
"And men take care that they should."
|
||
"If it is designedly done, they cannot be justified; but I have no idea of there being so much design in the world as some persons imagine.
|
||
"I am far from attributing any part of Mr. Bingley's conduct to design," said Elizabeth; "but without scheming to do wrong, or to make others unhappy, there may be error, and there may be misery. Thoughtlessness, want of attention to other people's feelings, and want of resolution, will do the business."
|
||
"And do you impute it to either of those?"
|
||
"Yes; to the last. But if I go on, I shall displease you by saying what I think of persons you esteem. Stop me whilst you can."
|
||
"You persist, then, in supposing his sisters influence him?"
|
||
Yes, in conjunction with his friend."
|
||
"I cannot believe it. Why should they try to influence him? They can only wish his happiness; and if he is attached to me, no other woman can secure it."
|
||
"Your first position is false. They may wish many things besides his happiness; they may wish his increase of wealth and consequence; they may wish him to marry a girl who has all the importance of money, great connections, and pride."
|
||
"Beyond a doubt, they DO wish him to choose Miss Darcy," replied Jane; "but this may be from better feelings than you are supposing. They have known her much longer than they have known me; no wonder if they love her better. But, whatever may be their own wishes, it is very unlikely they should have opposed their brother's. What sister would think herself at liberty to do it, unless there were something very objectionable? If they believed him attached to me, they would not try to part us; if he were so, they could not succeed. By supposing such an affection, you make everybody acting unnaturally and wrong, and me most unhappy. Do not distress me by the idea. I am not ashamed of having been mistaken—or, at least, it is light, it is nothing in comparison of what I should feel in thinking ill of him or his sisters. Let me take it in the best light, in the light in which it may be understood."
|
||
Elizabeth could not oppose such a wish; and from this time Mr. Bingley's name was scarcely ever mentioned between them.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet still continued to wonder and repine at his returning no more, and though a day seldom passed in which Elizabeth did not account for it clearly, there was little chance of her ever considering it with less perplexity. Her daughter endeavoured to convince her of what she did not believe herself, that his attentions to Jane had been merely the effect of a common and transient liking, which ceased when he saw her no more; but though the probability of the statement was admitted at the time, she had the same story to repeat every day. Mrs. Bennet's best comfort was that Mr. Bingley must be down again in the summer.
|
||
Mr. Bennet treated the matter differently. "So, Lizzy," said he one day, "your sister is crossed in love, I find. I congratulate her. Next to being married, a girl likes to be crossed a little in love now and then. It is something to think of, and it gives her a sort of distinction among her companions. When is your turn to come? You will hardly bear to be long outdone by Jane. Now is your time. Here are officers enough in Meryton to disappoint all the young ladies in the country. Let Wickham be YOUR man. He is a pleasant fellow, and would jilt you creditably."
|
||
"Thank you, sir, but a less agreeable man would satisfy me. We must not all expect Jane's good fortune."
|
||
"True," said Mr. Bennet, "but it is a comfort to think that whatever of that kind may befall you, you have an affectionate mother who will make the most of it."
|
||
Mr. Wickham's society was of material service in dispelling the gloom which the late perverse occurrences had thrown on many of the Longbourn family. They saw him often, and to his other recommendations was now added that of general unreserve. The whole of what Elizabeth had already heard, his claims on Mr. Darcy, and all that he had suffered from him, was now openly acknowledged and publicly canvassed; and everybody was pleased to know how much they had always disliked Mr. Darcy before they had known anything of the matter.
|
||
Miss Bennet was the only creature who could suppose there might be any extenuating circumstances in the case, unknown to the society of Hertfordshire; her mild and steady candour always pleaded for allowances, and urged the possibility of mistakes—but by everybody else Mr. Darcy was condemned as the worst of men.
|
||
Chapter 25
|
||
After a week spent in professions of love and schemes of felicity, Mr. Collins was called from his amiable Charlotte by the arrival of Saturday. The pain of separation, however, might be alleviated on his side, by preparations for the reception of his bride; as he had reason to hope, that shortly after his return into Hertfordshire, the day would be fixed that was to make him the happiest of men. He took leave of his relations at Longbourn with as much solemnity as before; wished his fair cousins health and happiness again, and promised their father another letter of thanks.
|
||
On the following Monday, Mrs. Bennet had the pleasure of receiving her brother and his wife, who came as usual to spend the Christmas at Longbourn. Mr. Gardiner was a sensible, gentlemanlike man, greatly superior to his sister, as well by nature as education. The Netherfield ladies would have had difficulty in believing that a man who lived by trade, and within view of his own warehouses, could have been so well-bred and agreeable. Mrs. Gardiner, who was several years younger than Mrs. Bennet and Mrs. Phillips, was an amiable, intelligent, elegant woman, and a great favourite with all her Longbourn nieces. Between the two eldest and herself especially, there subsisted a particular regard. They had frequently been staying with her in town.
|
||
The first part of Mrs. Gardiner's business on her arrival was to distribute her presents and describe the newest fashions. When this was done she had a less active part to play. It became her turn to listen. Mrs. Bennet had many grievances to relate, and much to complain of. They had all been very ill-used since she last saw her sister. Two of her girls had been upon the point of marriage, and after all there was nothing in it.
|
||
"I do not blame Jane," she continued, "for Jane would have got Mr. Bingley if she could. But Lizzy! Oh, sister! It is very hard to think that she might have been Mr. Collins's wife by this time, had it not been for her own perverseness. He made her an offer in this very room, and she refused him. The consequence of it is, that Lady Lucas will have a daughter married before I have, and that the Longbourn estate is just as much entailed as ever. The Lucases are very artful people indeed, sister. They are all for what they can get. I am sorry to say it of them, but so it is. It makes me very nervous and poorly, to be thwarted so in my own family, and to have neighbours who think of themselves before anybody else. However, your coming just at this time is the greatest of comforts, and I am very glad to hear what you tell us, of long sleeves."
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner, to whom the chief of this news had been given before, in the course of Jane and Elizabeth's correspondence with her, made her sister a slight answer, and, in compassion to her nieces, turned the conversation.
|
||
When alone with Elizabeth afterwards, she spoke more on the subject. "It seems likely to have been a desirable match for Jane," said she. "I am sorry it went off. But these things happen so often! A young man, such as you describe Mr. Bingley, so easily falls in love with a pretty girl for a few weeks, and when accident separates them, so easily forgets her, that these sort of inconsistencies are very frequent."
|
||
"An excellent consolation in its way," said Elizabeth, "but it will not do for US. We do not suffer by ACCIDENT. It does not often happen that the interference of friends will persuade a young man of independent fortune to think no more of a girl whom he was violently in love with only a few days before."
|
||
"But that expression of 'violently in love' is so hackneyed, so doubtful, so indefinite, that it gives me very little idea. It is as often applied to feelings which arise from a half-hour's acquaintance, as to a real, strong attachment. Pray, how VIOLENT WAS Mr. Bingley's love?"
|
||
"I never saw a more promising inclination; he was growing quite inattentive to other people, and wholly engrossed by her. Every time they met, it was more decided and remarkable. At his own ball he offended two or three young ladies, by not asking them to dance; and I spoke to him twice myself, without receiving an answer. Could there be finer symptoms? Is not general incivility the very essence of love?"
|
||
"Oh, yes!—of that kind of love which I suppose him to have felt. Poor Jane! I am sorry for her, because, with her disposition, she may not get over it immediately. It had better have happened to YOU, Lizzy; you would have laughed yourself out of it sooner. But do you think she would be prevailed upon to go back with us? Change of scene might be of service—and perhaps a little relief from home may be as useful as anything."
|
||
Elizabeth was exceedingly pleased with this proposal, and felt persuaded of her sister's ready acquiescence.
|
||
"I hope," added Mrs. Gardiner, "that no consideration with regard to this young man will influence her. We live in so different a part of town, all our connections are so different, and, as you well know, we go out so little, that it is very improbable that they should meet at all, unless he really comes to see her."
|
||
"And THAT is quite impossible; for he is now in the custody of his friend, and Mr. Darcy would no more suffer him to call on Jane in such a part of London! My dear aunt, how could you think of it? Mr. Darcy may perhaps have HEARD of such a place as Gracechurch Street, but he would hardly think a month's ablution enough to cleanse him from its impurities, were he once to enter it; and depend upon it, Mr. Bingley never stirs without him."
|
||
"So much the better. I hope they will not meet at all. But does not Jane correspond with his sister? SHE will not be able to help calling."
|
||
"She will drop the acquaintance entirely."
|
||
But in spite of the certainty in which Elizabeth affected to place this point, as well as the still more interesting one of Bingley's being withheld from seeing Jane, she felt a solicitude on the subject which convinced her, on examination, that she did not consider it entirely hopeless. It was possible, and sometimes she thought it probable, that his affection might be reanimated, and the influence of his friends successfully combated by the more natural influence of Jane's attractions.
|
||
Miss Bennet accepted her aunt's invitation with pleasure; and the Bingleys were no otherwise in her thoughts at the same time, than as she hoped by Caroline's not living in the same house with her brother, she might occasionally spend a morning with her, without any danger of seeing him.
|
||
The Gardiners stayed a week at Longbourn; and what with the Phillipses, the Lucases, and the officers, there was not a day without its engagement. Mrs. Bennet had so carefully provided for the entertainment of her brother and sister, that they did not once sit down to a family dinner. When the engagement was for home, some of the officers always made part of it—of which officers Mr. Wickham was sure to be one; and on these occasion, Mrs. Gardiner, rendered suspicious by Elizabeth's warm commendation, narrowly observed them both. Without supposing them, from what she saw, to be very seriously in love, their preference of each other was plain enough to make her a little uneasy; and she resolved to speak to Elizabeth on the subject before she left Hertfordshire, and represent to her the imprudence of encouraging such an attachment.
|
||
To Mrs. Gardiner, Wickham had one means of affording pleasure, unconnected with his general powers. About ten or a dozen years ago, before her marriage, she had spent a considerable time in that very part of Derbyshire to which he belonged. They had, therefore, many acquaintances in common; and though Wickham had been little there since the death of Darcy's father, it was yet in his power to give her fresher intelligence of her former friends than she had been in the way of procuring.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner had seen Pemberly, and known the late Mr. Darcy by character perfectly well. Here consequently was an inexhaustible subject of discourse. In comparing her recollection of Pemberly with the minute description which Wickham could give, and in bestowing her tribute of praise on the character of its late possessor, she was delighting both him and herself. On being made acquainted with the present Mr. Darcy's treatment of him, she tried to remember some of that gentleman's reputed disposition when quite a lad which might agree with it, and was confident at last that she recollected having heard Mr. Fitzwilliam Darcy formerly spoken of as a very proud, ill-natured boy.
|
||
Chapter 26
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner's caution to Elizabeth was punctually and kindly given on the first favourable opportunity of speaking to her alone; after honestly telling her what she thought, she thus went on:
|
||
"You are too sensible a girl, Lizzy, to fall in love merely because you are warned against it; and, therefore, I am not afraid of speaking openly. Seriously, I would have you be on your guard. Do not involve yourself or endeavour to involve him in an affection which the want of fortune would make so very imprudent. I have nothing to say against HIM; he is a most interesting young man; and if he had the fortune he ought to have, I should think you could not do better. But as it is, you must not let your fancy run away with you. You have sense, and we all expect you to use it. Your father would depend on YOUR resolution and good conduct, I am sure. You must not disappoint your father."
|
||
"My dear aunt, this is being serious indeed."
|
||
"Yes, and I hope to engage you to be serious likewise."
|
||
"Well, then, you need not be under any alarm. I will take care of myself, and of Mr. Wickham too. He shall not be in love with me, if I can prevent it."
|
||
"Elizabeth, you are not serious now."
|
||
"I beg your pardon, I will try again. At present I am not in love with Mr. Wickham; no, I certainly am not. But he is, beyond all comparison, the most agreeable man I ever saw—and if he becomes really attached to me—I believe it will be better that he should not. I see the imprudence of it. Oh! THAT abominable Mr. Darcy! My father's opinion of me does me the greatest honour, and I should be miserable to forfeit it. My father, however, is partial to Mr. Wickham. In short, my dear aunt, I should be very sorry to be the means of making any of you unhappy; but since we see every day that where there is affection, young people are seldom withheld by immediate want of fortune from entering into engagements with each other, how can I promise to be wiser than so many of my fellow-creatures if I am tempted, or how am I even to know that it would be wisdom to resist? All that I can promise you, therefore, is not to be in a hurry. I will not be in a hurry to believe myself his first object. When I am in company with him, I will not be wishing. In short, I will do my best."
|
||
"Perhaps it will be as well if you discourage his coming here so very often. At least, you should not REMIND you mother of inviting him."
|
||
"As I did the other day," said Elizabeth with a conscious smile: "very true, it will be wise in me to refrain from THAT. But do not imagine that he is always here so often. It is on your account that he has been so frequently invited this week. You know my mother's ideas as to the necessity of constant company for her friends. But really, and upon my honour, I will try to do what I think to be the wisest; and now I hope you are satisfied."
|
||
Her aunt assured her that she was, and Elizabeth having thanked her for the kindness of her hints, they parted; a wonderful instance of advice being given on such a point, without being resented.
|
||
Mr. Collins returned into Hertfordshire soon after it had been quitted by the Gardiners and Jane; but as he took up his abode with the Lucases, his arrival was no great inconvenience to Mrs. Bennet. His marriage was now fast approaching, and she was at length so far resigned as to think it inevitable, and even repeatedly to say, in an ill-natured tone, that she "WISHED they might be happy." Thursday was to be the wedding day, and on Wednesday Miss Lucas paid her farewell visit; and when she rose to take leave, Elizabeth, ashamed of her mother's ungracious and reluctant good wishes, and sincerely affected herself, accompanied her out of the room. As they went downstairs together, Charlotte said:
|
||
"I shall depend on hearing from you very often, Eliza."
|
||
"THAT you certainly shall."
|
||
"And I have another favour to ask you. Will you come and see me?"
|
||
"We shall often meet, I hope, in Hertfordshire."
|
||
"I am not likely to leave Kent for some time. Promise me, therefore, to come to Hunsford."
|
||
Elizabeth could not refuse, though she foresaw little pleasure in the visit.
|
||
"My father and Maria are coming to me in March," added Charlotte, "and I hope you will consent to be of the party. Indeed, Eliza, you will be as welcome as either of them."
|
||
The wedding took place; the bride and bridegroom set off for Kent from the church door, and everybody had as much to say, or to hear, on the subject as usual. Elizabeth soon heard from her friend; and their correspondence was as regular and frequent as it had ever been; that it should be equally unreserved was impossible. Elizabeth could never address her without feeling that all the comfort of intimacy was over, and though determined not to slacken as a correspondent, it was for the sake of what had been, rather than what was. Charlotte's first letters were received with a good deal of eagerness; there could not but be curiosity to know how she would speak of her new home, how she would like Lady Catherine, and how happy she would dare pronounce herself to be; though, when the letters were read, Elizabeth felt that Charlotte expressed herself on every point exactly as she might have foreseen. She wrote cheerfully, seemed surrounded with comforts, and mentioned nothing which she could not praise. The house, furniture, neighbourhood, and roads, were all to her taste, and Lady Catherine's behaviour was most friendly and obliging. It was Mr. Collins's picture of Hunsford and Rosings rationally softened; and Elizabeth perceived that she must wait for her own visit there to know the rest.
|
||
Jane had already written a few lines to her sister to announce their safe arrival in London; and when she wrote again, Elizabeth hoped it would be in her power to say something of the Bingleys.
|
||
Her impatience for this second letter was as well rewarded as impatience generally is. Jane had been a week in town without either seeing or hearing from Caroline. She accounted for it, however, by supposing that her last letter to her friend from Longbourn had by some accident been lost.
|
||
"My aunt," she continued, "is going to-morrow into that part of the town, and I shall take the opportunity of calling in Grosvenor Street."
|
||
She wrote again when the visit was paid, and she had seen Miss Bingley. "I did not think Caroline in spirits," were her words, "but she was very glad to see me, and reproached me for giving her no notice of my coming to London. I was right, therefore, my last letter had never reached her. I inquired after their brother, of course. He was well, but so much engaged with Mr. Darcy that they scarcely ever saw him. I found that Miss Darcy was expected to dinner. I wish I could see her. My visit was not long, as Caroline and Mrs. Hurst were going out. I dare say I shall see them soon here."
|
||
Elizabeth shook her head over this letter. It convinced her that accident only could discover to Mr. Bingley her sister's being in town.
|
||
Four weeks passed away, and Jane saw nothing of him. She endeavoured to persuade herself that she did not regret it; but she could no longer be blind to Miss Bingley's inattention. After waiting at home every morning for a fortnight, and inventing every evening a fresh excuse for her, the visitor did at last appear; but the shortness of her stay, and yet more, the alteration of her manner would allow Jane to deceive herself no longer. The letter which she wrote on this occasion to her sister will prove what she felt.
|
||
"My dearest Lizzy will, I am sure, be incapable of triumphing in her better judgement, at my expense, when I confess myself to have been entirely deceived in Miss Bingley's regard for me. But, my dear sister, though the event has proved you right, do not think me obstinate if I still assert that, considering what her behaviour was, my confidence was as natural as your suspicion. I do not at all comprehend her reason for wishing to be intimate with me; but if the same circumstances were to happen again, I am sure I should be deceived again. Caroline did not return my visit till yesterday; and not a note, not a line, did I receive in the meantime. When she did come, it was very evident that she had no pleasure in it; she made a slight, formal apology, for not calling before, said not a word of wishing to see me again, and was in every respect so altered a creature, that when she went away I was perfectly resolved to continue the acquaintance no longer. I pity, though I cannot help blaming her. She was very wrong in singling me out as she did; I can safely say that every advance to intimacy began on her side. But I pity her, because she must feel that she has been acting wrong, and because I am very sure that anxiety for her brother is the cause of it. I need not explain myself farther; and though WE know this anxiety to be quite needless, yet if she feels it, it will easily account for her behaviour to me; and so deservedly dear as he is to his sister, whatever anxiety she must feel on his behalf is natural and amiable. I cannot but wonder, however, at her having any such fears now, because, if he had at all cared about me, we must have met, long ago. He knows of my being in town, I am certain, from something she said herself; and yet it would seem, by her manner of talking, as if she wanted to persuade herself that he is really partial to Miss Darcy. I cannot understand it. If I were not afraid of judging harshly, I should be almost tempted to say that there is a strong appearance of duplicity in all this. But I will endeavour to banish every painful thought, and think only of what will make me happy—your affection, and the invariable kindness of my dear uncle and aunt. Let me hear from you very soon. Miss Bingley said something of his never returning to Netherfield again, of giving up the house, but not with any certainty. We had better not mention it. I am extremely glad that you have such pleasant accounts from our friends at Hunsford. Pray go to see them, with Sir William and Maria. I am sure you will be very comfortable there.—Yours, etc."
|
||
This letter gave Elizabeth some pain; but her spirits returned as she considered that Jane would no longer be duped, by the sister at least. All expectation from the brother was now absolutely over. She would not even wish for a renewal of his attentions. His character sunk on every review of it; and as a punishment for him, as well as a possible advantage to Jane, she seriously hoped he might really soon marry Mr. Darcy's sister, as by Wickham's account, she would make him abundantly regret what he had thrown away.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner about this time reminded Elizabeth of her promise concerning that gentleman, and required information; and Elizabeth had such to send as might rather give contentment to her aunt than to herself. His apparent partiality had subsided, his attentions were over, he was the admirer of some one else. Elizabeth was watchful enough to see it all, but she could see it and write of it without material pain. Her heart had been but slightly touched, and her vanity was satisfied with believing that SHE would have been his only choice, had fortune permitted it. The sudden acquisition of ten thousand pounds was the most remarkable charm of the young lady to whom he was now rendering himself agreeable; but Elizabeth, less clear-sighted perhaps in this case than in Charlotte's, did not quarrel with him for his wish of independence. Nothing, on the contrary, could be more natural; and while able to suppose that it cost him a few struggle to relinquish her, she was ready to allow it a wise and desirable measure for both, and could very sincerely wish him happy.
|
||
All this was acknowledged to Mrs. Gardiner; and after relating the circumstances, she thus went on: "I am now convinced, my dear aunt, that I have never been much in love; for had I really experienced that pure and elevating passion, I should at present detest his very name, and wish him all manner of evil. But my feelings are not only cordial towards HIM; they are even impartial towards Miss King. I cannot find out that I hate her at all, or that I am in the least unwilling to think her a very good sort of girl. There can be no love in all this. My watchfulness has been effectual; and though I certainly should be a more interesting object to all my acquaintances were I distractedly in love with him, I cannot say that I regret my comparative insignificance. Importance may sometimes be purchased too dearly. Kitty and Lydia take his defection much more to heart than I do. They are young in the ways of the world, and not yet open to the mortifying conviction that handsome young men must have something to live on as well as the plain."
|
||
Chapter 27
|
||
With no greater events than these in the Longbourn family, and otherwise diversified by little beyond the walks to Meryton, sometimes dirty and sometimes cold, did January and February pass away. March was to take Elizabeth to Hunsford. She had not at first thought very seriously of going thither; but Charlotte, she soon found, was depending on the plan and she gradually learned to consider it herself with greater pleasure as well as greater certainty. Absence had increased her desire of seeing Charlotte again, and weakened her disgust of Mr. Collins. There was novelty in the scheme, and as, with such a mother and such uncompanionable sisters, home could not be faultless, a little change was not unwelcome for its own sake. The journey would moreover give her a peep at Jane; and, in short, as the time drew near, she would have been very sorry for any delay. Everything, however, went on smoothly, and was finally settled according to Charlotte's first sketch. She was to accompany Sir William and his second daughter. The improvement of spending a night in London was added in time, and the plan became perfect as plan could be.
|
||
The only pain was in leaving her father, who would certainly miss her, and who, when it came to the point, so little liked her going, that he told her to write to him, and almost promised to answer her letter.
|
||
The farewell between herself and Mr. Wickham was perfectly friendly; on his side even more. His present pursuit could not make him forget that Elizabeth had been the first to excite and to deserve his attention, the first to listen and to pity, the first to be admired; and in his manner of bidding her adieu, wishing her every enjoyment, reminding her of what she was to expect in Lady Catherine de Bourgh, and trusting their opinion of her—their opinion of everybody—would always coincide, there was a solicitude, an interest which she felt must ever attach her to him with a most sincere regard; and she parted from him convinced that, whether married or single, he must always be her model of the amiable and pleasing.
|
||
Her fellow-travellers the next day were not of a kind to make her think him less agreeable. Sir William Lucas, and his daughter Maria, a good-humoured girl, but as empty-headed as himself, had nothing to say that could be worth hearing, and were listened to with about as much delight as the rattle of the chaise. Elizabeth loved absurdities, but she had known Sir William's too long. He could tell her nothing new of the wonders of his presentation and knighthood; and his civilities were worn out, like his information.
|
||
It was a journey of only twenty-four miles, and they began it so early as to be in Gracechurch Street by noon. As they drove to Mr. Gardiner's door, Jane was at a drawing-room window watching their arrival; when they entered the passage she was there to welcome them, and Elizabeth, looking earnestly in her face, was pleased to see it healthful and lovely as ever. On the stairs were a troop of little boys and girls, whose eagerness for their cousin's appearance would not allow them to wait in the drawing-room, and whose shyness, as they had not seen her for a twelvemonth, prevented their coming lower. All was joy and kindness. The day passed most pleasantly away; the morning in bustle and shopping, and the evening at one of the theatres.
|
||
Elizabeth then contrived to sit by her aunt. Their first object was her sister; and she was more grieved than astonished to hear, in reply to her minute inquiries, that though Jane always struggled to support her spirits, there were periods of dejection. It was reasonable, however, to hope that they would not continue long. Mrs. Gardiner gave her the particulars also of Miss Bingley's visit in Gracechurch Street, and repeated conversations occurring at different times between Jane and herself, which proved that the former had, from her heart, given up the acquaintance.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner then rallied her niece on Wickham's desertion, and complimented her on bearing it so well.
|
||
"But my dear Elizabeth," she added, "what sort of girl is Miss King? I should be sorry to think our friend mercenary."
|
||
"Pray, my dear aunt, what is the difference in matrimonial affairs, between the mercenary and the prudent motive? Where does discretion end, and avarice begin? Last Christmas you were afraid of his marrying me, because it would be imprudent; and now, because he is trying to get a girl with only ten thousand pounds, you want to find out that he is mercenary."
|
||
"If you will only tell me what sort of girl Miss King is, I shall know what to think."
|
||
"She is a very good kind of girl, I believe. I know no harm of her."
|
||
"But he paid her not the smallest attention till her grandfather's death made her mistress of this fortune."
|
||
"No—what should he? If it were not allowable for him to gain MY affections because I had no money, what occasion could there be for making love to a girl whom he did not care about, and who was equally poor?"
|
||
"But there seems an indelicacy in directing his attentions towards her so soon after this event."
|
||
"A man in distressed circumstances has not time for all those elegant decorums which other people may observe. If SHE does not object to it, why should WE?"
|
||
"HER not objecting does not justify HIM. It only shows her being deficient in something herself—sense or feeling."
|
||
"Well," cried Elizabeth, "have it as you choose. HE shall be mercenary, and SHE shall be foolish."
|
||
"No, Lizzy, that is what I do NOT choose. I should be sorry, you know, to think ill of a young man who has lived so long in Derbyshire."
|
||
"Oh! if that is all, I have a very poor opinion of young men who live in Derbyshire; and their intimate friends who live in Hertfordshire are not much better. I am sick of them all. Thank Heaven! I am going to-morrow where I shall find a man who has not one agreeable quality, who has neither manner nor sense to recommend him. Stupid men are the only ones worth knowing, after all."
|
||
"Take care, Lizzy; that speech savours strongly of disappointment."
|
||
Before they were separated by the conclusion of the play, she had the unexpected happiness of an invitation to accompany her uncle and aunt in a tour of pleasure which they proposed taking in the summer.
|
||
"We have not determined how far it shall carry us," said Mrs. Gardiner, "but, perhaps, to the Lakes."
|
||
No scheme could have been more agreeable to Elizabeth, and her acceptance of the invitation was most ready and grateful. "Oh, my dear, dear aunt," she rapturously cried, "what delight! what felicity! You give me fresh life and vigour. Adieu to disappointment and spleen. What are young men to rocks and mountains? Oh! what hours of transport we shall spend! And when we DO return, it shall not be like other travellers, without being able to give one accurate idea of anything. We WILL know where we have gone—we WILL recollect what we have seen. Lakes, mountains, and rivers shall not be jumbled together in our imaginations; nor when we attempt to describe any particular scene, will we begin quarreling about its relative situation. Let OUR first effusions be less insupportable than those of the generality of travellers."
|
||
Chapter 28
|
||
Every object in the next day's journey was new and interesting to Elizabeth; and her spirits were in a state of enjoyment; for she had seen her sister looking so well as to banish all fear for her health, and the prospect of her northern tour was a constant source of delight.
|
||
When they left the high road for the lane to Hunsford, every eye was in search of the Parsonage, and every turning expected to bring it in view. The palings of Rosings Park was their boundary on one side. Elizabeth smiled at the recollection of all that she had heard of its inhabitants.
|
||
At length the Parsonage was discernible. The garden sloping to the road, the house standing in it, the green pales, and the laurel hedge, everything declared they were arriving. Mr. Collins and Charlotte appeared at the door, and the carriage stopped at the small gate which led by a short gravel walk to the house, amidst the nods and smiles of the whole party. In a moment they were all out of the chaise, rejoicing at the sight of each other. Mrs. Collins welcomed her friend with the liveliest pleasure, and Elizabeth was more and more satisfied with coming when she found herself so affectionately received. She saw instantly that her cousin's manners were not altered by his marriage; his formal civility was just what it had been, and he detained her some minutes at the gate to hear and satisfy his inquiries after all her family. They were then, with no other delay than his pointing out the neatness of the entrance, taken into the house; and as soon as they were in the parlour, he welcomed them a second time, with ostentatious formality to his humble abode, and punctually repeated all his wife's offers of refreshment.
|
||
Elizabeth was prepared to see him in his glory; and she could not help in fancying that in displaying the good proportion of the room, its aspect and its furniture, he addressed himself particularly to her, as if wishing to make her feel what she had lost in refusing him. But though everything seemed neat and comfortable, she was not able to gratify him by any sigh of repentance, and rather looked with wonder at her friend that she could have so cheerful an air with such a companion. When Mr. Collins said anything of which his wife might reasonably be ashamed, which certainly was not unseldom, she involuntarily turned her eye on Charlotte. Once or twice she could discern a faint blush; but in general Charlotte wisely did not hear. After sitting long enough to admire every article of furniture in the room, from the sideboard to the fender, to give an account of their journey, and of all that had happened in London, Mr. Collins invited them to take a stroll in the garden, which was large and well laid out, and to the cultivation of which he attended himself. To work in this garden was one of his most respectable pleasures; and Elizabeth admired the command of countenance with which Charlotte talked of the healthfulness of the exercise, and owned she encouraged it as much as possible. Here, leading the way through every walk and cross walk, and scarcely allowing them an interval to utter the praises he asked for, every view was pointed out with a minuteness which left beauty entirely behind. He could number the fields in every direction, and could tell how many tress there were in the most distant clump. But of all the views which his garden, or which the country or kingdom could boast, none were to be compared with the prospect of Rosings, afforded by an opening in the trees that bordered the park nearly opposite the front of his house. It was a handsome modern building, well situated on rising ground.
|
||
From his garden, Mr. Collins would have led them round his two meadows; but the ladies, not having shoes to encounter the remains of a white frost, turned back; and while Sir William accompanied him, Charlotte took her sister and friend over the house, extremely well pleased, probably, to have the opportunity of showing it without her husband's help. It was rather small, but well built and convenient; and everything was fitted up and arranged with a neatness and consistency of which Elizabeth gave Charlotte all the credit. When Mr. Collins could be forgotten, there was really an air of great comfort throughout, and by Charlotte's evident enjoyment of it, Elizabeth supposed he must be often forgotten.
|
||
She had already learnt that Lady Catherine was still in the country. It was spoken of again while they were at dinner, when Mr. Collins joining in, observed:
|
||
"Yes, Miss Elizabeth, you will have the honour of seeing Lady Catherine de Bourgh on the ensuing Sunday at church, and I need not say you will be delighted with her. She is all affability and condescension, and I doubt not but you will be honoured with some portion of her notice when service is over. I have scarcely any hesitation in saying she will include you and my sister Maria in every invitation with which she honours us during your stay here. Her behaviour to my dear Charlotte is charming. We dine at Rosings twice every week, and are never allowed to walk home. Her ladyship's carriage is regularly ordered for us. I SHOULD say, one of her ladyship's carriages, for she has several."
|
||
"Lady Catherine is a very respectable, sensible woman indeed, added Charlotte, "and a most attentive neighbour."
|
||
"Very true, my dear, that is exactly what I say. She is the sort of woman whom one cannot regard with too much deference."
|
||
The evening was spent chiefly in talking over Hertfordshire news, and telling again what had already been written; and when it closed, Elizabeth, in the solitude of her chamber, had to meditate upon Charlotte's degree of contentment, to understand her address in guiding, and composure in bearing with, her husband, and to acknowledge that it was all done very well. She had also to anticipate how her visit would pass, the quiet tenor of their usual employments, the vexatious interruptions of Mr. Collins, and the gaieties of their intercourse with Rosings. A lively imagination soon settled it all.
|
||
About the middle of the next day, as she was in her room getting ready for a walk, a sudden noise below seemed to speak the whole house in confusion; and, after listening a moment, she heard somebody running upstairs in a violent hurry, and calling loudly after her. She opened the door and met Maria in the landing place, who, breathless with agitation, cried out—
|
||
"Oh, my dear Eliza! pray make haste and come into the dining-room, for there is such a sight to be seen! I will not tell you what it is. Make haste, and come down this moment."
|
||
Elizabeth asked questions in vain; Maria would tell her nothing more, and down they ran into the dining-room, which fronted the lane, in quest of this wonder; It was two ladies stopping in a low phaeton at the garden gate.
|
||
"And is this all?" cried Elizabeth. "I expected at least that the pigs were got into the garden, and here is nothing but Lady Catherine and her daughter."
|
||
"La! my dear," said Maria, quite shocked at the mistake, "it is not Lady Catherine. The old lady is Mrs. Jenkinson, who lives with them; the other is Miss de Bourgh. Only look at her. She is quite a little creature. Who would have thought that she could be so thin and small?"
|
||
"She is abominably rude to keep Charlotte out of doors in all this wind. Why does she not come in?"
|
||
"Oh, Charlotte says she hardly ever does. It is the greatest of favours when Miss de Bourgh comes in."
|
||
"I like her appearance," said Elizabeth, struck with other ideas. "She looks sickly and cross. Yes, she will do for him very well. She will make him a very proper wife."
|
||
Mr. Collins and Charlotte were both standing at the gate in conversation with the ladies; and Sir William, to Elizabeth's high diversion, was stationed in the doorway, in earnest contemplation of the greatness before him, and constantly bowing whenever Miss de Bourgh looked that way.
|
||
At length there was nothing more to be said; the ladies drove on, and the others returned into the house. Mr. Collins no sooner saw the two girls than he began to congratulate them on their good fortune, which Charlotte explained by letting them know that the whole party was asked to dine at Rosings the next day.
|
||
Chapter 29
|
||
Mr. Collins's triumph, in consequence of this invitation, was complete. The power of displaying the grandeur of his patroness to his wondering visitors, and of letting them see her civility towards himself and his wife, was exactly what he had wished for; and that an opportunity of doing it should be given so soon, was such an instance of Lady Catherine's condescension, as he knew not how to admire enough.
|
||
"I confess," said he, "that I should not have been at all surprised by her ladyship's asking us on Sunday to drink tea and spend the evening at Rosings. I rather expected, from my knowledge of her affability, that it would happen. But who could have foreseen such an attention as this? Who could have imagined that we should receive an invitation to dine there (an invitation, moreover, including the whole party) so immediately after your arrival!"
|
||
"I am the less surprised at what has happened," replied Sir William, "from that knowledge of what the manners of the great really are, which my situation in life has allowed me to acquire. About the court, such instances of elegant breeding are not uncommon."
|
||
Scarcely anything was talked of the whole day or next morning but their visit to Rosings. Mr. Collins was carefully instructing them in what they were to expect, that the sight of such rooms, so many servants, and so splendid a dinner, might not wholly overpower them.
|
||
When the ladies were separating for the toilette, he said to Elizabeth—
|
||
"Do not make yourself uneasy, my dear cousin, about your apparel. Lady Catherine is far from requiring that elegance of dress in us which becomes herself and her daughter. I would advise you merely to put on whatever of your clothes is superior to the rest—there is no occasion for anything more. Lady Catherine will not think the worse of you for being simply dressed. She likes to have the distinction of rank preserved."
|
||
While they were dressing, he came two or three times to their different doors, to recommend their being quick, as Lady Catherine very much objected to be kept waiting for her dinner. Such formidable accounts of her ladyship, and her manner of living, quite frightened Maria Lucas who had been little used to company, and she looked forward to her introduction at Rosings with as much apprehension as her father had done to his presentation at St. James's.
|
||
As the weather was fine, they had a pleasant walk of about half a mile across the park. Every park has its beauty and its prospects; and Elizabeth saw much to be pleased with, though she could not be in such raptures as Mr. Collins expected the scene to inspire, and was but slightly affected by his enumeration of the windows in front of the house, and his relation of what the glazing altogether had originally cost Sir Lewis de Bourgh.
|
||
When they ascended the steps to the hall, Maria's alarm was every moment increasing, and even Sir William did not look perfectly calm. Elizabeth's courage did not fail her. She had heard nothing of Lady Catherine that spoke her awful from any extraordinary talents or miraculous virtue, and the mere stateliness of money or rank she thought she could witness without trepidation.
|
||
From the entrance-hall, of which Mr. Collins pointed out, with a rapturous air, the fine proportion and the finished ornaments, they followed the servants through an ante-chamber, to the room where Lady Catherine, her daughter, and Mrs. Jenkinson were sitting. Her ladyship, with great condescension, arose to receive them; and as Mrs. Collins had settled it with her husband that the office of introduction should be hers, it was performed in a proper manner, without any of those apologies and thanks which he would have thought necessary.
|
||
In spite of having been at St. James's Sir William was so completely awed by the grandeur surrounding him, that he had but just courage enough to make a very low bow, and take his seat without saying a word; and his daughter, frightened almost out of her senses, sat on the edge of her chair, not knowing which way to look. Elizabeth found herself quite equal to the scene, and could observe the three ladies before her composedly. Lady Catherine was a tall, large woman, with strongly-marked features, which might once have been handsome. Her air was not conciliating, nor was her manner of receiving them such as to make her visitors forget their inferior rank. She was not rendered formidable by silence; but whatever she said was spoken in so authoritative a tone, as marked her self-importance, and brought Mr. Wickham immediately to Elizabeth's mind; and from the observation of the day altogether, she believed Lady Catherine to be exactly what he represented.
|
||
When, after examining the mother, in whose countenance and deportment she soon found some resemblance of Mr. Darcy, she turned her eyes on the daughter, she could almost have joined in Maria's astonishment at her being so thin and so small. There was neither in figure nor face any likeness between the ladies. Miss de Bourgh was pale and sickly; her features, though not plain, were insignificant; and she spoke very little, except in a low voice, to Mrs. Jenkinson, in whose appearance there was nothing remarkable, and who was entirely engaged in listening to what she said, and placing a screen in the proper direction before her eyes.
|
||
After sitting a few minutes, they were all sent to one of the windows to admire the view, Mr. Collins attending them to point out its beauties, and Lady Catherine kindly informing them that it was much better worth looking at in the summer.
|
||
The dinner was exceedingly handsome, and there were all the servants and all the articles of plate which Mr. Collins had promised; and, as he had likewise foretold, he took his seat at the bottom of the table, by her ladyship's desire, and looked as if he felt that life could furnish nothing greater. He carved, and ate, and praised with delighted alacrity; and every dish was commended, first by him and then by Sir William, who was now enough recovered to echo whatever his son-in-law said, in a manner which Elizabeth wondered Lady Catherine could bear. But Lady Catherine seemed gratified by their excessive admiration, and gave most gracious smiles, especially when any dish on the table proved a novelty to them. The party did not supply much conversation. Elizabeth was ready to speak whenever there was an opening, but she was seated between Charlotte and Miss de Bourgh—the former of whom was engaged in listening to Lady Catherine, and the latter said not a word to her all dinner-time. Mrs. Jenkinson was chiefly employed in watching how little Miss de Bourgh ate, pressing her to try some other dish, and fearing she was indisposed. Maria thought speaking out of the question, and the gentlemen did nothing but eat and admire.
|
||
When the ladies returned to the drawing-room, there was little to be done but to hear Lady Catherine talk, which she did without any intermission till coffee came in, delivering her opinion on every subject in so decisive a manner, as proved that she was not used to have her judgement controverted. She inquired into Charlotte's domestic concerns familiarly and minutely, gave her a great deal of advice as to the management of them all; told her how everything ought to be regulated in so small a family as hers, and instructed her as to the care of her cows and her poultry. Elizabeth found that nothing was beneath this great lady's attention, which could furnish her with an occasion of dictating to others. In the intervals of her discourse with Mrs. Collins, she addressed a variety of questions to Maria and Elizabeth, but especially to the latter, of whose connections she knew the least, and who she observed to Mrs. Collins was a very genteel, pretty kind of girl. She asked her, at different times, how many sisters she had, whether they were older or younger than herself, whether any of them were likely to be married, whether they were handsome, where they had been educated, what carriage her father kept, and what had been her mother's maiden name? Elizabeth felt all the impertinence of her questions but answered them very composedly. Lady Catherine then observed,
|
||
"Your father's estate is entailed on Mr. Collins, I think. For your sake," turning to Charlotte, "I am glad of it; but otherwise I see no occasion for entailing estates from the female line. It was not thought necessary in Sir Lewis de Bourgh's family. Do you play and sing, Miss Bennet?"
|
||
"A little."
|
||
"Oh! then—some time or other we shall be happy to hear you. Our instrument is a capital one, probably superior to——You shall try it some day. Do your sisters play and sing?"
|
||
"One of them does."
|
||
"Why did not you all learn? You ought all to have learned. The Miss Webbs all play, and their father has not so good an income as yours. Do you draw?"
|
||
"No, not at all."
|
||
"What, none of you?"
|
||
"Not one."
|
||
"That is very strange. But I suppose you had no opportunity. Your mother should have taken you to town every spring for the benefit of masters."
|
||
"My mother would have had no objection, but my father hates London."
|
||
"Has your governess left you?"
|
||
"We never had any governess."
|
||
"No governess! How was that possible? Five daughters brought up at home without a governess! I never heard of such a thing. Your mother must have been quite a slave to your education."
|
||
Elizabeth could hardly help smiling as she assured her that had not been the case.
|
||
"Then, who taught you? who attended to you? Without a governess, you must have been neglected."
|
||
"Compared with some families, I believe we were; but such of us as wished to learn never wanted the means. We were always encouraged to read, and had all the masters that were necessary. Those who chose to be idle, certainly might."
|
||
"Aye, no doubt; but that is what a governess will prevent, and if I had known your mother, I should have advised her most strenuously to engage one. I always say that nothing is to be done in education without steady and regular instruction, and nobody but a governess can give it. It is wonderful how many families I have been the means of supplying in that way. I am always glad to get a young person well placed out. Four nieces of Mrs. Jenkinson are most delightfully situated through my means; and it was but the other day that I recommended another young person, who was merely accidentally mentioned to me, and the family are quite delighted with her. Mrs. Collins, did I tell you of Lady Metcalf's calling yesterday to thank me? She finds Miss Pope a treasure. 'Lady Catherine,' said she, 'you have given me a treasure.' Are any of your younger sisters out, Miss Bennet?"
|
||
"Yes, ma'am, all."
|
||
"All! What, all five out at once? Very odd! And you only the second. The younger ones out before the elder ones are married! Your younger sisters must be very young?"
|
||
"Yes, my youngest is not sixteen. Perhaps SHE is full young to be much in company. But really, ma'am, I think it would be very hard upon younger sisters, that they should not have their share of society and amusement, because the elder may not have the means or inclination to marry early. The last-born has as good a right to the pleasures of youth at the first. And to be kept back on SUCH a motive! I think it would not be very likely to promote sisterly affection or delicacy of mind."
|
||
"Upon my word," said her ladyship, "you give your opinion very decidedly for so young a person. Pray, what is your age?"
|
||
"With three younger sisters grown up," replied Elizabeth, smiling, "your ladyship can hardly expect me to own it."
|
||
Lady Catherine seemed quite astonished at not receiving a direct answer; and Elizabeth suspected herself to be the first creature who had ever dared to trifle with so much dignified impertinence.
|
||
"You cannot be more than twenty, I am sure, therefore you need not conceal your age."
|
||
"I am not one-and-twenty."
|
||
When the gentlemen had joined them, and tea was over, the card-tables were placed. Lady Catherine, Sir William, and Mr. and Mrs. Collins sat down to quadrille; and as Miss de Bourgh chose to play at cassino, the two girls had the honour of assisting Mrs. Jenkinson to make up her party. Their table was superlatively stupid. Scarcely a syllable was uttered that did not relate to the game, except when Mrs. Jenkinson expressed her fears of Miss de Bourgh's being too hot or too cold, or having too much or too little light. A great deal more passed at the other table. Lady Catherine was generally speaking—stating the mistakes of the three others, or relating some anecdote of herself. Mr. Collins was employed in agreeing to everything her ladyship said, thanking her for every fish he won, and apologising if he thought he won too many. Sir William did not say much. He was storing his memory with anecdotes and noble names.
|
||
When Lady Catherine and her daughter had played as long as they chose, the tables were broken up, the carriage was offered to Mrs. Collins, gratefully accepted and immediately ordered. The party then gathered round the fire to hear Lady Catherine determine what weather they were to have on the morrow. From these instructions they were summoned by the arrival of the coach; and with many speeches of thankfulness on Mr. Collins's side and as many bows on Sir William's they departed. As soon as they had driven from the door, Elizabeth was called on by her cousin to give her opinion of all that she had seen at Rosings, which, for Charlotte's sake, she made more favourable than it really was. But her commendation, though costing her some trouble, could by no means satisfy Mr. Collins, and he was very soon obliged to take her ladyship's praise into his own hands.
|
||
Chapter 30
|
||
Sir William stayed only a week at Hunsford, but his visit was long enough to convince him of his daughter's being most comfortably settled, and of her possessing such a husband and such a neighbour as were not often met with. While Sir William was with them, Mr. Collins devoted his morning to driving him out in his gig, and showing him the country; but when he went away, the whole family returned to their usual employments, and Elizabeth was thankful to find that they did not see more of her cousin by the alteration, for the chief of the time between breakfast and dinner was now passed by him either at work in the garden or in reading and writing, and looking out of the window in his own book-room, which fronted the road. The room in which the ladies sat was backwards. Elizabeth had at first rather wondered that Charlotte should not prefer the dining-parlour for common use; it was a better sized room, and had a more pleasant aspect; but she soon saw that her friend had an excellent reason for what she did, for Mr. Collins would undoubtedly have been much less in his own apartment, had they sat in one equally lively; and she gave Charlotte credit for the arrangement.
|
||
From the drawing-room they could distinguish nothing in the lane, and were indebted to Mr. Collins for the knowledge of what carriages went along, and how often especially Miss de Bourgh drove by in her phaeton, which he never failed coming to inform them of, though it happened almost every day. She not unfrequently stopped at the Parsonage, and had a few minutes' conversation with Charlotte, but was scarcely ever prevailed upon to get out.
|
||
Very few days passed in which Mr. Collins did not walk to Rosings, and not many in which his wife did not think it necessary to go likewise; and till Elizabeth recollected that there might be other family livings to be disposed of, she could not understand the sacrifice of so many hours. Now and then they were honoured with a call from her ladyship, and nothing escaped her observation that was passing in the room during these visits. She examined into their employments, looked at their work, and advised them to do it differently; found fault with the arrangement of the furniture; or detected the housemaid in negligence; and if she accepted any refreshment, seemed to do it only for the sake of finding out that Mrs. Collins's joints of meat were too large for her family.
|
||
Elizabeth soon perceived, that though this great lady was not in commission of the peace of the county, she was a most active magistrate in her own parish, the minutest concerns of which were carried to her by Mr. Collins; and whenever any of the cottagers were disposed to be quarrelsome, discontented, or too poor, she sallied forth into the village to settle their differences, silence their complaints, and scold them into harmony and plenty.
|
||
The entertainment of dining at Rosings was repeated about twice a week; and, allowing for the loss of Sir William, and there being only one card-table in the evening, every such entertainment was the counterpart of the first. Their other engagements were few, as the style of living in the neighbourhood in general was beyond Mr. Collins's reach. This, however, was no evil to Elizabeth, and upon the whole she spent her time comfortably enough; there were half-hours of pleasant conversation with Charlotte, and the weather was so fine for the time of year that she had often great enjoyment out of doors. Her favourite walk, and where she frequently went while the others were calling on Lady Catherine, was along the open grove which edged that side of the park, where there was a nice sheltered path, which no one seemed to value but herself, and where she felt beyond the reach of Lady Catherine's curiosity.
|
||
In this quiet way, the first fortnight of her visit soon passed away. Easter was approaching, and the week preceding it was to bring an addition to the family at Rosings, which in so small a circle must be important. Elizabeth had heard soon after her arrival that Mr. Darcy was expected there in the course of a few weeks, and though there were not many of her acquaintances whom she did not prefer, his coming would furnish one comparatively new to look at in their Rosings parties, and she might be amused in seeing how hopeless Miss Bingley's designs on him were, by his behaviour to his cousin, for whom he was evidently destined by Lady Catherine, who talked of his coming with the greatest satisfaction, spoke of him in terms of the highest admiration, and seemed almost angry to find that he had already been frequently seen by Miss Lucas and herself.
|
||
His arrival was soon known at the Parsonage; for Mr. Collins was walking the whole morning within view of the lodges opening into Hunsford Lane, in order to have the earliest assurance of it, and after making his bow as the carriage turned into the Park, hurried home with the great intelligence. On the following morning he hastened to Rosings to pay his respects. There were two nephews of Lady Catherine to require them, for Mr. Darcy had brought with him a Colonel Fitzwilliam, the younger son of his uncle Lord ——, and, to the great surprise of all the party, when Mr. Collins returned, the gentleman accompanied him. Charlotte had seen them from her husband's room, crossing the road, and immediately running into the other, told the girls what an honour they might expect, adding:
|
||
"I may thank you, Eliza, for this piece of civility. Mr. Darcy would never have come so soon to wait upon me."
|
||
Elizabeth had scarcely time to disclaim all right to the compliment, before their approach was announced by the door-bell, and shortly afterwards the three gentlemen entered the room. Colonel Fitzwilliam, who led the way, was about thirty, not handsome, but in person and address most truly the gentleman. Mr. Darcy looked just as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire—paid his compliments, with his usual reserve, to Mrs. Collins, and whatever might be his feelings toward her friend, met her with every appearance of composure. Elizabeth merely curtseyed to him without saying a word.
|
||
Colonel Fitzwilliam entered into conversation directly with the readiness and ease of a well-bred man, and talked very pleasantly; but his cousin, after having addressed a slight observation on the house and garden to Mrs. Collins, sat for some time without speaking to anybody. At length, however, his civility was so far awakened as to inquire of Elizabeth after the health of her family. She answered him in the usual way, and after a moment's pause, added:
|
||
"My eldest sister has been in town these three months. Have you never happened to see her there?"
|
||
She was perfectly sensible that he never had; but she wished to see whether he would betray any consciousness of what had passed between the Bingleys and Jane, and she thought he looked a little confused as he answered that he had never been so fortunate as to meet Miss Bennet. The subject was pursued no farther, and the gentlemen soon afterwards went away.
|
||
Chapter 31
|
||
Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners were very much admired at the Parsonage, and the ladies all felt that he must add considerably to the pleasures of their engagements at Rosings. It was some days, however, before they received any invitation thither—for while there were visitors in the house, they could not be necessary; and it was not till Easter-day, almost a week after the gentlemen's arrival, that they were honoured by such an attention, and then they were merely asked on leaving church to come there in the evening. For the last week they had seen very little of Lady Catherine or her daughter. Colonel Fitzwilliam had called at the Parsonage more than once during the time, but Mr. Darcy they had seen only at church.
|
||
The invitation was accepted of course, and at a proper hour they joined the party in Lady Catherine's drawing-room. Her ladyship received them civilly, but it was plain that their company was by no means so acceptable as when she could get nobody else; and she was, in fact, almost engrossed by her nephews, speaking to them, especially to Darcy, much more than to any other person in the room.
|
||
Colonel Fitzwilliam seemed really glad to see them; anything was a welcome relief to him at Rosings; and Mrs. Collins's pretty friend had moreover caught his fancy very much. He now seated himself by her, and talked so agreeably of Kent and Hertfordshire, of travelling and staying at home, of new books and music, that Elizabeth had never been half so well entertained in that room before; and they conversed with so much spirit and flow, as to draw the attention of Lady Catherine herself, as well as of Mr. Darcy. HIS eyes had been soon and repeatedly turned towards them with a look of curiosity; and that her ladyship, after a while, shared the feeling, was more openly acknowledged, for she did not scruple to call out:
|
||
"What is that you are saying, Fitzwilliam? What is it you are talking of? What are you telling Miss Bennet? Let me hear what it is."
|
||
"We are speaking of music, madam," said he, when no longer able to avoid a reply.
|
||
"Of music! Then pray speak aloud. It is of all subjects my delight. I must have my share in the conversation if you are speaking of music. There are few people in England, I suppose, who have more true enjoyment of music than myself, or a better natural taste. If I had ever learnt, I should have been a great proficient. And so would Anne, if her health had allowed her to apply. I am confident that she would have performed delightfully. How does Georgiana get on, Darcy?"
|
||
Mr. Darcy spoke with affectionate praise of his sister's proficiency.
|
||
"I am very glad to hear such a good account of her," said Lady Catherine; "and pray tell her from me, that she cannot expect to excel if she does not practice a good deal."
|
||
"I assure you, madam," he replied, "that she does not need such advice. She practises very constantly."
|
||
"So much the better. It cannot be done too much; and when I next write to her, I shall charge her not to neglect it on any account. I often tell young ladies that no excellence in music is to be acquired without constant practice. I have told Miss Bennet several times, that she will never play really well unless she practises more; and though Mrs. Collins has no instrument, she is very welcome, as I have often told her, to come to Rosings every day, and play on the pianoforte in Mrs. Jenkinson's room. She would be in nobody's way, you know, in that part of the house."
|
||
Mr. Darcy looked a little ashamed of his aunt's ill-breeding, and made no answer.
|
||
When coffee was over, Colonel Fitzwilliam reminded Elizabeth of having promised to play to him; and she sat down directly to the instrument. He drew a chair near her. Lady Catherine listened to half a song, and then talked, as before, to her other nephew; till the latter walked away from her, and making with his usual deliberation towards the pianoforte stationed himself so as to command a full view of the fair performer's countenance. Elizabeth saw what he was doing, and at the first convenient pause, turned to him with an arch smile, and said:
|
||
"You mean to frighten me, Mr. Darcy, by coming in all this state to hear me? I will not be alarmed though your sister DOES play so well. There is a stubbornness about me that never can bear to be frightened at the will of others. My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me."
|
||
"I shall not say you are mistaken," he replied, "because you could not really believe me to entertain any design of alarming you; and I have had the pleasure of your acquaintance long enough to know that you find great enjoyment in occasionally professing opinions which in fact are not your own."
|
||
Elizabeth laughed heartily at this picture of herself, and said to Colonel Fitzwilliam, "Your cousin will give you a very pretty notion of me, and teach you not to believe a word I say. I am particularly unlucky in meeting with a person so able to expose my real character, in a part of the world where I had hoped to pass myself off with some degree of credit. Indeed, Mr. Darcy, it is very ungenerous in you to mention all that you knew to my disadvantage in Hertfordshire—and, give me leave to say, very impolitic too—for it is provoking me to retaliate, and such things may come out as will shock your relations to hear."
|
||
"I am not afraid of you," said he, smilingly.
|
||
"Pray let me hear what you have to accuse him of," cried Colonel Fitzwilliam. "I should like to know how he behaves among strangers."
|
||
"You shall hear then—but prepare yourself for something very dreadful. The first time of my ever seeing him in Hertfordshire, you must know, was at a ball—and at this ball, what do you think he did? He danced only four dances, though gentlemen were scarce; and, to my certain knowledge, more than one young lady was sitting down in want of a partner. Mr. Darcy, you cannot deny the fact."
|
||
"I had not at that time the honour of knowing any lady in the assembly beyond my own party."
|
||
"True; and nobody can ever be introduced in a ball-room. Well, Colonel Fitzwilliam, what do I play next? My fingers wait your orders."
|
||
"Perhaps," said Darcy, "I should have judged better, had I sought an introduction; but I am ill-qualified to recommend myself to strangers."
|
||
Shall we ask your cousin the reason of this?" said Elizabeth, still addressing Colonel Fitzwilliam. "Shall we ask him why a man of sense and education, and who has lived in the world, is ill qualified to recommend himself to strangers?"
|
||
"I can answer your question," said Fitzwilliam, "without applying to him. It is because he will not give himself the trouble."
|
||
"I certainly have not the talent which some people possess," said Darcy, "of conversing easily with those I have never seen before. I cannot catch their tone of conversation, or appear interested in their concerns, as I often see done."
|
||
"My fingers," said Elizabeth, "do not move over this instrument in the masterly manner which I see so many women's do. They have not the same force or rapidity, and do not produce the same expression. But then I have always supposed it to be my own fault—because I will not take the trouble of practising. It is not that I do not believe MY fingers as capable as any other woman's of superior execution."
|
||
Darcy smiled and said, "You are perfectly right. You have employed your time much better. No one admitted to the privilege of hearing you can think anything wanting. We neither of us perform to strangers."
|
||
Here they were interrupted by Lady Catherine, who called out to know what they were talking of. Elizabeth immediately began playing again. Lady Catherine approached, and, after listening for a few minutes, said to Darcy:
|
||
"Miss Bennet would not play at all amiss if she practised more, and could have the advantage of a London master. She has a very good notion of fingering, though her taste is not equal to Anne's. Anne would have been a delightful performer, had her health allowed her to learn."
|
||
Elizabeth looked at Darcy to see how cordially he assented to his cousin's praise; but neither at that moment nor at any other could she discern any symptom of love; and from the whole of his behaviour to Miss de Bourgh she derived this comfort for Miss Bingley, that he might have been just as likely to marry HER, had she been his relation.
|
||
Lady Catherine continued her remarks on Elizabeth's performance, mixing with them many instructions on execution and taste. Elizabeth received them with all the forbearance of civility, and, at the request of the gentlemen, remained at the instrument till her ladyship's carriage was ready to take them all home.
|
||
Chapter 32
|
||
Elizabeth was sitting by herself the next morning, and writing to Jane while Mrs. Collins and Maria were gone on business into the village, when she was startled by a ring at the door, the certain signal of a visitor. As she had heard no carriage, she thought it not unlikely to be Lady Catherine, and under that apprehension was putting away her half-finished letter that she might escape all impertinent questions, when the door opened, and, to her very great surprise, Mr. Darcy, and Mr. Darcy only, entered the room.
|
||
He seemed astonished too on finding her alone, and apologised for his intrusion by letting her know that he had understood all the ladies were to be within.
|
||
They then sat down, and when her inquiries after Rosings were made, seemed in danger of sinking into total silence. It was absolutely necessary, therefore, to think of something, and in this emergence recollecting WHEN she had seen him last in Hertfordshire, and feeling curious to know what he would say on the subject of their hasty departure, she observed:
|
||
"How very suddenly you all quitted Netherfield last November, Mr. Darcy! It must have been a most agreeable surprise to Mr. Bingley to see you all after him so soon; for, if I recollect right, he went but the day before. He and his sisters were well, I hope, when you left London?"
|
||
"Perfectly so, I thank you."
|
||
She found that she was to receive no other answer, and, after a short pause added:
|
||
"I think I have understood that Mr. Bingley has not much idea of ever returning to Netherfield again?"
|
||
"I have never heard him say so; but it is probable that he may spend very little of his time there in the future. He has many friends, and is at a time of life when friends and engagements are continually increasing."
|
||
"If he means to be but little at Netherfield, it would be better for the neighbourhood that he should give up the place entirely, for then we might possibly get a settled family there. But, perhaps, Mr. Bingley did not take the house so much for the convenience of the neighbourhood as for his own, and we must expect him to keep it or quit it on the same principle."
|
||
"I should not be surprised," said Darcy, "if he were to give it up as soon as any eligible purchase offers."
|
||
Elizabeth made no answer. She was afraid of talking longer of his friend; and, having nothing else to say, was now determined to leave the trouble of finding a subject to him.
|
||
He took the hint, and soon began with, "This seems a very comfortable house. Lady Catherine, I believe, did a great deal to it when Mr. Collins first came to Hunsford."
|
||
"I believe she did—and I am sure she could not have bestowed her kindness on a more grateful object."
|
||
"Mr. Collins appears to be very fortunate in his choice of a wife."
|
||
"Yes, indeed, his friends may well rejoice in his having met with one of the very few sensible women who would have accepted him, or have made him happy if they had. My friend has an excellent understanding—though I am not certain that I consider her marrying Mr. Collins as the wisest thing she ever did. She seems perfectly happy, however, and in a prudential light it is certainly a very good match for her."
|
||
"It must be very agreeable for her to be settled within so easy a distance of her own family and friends."
|
||
"An easy distance, do you call it? It is nearly fifty miles."
|
||
"And what is fifty miles of good road? Little more than half a day's journey. Yes, I call it a VERY easy distance."
|
||
I should never have considered the distance as one of the ADVANTAGES of the match," cried Elizabeth. "I should never have said Mrs. Collins was settled NEAR her family."
|
||
"It is a proof of your own attachment to Hertfordshire. Anything beyond the very neighbourhood of Longbourn, I suppose, would appear far."
|
||
As he spoke there was a sort of smile which Elizabeth fancied she understood; he must be supposing her to be thinking of Jane and Netherfield, and she blushed as she answered:
|
||
"I do not mean to say that a woman may not be settled too near her family. The far and the near must be relative, and depend on many varying circumstances. Where there is fortune to make the expenses of travelling unimportant, distance becomes no evil. But that is not the case HERE. Mr. and Mrs. Collins have a comfortable income, but not such a one as will allow of frequent journeys—and I am persuaded my friend would not call herself NEAR her family under less than HALF the present distance."
|
||
Mr. Darcy drew his chair a little towards her, and said, "YOU cannot have a right to such very strong local attachment. YOU cannot have been always at Longbourn."
|
||
Elizabeth looked surprised. The gentleman experienced some change of feeling; he drew back his chair, took a newspaper from the table, and glancing over it, said, in a colder voice:
|
||
"Are you pleased with Kent?"
|
||
A short dialogue on the subject of the country ensued, on either side calm and concise—and soon put an end to by the entrance of Charlotte and her sister, just returned from her walk. The tete-a-tete surprised them. Mr. Darcy related the mistake which had occasioned his intruding on Miss Bennet, and after sitting a few minutes longer without saying much to anybody, went away.
|
||
"What can be the meaning of this?" said Charlotte, as soon as he was gone. "My dear, Eliza, he must be in love with you, or he would never have called us in this familiar way."
|
||
But when Elizabeth told of his silence; it did not seem very likely, even to Charlotte's wishes, to be the case; and after various conjectures, they could at last only suppose his visit to proceed from the difficulty of finding anything to do, which was the more probable from the time of year. All field sports were over. Within doors there was Lady Catherine, books, and a billiard-table, but gentlemen cannot always be within doors; and in the nearness of the Parsonage, or the pleasantness of the walk to it, or of the people who lived in it, the two cousins found a temptation from this period of walking thither almost every day. They called at various times of the morning, sometimes separately, sometimes together, and now and then accompanied by their aunt. It was plain to them all that Colonel Fitzwilliam came because he had pleasure in their society, a persuasion which of course recommended him still more; and Elizabeth was reminded by her own satisfaction in being with him, as well as by his evident admiration of her, of her former favourite George Wickham; and though, in comparing them, she saw there was less captivating softness in Colonel Fitzwilliam's manners, she believed he might have the best informed mind.
|
||
But why Mr. Darcy came so often to the Parsonage, it was more difficult to understand. It could not be for society, as he frequently sat there ten minutes together without opening his lips; and when he did speak, it seemed the effect of necessity rather than of choice—a sacrifice to propriety, not a pleasure to himself. He seldom appeared really animated. Mrs. Collins knew not what to make of him. Colonel Fitzwilliam's occasionally laughing at his stupidity, proved that he was generally different, which her own knowledge of him could not have told her; and as she would liked to have believed this change the effect of love, and the object of that love her friend Eliza, she set herself seriously to work to find it out. She watched him whenever they were at Rosings, and whenever he came to Hunsford; but without much success. He certainly looked at her friend a great deal, but the expression of that look was disputable. It was an earnest, steadfast gaze, but she often doubted whether there were much admiration in it, and sometimes it seemed nothing but absence of mind.
|
||
She had once or twice suggested to Elizabeth the possibility of his being partial to her, but Elizabeth always laughed at the idea; and Mrs. Collins did not think it right to press the subject, from the danger of raising expectations which might only end in disappointment; for in her opinion it admitted not of a doubt, that all her friend's dislike would vanish, if she could suppose him to be in her power.
|
||
In her kind schemes for Elizabeth, she sometimes planned her marrying Colonel Fitzwilliam. He was beyond comparison the most pleasant man; he certainly admired her, and his situation in life was most eligible; but, to counterbalance these advantages, Mr. Darcy had considerable patronage in the church, and his cousin could have none at all.
|
||
Chapter 33
|
||
More than once did Elizabeth, in her ramble within the park, unexpectedly meet Mr. Darcy. She felt all the perverseness of the mischance that should bring him where no one else was brought, and, to prevent its ever happening again, took care to inform him at first that it was a favourite haunt of hers. How it could occur a second time, therefore, was very odd! Yet it did, and even a third. It seemed like wilful ill-nature, or a voluntary penance, for on these occasions it was not merely a few formal inquiries and an awkward pause and then away, but he actually thought it necessary to turn back and walk with her. He never said a great deal, nor did she give herself the trouble of talking or of listening much; but it struck her in the course of their third rencontre that he was asking some odd unconnected questions—about her pleasure in being at Hunsford, her love of solitary walks, and her opinion of Mr. and Mrs. Collins's happiness; and that in speaking of Rosings and her not perfectly understanding the house, he seemed to expect that whenever she came into Kent again she would be staying THERE too. His words seemed to imply it. Could he have Colonel Fitzwilliam in his thoughts? She supposed, if he meant anything, he must mean and allusion to what might arise in that quarter. It distressed her a little, and she was quite glad to find herself at the gate in the pales opposite the Parsonage.
|
||
She was engaged one day as she walked, in perusing Jane's last letter, and dwelling on some passages which proved that Jane had not written in spirits, when, instead of being again surprised by Mr. Darcy, she saw on looking up that Colonel Fitzwilliam was meeting her. Putting away the letter immediately and forcing a smile, she said:
|
||
"I did not know before that you ever walked this way."
|
||
"I have been making the tour of the park," he replied, "as I generally do every year, and intend to close it with a call at the Parsonage. Are you going much farther?"
|
||
"No, I should have turned in a moment."
|
||
And accordingly she did turn, and they walked towards the Parsonage together.
|
||
"Do you certainly leave Kent on Saturday?" said she.
|
||
"Yes—if Darcy does not put it off again. But I am at his disposal. He arranges the business just as he pleases."
|
||
"And if not able to please himself in the arrangement, he has at least pleasure in the great power of choice. I do not know anybody who seems more to enjoy the power of doing what he likes than Mr. Darcy."
|
||
"He likes to have his own way very well," replied Colonel Fitzwilliam. "But so we all do. It is only that he has better means of having it than many others, because he is rich, and many others are poor. I speak feelingly. A younger son, you know, must be inured to self-denial and dependence."
|
||
"In my opinion, the younger son of an earl can know very little of either. Now seriously, what have you ever known of self-denial and dependence? When have you been prevented by want of money from going wherever you chose, or procuring anything you had a fancy for?"
|
||
"These are home questions—and perhaps I cannot say that I have experienced many hardships of that nature. But in matters of greater weight, I may suffer from want of money. Younger sons cannot marry where they like."
|
||
"Unless where they like women of fortune, which I think they very often do."
|
||
Our habits of expense make us too dependent, and there are too many in my rank of life who can afford to marry without some attention to money."
|
||
"Is this," thought Elizabeth, "meant for me?" and she coloured at the idea; but, recovering herself, said in a lively tone, "And pray, what is the usual price of an earl's younger son? Unless the elder brother is very sickly, I suppose you would not ask above fifty thousand pounds."
|
||
He answered her in the same style, and the subject dropped. To interrupt a silence which might make him fancy her affected with what had passed, she soon afterwards said:
|
||
"I imagine your cousin brought you down with him chiefly for the sake of having someone at his disposal. I wonder he does not marry, to secure a lasting convenience of that kind. But, perhaps, his sister does as well for the present, and, as she is under his sole care, he may do what he likes with her."
|
||
"No," said Colonel Fitzwilliam, "that is an advantage which he must divide with me. I am joined with him in the guardianship of Miss Darcy."
|
||
"Are you indeed? And pray what sort of guardians do you make? Does your charge give you much trouble? Young ladies of her age are sometimes a little difficult to manage, and if she has the true Darcy spirit, she may like to have her own way."
|
||
As she spoke she observed him looking at her earnestly; and the manner in which he immediately asked her why she supposed Miss Darcy likely to give them any uneasiness, convinced her that she had somehow or other got pretty near the truth. She directly replied:
|
||
"You need not be frightened. I never heard any harm of her; and I dare say she is one of the most tractable creatures in the world. She is a very great favourite with some ladies of my acquaintance, Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley. I think I have heard you say that you know them."
|
||
"I know them a little. Their brother is a pleasant gentlemanlike man—he is a great friend of Darcy's."
|
||
"Oh! yes," said Elizabeth drily; "Mr. Darcy is uncommonly kind to Mr. Bingley, and takes a prodigious deal of care of him."
|
||
"Care of him! Yes, I really believe Darcy DOES take care of him in those points where he most wants care. From something that he told me in our journey hither, I have reason to think Bingley very much indebted to him. But I ought to beg his pardon, for I have no right to suppose that Bingley was the person meant. It was all conjecture."
|
||
"What is it you mean?"
|
||
"It is a circumstance which Darcy could not wish to be generally known, because if it were to get round to the lady's family, it would be an unpleasant thing."
|
||
"You may depend upon my not mentioning it."
|
||
"And remember that I have not much reason for supposing it to be Bingley. What he told me was merely this: that he congratulated himself on having lately saved a friend from the inconveniences of a most imprudent marriage, but without mentioning names or any other particulars, and I only suspected it to be Bingley from believing him the kind of young man to get into a scrape of that sort, and from knowing them to have been together the whole of last summer."
|
||
"Did Mr. Darcy give you reasons for this interference?"
|
||
"I understood that there were some very strong objections against the lady."
|
||
"And what arts did he use to separate them?"
|
||
"He did not talk to me of his own arts," said Fitzwilliam, smiling. "He only told me what I have now told you."
|
||
Elizabeth made no answer, and walked on, her heart swelling with indignation. After watching her a little, Fitzwilliam asked her why she was so thoughtful.
|
||
"I am thinking of what you have been telling me," said she. "Your cousin's conduct does not suit my feelings. Why was he to be the judge?"
|
||
"You are rather disposed to call his interference officious?"
|
||
"I do not see what right Mr. Darcy had to decide on the propriety of his friend's inclination, or why, upon his own judgement alone, he was to determine and direct in what manner his friend was to be happy. But," she continued, recollecting herself, "as we know none of the particulars, it is not fair to condemn him. It is not to be supposed that there was much affection in the case."
|
||
"That is not an unnatural surmise," said Fitzwilliam, "but it is a lessening of the honour of my cousin's triumph very sadly."
|
||
This was spoken jestingly; but it appeared to her so just a picture of Mr. Darcy, that she would not trust herself with an answer, and therefore, abruptly changing the conversation talked on indifferent matters until they reached the Parsonage. There, shut into her own room, as soon as their visitor left them, she could think without interruption of all that she had heard. It was not to be supposed that any other people could be meant than those with whom she was connected. There could not exist in the world TWO men over whom Mr. Darcy could have such boundless influence. That he had been concerned in the measures taken to separate Bingley and Jane she had never doubted; but she had always attributed to Miss Bingley the principal design and arrangement of them. If his own vanity, however, did not mislead him, HE was the cause, his pride and caprice were the cause, of all that Jane had suffered, and still continued to suffer. He had ruined for a while every hope of happiness for the most affectionate, generous heart in the world; and no one could say how lasting an evil he might have inflicted.
|
||
"There were some very strong objections against the lady," were Colonel Fitzwilliam's words; and those strong objections probably were, her having one uncle who was a country attorney, and another who was in business in London.
|
||
"To Jane herself," she exclaimed, "there could be no possibility of objection; all loveliness and goodness as she is!—her understanding excellent, her mind improved, and her manners captivating. Neither could anything be urged against my father, who, though with some peculiarities, has abilities Mr. Darcy himself need not disdain, and respectability which he will probably never each." When she thought of her mother, her confidence gave way a little; but she would not allow that any objections THERE had material weight with Mr. Darcy, whose pride, she was convinced, would receive a deeper wound from the want of importance in his friend's connections, than from their want of sense; and she was quite decided, at last, that he had been partly governed by this worst kind of pride, and partly by the wish of retaining Mr. Bingley for his sister.
|
||
The agitation and tears which the subject occasioned, brought on a headache; and it grew so much worse towards the evening, that, added to her unwillingness to see Mr. Darcy, it determined her not to attend her cousins to Rosings, where they were engaged to drink tea. Mrs. Collins, seeing that she was really unwell, did not press her to go and as much as possible prevented her husband from pressing her; but Mr. Collins could not conceal his apprehension of Lady Catherine's being rather displeased by her staying at home.
|
||
Chapter 34
|
||
When they were gone, Elizabeth, as if intending to exasperate herself as much as possible against Mr. Darcy, chose for her employment the examination of all the letters which Jane had written to her since her being in Kent. They contained no actual complaint, nor was there any revival of past occurrences, or any communication of present suffering. But in all, and in almost every line of each, there was a want of that cheerfulness which had been used to characterise her style, and which, proceeding from the serenity of a mind at ease with itself and kindly disposed towards everyone, had been scarcely ever clouded. Elizabeth noticed every sentence conveying the idea of uneasiness, with an attention which it had hardly received on the first perusal. Mr. Darcy's shameful boast of what misery he had been able to inflict, gave her a keener sense of her sister's sufferings. It was some consolation to think that his visit to Rosings was to end on the day after the next—and, a still greater, that in less than a fortnight she should herself be with Jane again, and enabled to contribute to the recovery of her spirits, by all that affection could do.
|
||
She could not think of Darcy's leaving Kent without remembering that his cousin was to go with him; but Colonel Fitzwilliam had made it clear that he had no intentions at all, and agreeable as he was, she did not mean to be unhappy about him.
|
||
While settling this point, she was suddenly roused by the sound of the door-bell, and her spirits were a little fluttered by the idea of its being Colonel Fitzwilliam himself, who had once before called late in the evening, and might now come to inquire particularly after her. But this idea was soon banished, and her spirits were very differently affected, when, to her utter amazement, she saw Mr. Darcy walk into the room. In an hurried manner he immediately began an inquiry after her health, imputing his visit to a wish of hearing that she were better. She answered him with cold civility. He sat down for a few moments, and then getting up, walked about the room. Elizabeth was surprised, but said not a word. After a silence of several minutes, he came towards her in an agitated manner, and thus began:
|
||
"In vain I have struggled. It will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. You must allow me to tell you how ardently I admire and love you."
|
||
Elizabeth's astonishment was beyond expression. She stared, coloured, doubted, and was silent. This he considered sufficient encouragement; and the avowal of all that he felt, and had long felt for her, immediately followed. He spoke well; but there were feelings besides those of the heart to be detailed; and he was not more eloquent on the subject of tenderness than of pride. His sense of her inferiority—of its being a degradation—of the family obstacles which had always opposed to inclination, were dwelt on with a warmth which seemed due to the consequence he was wounding, but was very unlikely to recommend his suit.
|
||
In spite of her deeply-rooted dislike, she could not be insensible to the compliment of such a man's affection, and though her intentions did not vary for an instant, she was at first sorry for the pain he was to receive; till, roused to resentment by his subsequent language, she lost all compassion in anger. She tried, however, to compose herself to answer him with patience, when he should have done. He concluded with representing to her the strength of that attachment which, in spite of all his endeavours, he had found impossible to conquer; and with expressing his hope that it would now be rewarded by her acceptance of his hand. As he said this, she could easily see that he had no doubt of a favourable answer. He SPOKE of apprehension and anxiety, but his countenance expressed real security. Such a circumstance could only exasperate farther, and, when he ceased, the colour rose into her cheeks, and she said:
|
||
"In such cases as this, it is, I believe, the established mode to express a sense of obligation for the sentiments avowed, however unequally they may be returned. It is natural that obligation should be felt, and if I could FEEL gratitude, I would now thank you. But I cannot—I have never desired your good opinion, and you have certainly bestowed it most unwillingly. I am sorry to have occasioned pain to anyone. It has been most unconsciously done, however, and I hope will be of short duration. The feelings which, you tell me, have long prevented the acknowledgment of your regard, can have little difficulty in overcoming it after this explanation."
|
||
Mr. Darcy, who was leaning against the mantelpiece with his eyes fixed on her face, seemed to catch her words with no less resentment than surprise. His complexion became pale with anger, and the disturbance of his mind was visible in every feature. He was struggling for the appearance of composure, and would not open his lips till he believed himself to have attained it. The pause was to Elizabeth's feelings dreadful. At length, with a voice of forced calmness, he said:
|
||
"And this is all the reply which I am to have the honour of expecting! I might, perhaps, wish to be informed why, with so little ENDEAVOUR at civility, I am thus rejected. But it is of small importance."
|
||
"I might as well inquire," replied she, "why with so evident a desire of offending and insulting me, you chose to tell me that you liked me against your will, against your reason, and even against your character? Was not this some excuse for incivility, if I WAS uncivil? But I have other provocations. You know I have. Had not my feelings decided against you—had they been indifferent, or had they even been favourable, do you think that any consideration would tempt me to accept the man who has been the means of ruining, perhaps for ever, the happiness of a most beloved sister?"
|
||
As she pronounced these words, Mr. Darcy changed colour; but the emotion was short, and he listened without attempting to interrupt her while she continued:
|
||
"I have every reason in the world to think ill of you. No motive can excuse the unjust and ungenerous part you acted THERE. You dare not, you cannot deny, that you have been the principal, if not the only means of dividing them from each other—of exposing one to the censure of the world for caprice and instability, and the other to its derision for disappointed hopes, and involving them both in misery of the acutest kind."
|
||
She paused, and saw with no slight indignation that he was listening with an air which proved him wholly unmoved by any feeling of remorse. He even looked at her with a smile of affected incredulity.
|
||
"Can you deny that you have done it?" she repeated.
|
||
With assumed tranquillity he then replied: "I have no wish of denying that I did everything in my power to separate my friend from your sister, or that I rejoice in my success. Towards HIM I have been kinder than towards myself."
|
||
Elizabeth disdained the appearance of noticing this civil reflection, but its meaning did not escape, nor was it likely to conciliate her.
|
||
"But it is not merely this affair," she continued, "on which my dislike is founded. Long before it had taken place my opinion of you was decided. Your character was unfolded in the recital which I received many months ago from Mr. Wickham. On this subject, what can you have to say? In what imaginary act of friendship can you here defend yourself? or under what misrepresentation can you here impose upon others?"
|
||
"You take an eager interest in that gentleman's concerns," said Darcy, in a less tranquil tone, and with a heightened colour.
|
||
"Who that knows what his misfortunes have been, can help feeling an interest in him?"
|
||
"His misfortunes!" repeated Darcy contemptuously; "yes, his misfortunes have been great indeed."
|
||
"And of your infliction," cried Elizabeth with energy. "You have reduced him to his present state of poverty—comparative poverty. You have withheld the advantages which you must know to have been designed for him. You have deprived the best years of his life of that independence which was no less his due than his desert. You have done all this! and yet you can treat the mention of his misfortune with contempt and ridicule."
|
||
"And this," cried Darcy, as he walked with quick steps across the room, "is your opinion of me! This is the estimation in which you hold me! I thank you for explaining it so fully. My faults, according to this calculation, are heavy indeed! But perhaps," added he, stopping in his walk, and turning towards her, "these offenses might have been overlooked, had not your pride been hurt by my honest confession of the scruples that had long prevented my forming any serious design. These bitter accusations might have been suppressed, had I, with greater policy, concealed my struggles, and flattered you into the belief of my being impelled by unqualified, unalloyed inclination; by reason, by reflection, by everything. But disguise of every sort is my abhorrence. Nor am I ashamed of the feelings I related. They were natural and just. Could you expect me to rejoice in the inferiority of your connections?—to congratulate myself on the hope of relations, whose condition in life is so decidedly beneath my own?"
|
||
Elizabeth felt herself growing more angry every moment; yet she tried to the utmost to speak with composure when she said:
|
||
"You are mistaken, Mr. Darcy, if you suppose that the mode of your declaration affected me in any other way, than as it spared the concern which I might have felt in refusing you, had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner."
|
||
She saw him start at this, but he said nothing, and she continued:
|
||
"You could not have made the offer of your hand in any possible way that would have tempted me to accept it."
|
||
Again his astonishment was obvious; and he looked at her with an expression of mingled incredulity and mortification. She went on:
|
||
"From the very beginning—from the first moment, I may almost say—of my acquaintance with you, your manners, impressing me with the fullest belief of your arrogance, your conceit, and your selfish disdain of the feelings of others, were such as to form the groundwork of disapprobation on which succeeding events have built so immovable a dislike; and I had not known you a month before I felt that you were the last man in the world whom I could ever be prevailed on to marry."
|
||
"You have said quite enough, madam. I perfectly comprehend your feelings, and have now only to be ashamed of what my own have been. Forgive me for having taken up so much of your time, and accept my best wishes for your health and happiness."
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||
And with these words he hastily left the room, and Elizabeth heard him the next moment open the front door and quit the house.
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||
The tumult of her mind, was now painfully great. She knew not how to support herself, and from actual weakness sat down and cried for half-an-hour. Her astonishment, as she reflected on what had passed, was increased by every review of it. That she should receive an offer of marriage from Mr. Darcy! That he should have been in love with her for so many months! So much in love as to wish to marry her in spite of all the objections which had made him prevent his friend's marrying her sister, and which must appear at least with equal force in his own case—was almost incredible! It was gratifying to have inspired unconsciously so strong an affection. But his pride, his abominable pride—his shameless avowal of what he had done with respect to Jane—his unpardonable assurance in acknowledging, though he could not justify it, and the unfeeling manner in which he had mentioned Mr. Wickham, his cruelty towards whom he had not attempted to deny, soon overcame the pity which the consideration of his attachment had for a moment excited. She continued in very agitated reflections till the sound of Lady Catherine's carriage made her feel how unequal she was to encounter Charlotte's observation, and hurried her away to her room.
|
||
Chapter 35
|
||
Elizabeth awoke the next morning to the same thoughts and meditations which had at length closed her eyes. She could not yet recover from the surprise of what had happened; it was impossible to think of anything else; and, totally indisposed for employment, she resolved, soon after breakfast, to indulge herself in air and exercise. She was proceeding directly to her favourite walk, when the recollection of Mr. Darcy's sometimes coming there stopped her, and instead of entering the park, she turned up the lane, which led farther from the turnpike-road. The park paling was still the boundary on one side, and she soon passed one of the gates into the ground.
|
||
After walking two or three times along that part of the lane, she was tempted, by the pleasantness of the morning, to stop at the gates and look into the park. The five weeks which she had now passed in Kent had made a great difference in the country, and every day was adding to the verdure of the early trees. She was on the point of continuing her walk, when she caught a glimpse of a gentleman within the sort of grove which edged the park; he was moving that way; and, fearful of its being Mr. Darcy, she was directly retreating. But the person who advanced was now near enough to see her, and stepping forward with eagerness, pronounced her name. She had turned away; but on hearing herself called, though in a voice which proved it to be Mr. Darcy, she moved again towards the gate. He had by that time reached it also, and, holding out a letter, which she instinctively took, said, with a look of haughty composure, "I have been walking in the grove some time in the hope of meeting you. Will you do me the honour of reading that letter?" And then, with a slight bow, turned again into the plantation, and was soon out of sight.
|
||
With no expectation of pleasure, but with the strongest curiosity, Elizabeth opened the letter, and, to her still increasing wonder, perceived an envelope containing two sheets of letter-paper, written quite through, in a very close hand. The envelope itself was likewise full. Pursuing her way along the lane, she then began it. It was dated from Rosings, at eight o'clock in the morning, and was as follows:—
|
||
"Be not alarmed, madam, on receiving this letter, by the apprehension of its containing any repetition of those sentiments or renewal of those offers which were last night so disgusting to you. I write without any intention of paining you, or humbling myself, by dwelling on wishes which, for the happiness of both, cannot be too soon forgotten; and the effort which the formation and the perusal of this letter must occasion, should have been spared, had not my character required it to be written and read. You must, therefore, pardon the freedom with which I demand your attention; your feelings, I know, will bestow it unwillingly, but I demand it of your justice.
|
||
"Two offenses of a very different nature, and by no means of equal magnitude, you last night laid to my charge. The first mentioned was, that, regardless of the sentiments of either, I had detached Mr. Bingley from your sister, and the other, that I had, in defiance of various claims, in defiance of honour and humanity, ruined the immediate prosperity and blasted the prospects of Mr. Wickham. Wilfully and wantonly to have thrown off the companion of my youth, the acknowledged favourite of my father, a young man who had scarcely any other dependence than on our patronage, and who had been brought up to expect its exertion, would be a depravity, to which the separation of two young persons, whose affection could be the growth of only a few weeks, could bear no comparison. But from the severity of that blame which was last night so liberally bestowed, respecting each circumstance, I shall hope to be in the future secured, when the following account of my actions and their motives has been read. If, in the explanation of them, which is due to myself, I am under the necessity of relating feelings which may be offensive to yours, I can only say that I am sorry. The necessity must be obeyed, and further apology would be absurd.
|
||
"I had not been long in Hertfordshire, before I saw, in common with others, that Bingley preferred your elder sister to any other young woman in the country. But it was not till the evening of the dance at Netherfield that I had any apprehension of his feeling a serious attachment. I had often seen him in love before. At that ball, while I had the honour of dancing with you, I was first made acquainted, by Sir William Lucas's accidental information, that Bingley's attentions to your sister had given rise to a general expectation of their marriage. He spoke of it as a certain event, of which the time alone could be undecided. From that moment I observed my friend's behaviour attentively; and I could then perceive that his partiality for Miss Bennet was beyond what I had ever witnessed in him. Your sister I also watched. Her look and manners were open, cheerful, and engaging as ever, but without any symptom of peculiar regard, and I remained convinced from the evening's scrutiny, that though she received his attentions with pleasure, she did not invite them by any participation of sentiment. If YOU have not been mistaken here, I must have been in error. Your superior knowledge of your sister must make the latter probable. If it be so, if I have been misled by such error to inflict pain on her, your resentment has not been unreasonable. But I shall not scruple to assert, that the serenity of your sister's countenance and air was such as might have given the most acute observer a conviction that, however amiable her temper, her heart was not likely to be easily touched. That I was desirous of believing her indifferent is certain—but I will venture to say that my investigation and decisions are not usually influenced by my hopes or fears. I did not believe her to be indifferent because I wished it; I believed it on impartial conviction, as truly as I wished it in reason. My objections to the marriage were not merely those which I last night acknowledged to have the utmost force of passion to put aside, in my own case; the want of connection could not be so great an evil to my friend as to me. But there were other causes of repugnance; causes which, though still existing, and existing to an equal degree in both instances, I had myself endeavoured to forget, because they were not immediately before me. These causes must be stated, though briefly. The situation of your mother's family, though objectionable, was nothing in comparison to that total want of propriety so frequently, so almost uniformly betrayed by herself, by your three younger sisters, and occasionally even by your father. Pardon me. It pains me to offend you. But amidst your concern for the defects of your nearest relations, and your displeasure at this representation of them, let it give you consolation to consider that, to have conducted yourselves so as to avoid any share of the like censure, is praise no less generally bestowed on you and your elder sister, than it is honourable to the sense and disposition of both. I will only say farther that from what passed that evening, my opinion of all parties was confirmed, and every inducement heightened which could have led me before, to preserve my friend from what I esteemed a most unhappy connection. He left Netherfield for London, on the day following, as you, I am certain, remember, with the design of soon returning.
|
||
"The part which I acted is now to be explained. His sisters' uneasiness had been equally excited with my own; our coincidence of feeling was soon discovered, and, alike sensible that no time was to be lost in detaching their brother, we shortly resolved on joining him directly in London. We accordingly went—and there I readily engaged in the office of pointing out to my friend the certain evils of such a choice. I described, and enforced them earnestly. But, however this remonstrance might have staggered or delayed his determination, I do not suppose that it would ultimately have prevented the marriage, had it not been seconded by the assurance that I hesitated not in giving, of your sister's indifference. He had before believed her to return his affection with sincere, if not with equal regard. But Bingley has great natural modesty, with a stronger dependence on my judgement than on his own. To convince him, therefore, that he had deceived himself, was no very difficult point. To persuade him against returning into Hertfordshire, when that conviction had been given, was scarcely the work of a moment. I cannot blame myself for having done thus much. There is but one part of my conduct in the whole affair on which I do not reflect with satisfaction; it is that I condescended to adopt the measures of art so far as to conceal from him your sister's being in town. I knew it myself, as it was known to Miss Bingley; but her brother is even yet ignorant of it. That they might have met without ill consequence is perhaps probable; but his regard did not appear to me enough extinguished for him to see her without some danger. Perhaps this concealment, this disguise was beneath me; it is done, however, and it was done for the best. On this subject I have nothing more to say, no other apology to offer. If I have wounded your sister's feelings, it was unknowingly done and though the motives which governed me may to you very naturally appear insufficient, I have not yet learnt to condemn them.
|
||
"With respect to that other, more weighty accusation, of having injured Mr. Wickham, I can only refute it by laying before you the whole of his connection with my family. Of what he has PARTICULARLY accused me I am ignorant; but of the truth of what I shall relate, I can summon more than one witness of undoubted veracity.
|
||
"Mr. Wickham is the son of a very respectable man, who had for many years the management of all the Pemberley estates, and whose good conduct in the discharge of his trust naturally inclined my father to be of service to him; and on George Wickham, who was his godson, his kindness was therefore liberally bestowed. My father supported him at school, and afterwards at Cambridge—most important assistance, as his own father, always poor from the extravagance of his wife, would have been unable to give him a gentleman's education. My father was not only fond of this young man's society, whose manner were always engaging; he had also the highest opinion of him, and hoping the church would be his profession, intended to provide for him in it. As for myself, it is many, many years since I first began to think of him in a very different manner. The vicious propensities—the want of principle, which he was careful to guard from the knowledge of his best friend, could not escape the observation of a young man of nearly the same age with himself, and who had opportunities of seeing him in unguarded moments, which Mr. Darcy could not have. Here again shall give you pain—to what degree you only can tell. But whatever may be the sentiments which Mr. Wickham has created, a suspicion of their nature shall not prevent me from unfolding his real character—it adds even another motive.
|
||
"My excellent father died about five years ago; and his attachment to Mr. Wickham was to the last so steady, that in his will he particularly recommended it to me, to promote his advancement in the best manner that his profession might allow—and if he took orders, desired that a valuable family living might be his as soon as it became vacant. There was also a legacy of one thousand pounds. His own father did not long survive mine, and within half a year from these events, Mr. Wickham wrote to inform me that, having finally resolved against taking orders, he hoped I should not think it unreasonable for him to expect some more immediate pecuniary advantage, in lieu of the preferment, by which he could not be benefited. He had some intention, he added, of studying law, and I must be aware that the interest of one thousand pounds would be a very insufficient support therein. I rather wished, than believed him to be sincere; but, at any rate, was perfectly ready to accede to his proposal. I knew that Mr. Wickham ought not to be a clergyman; the business was therefore soon settled—he resigned all claim to assistance in the church, were it possible that he could ever be in a situation to receive it, and accepted in return three thousand pounds. All connection between us seemed now dissolved. I thought too ill of him to invite him to Pemberley, or admit his society in town. In town I believe he chiefly lived, but his studying the law was a mere pretence, and being now free from all restraint, his life was a life of idleness and dissipation. For about three years I heard little of him; but on the decease of the incumbent of the living which had been designed for him, he applied to me again by letter for the presentation. His circumstances, he assured me, and I had no difficulty in believing it, were exceedingly bad. He had found the law a most unprofitable study, and was now absolutely resolved on being ordained, if I would present him to the living in question—of which he trusted there could be little doubt, as he was well assured that I had no other person to provide for, and I could not have forgotten my revered father's intentions. You will hardly blame me for refusing to comply with this entreaty, or for resisting every repetition to it. His resentment was in proportion to the distress of his circumstances—and he was doubtless as violent in his abuse of me to others as in his reproaches to myself. After this period every appearance of acquaintance was dropped. How he lived I know not. But last summer he was again most painfully obtruded on my notice.
|
||
"I must now mention a circumstance which I would wish to forget myself, and which no obligation less than the present should induce me to unfold to any human being. Having said thus much, I feel no doubt of your secrecy. My sister, who is more than ten years my junior, was left to the guardianship of my mother's nephew, Colonel Fitzwilliam, and myself. About a year ago, she was taken from school, and an establishment formed for her in London; and last summer she went with the lady who presided over it, to Ramsgate; and thither also went Mr. Wickham, undoubtedly by design; for there proved to have been a prior acquaintance between him and Mrs. Younge, in whose character we were most unhappily deceived; and by her connivance and aid, he so far recommended himself to Georgiana, whose affectionate heart retained a strong impression of his kindness to her as a child, that she was persuaded to believe herself in love, and to consent to an elopement. She was then but fifteen, which must be her excuse; and after stating her imprudence, I am happy to add, that I owed the knowledge of it to herself. I joined them unexpectedly a day or two before the intended elopement, and then Georgiana, unable to support the idea of grieving and offending a brother whom she almost looked up to as a father, acknowledged the whole to me. You may imagine what I felt and how I acted. Regard for my sister's credit and feelings prevented any public exposure; but I wrote to Mr. Wickham, who left the place immediately, and Mrs. Younge was of course removed from her charge. Mr. Wickham's chief object was unquestionably my sister's fortune, which is thirty thousand pounds; but I cannot help supposing that the hope of revenging himself on me was a strong inducement. His revenge would have been complete indeed.
|
||
"This, madam, is a faithful narrative of every event in which we have been concerned together; and if you do not absolutely reject it as false, you will, I hope, acquit me henceforth of cruelty towards Mr. Wickham. I know not in what manner, under what form of falsehood he had imposed on you; but his success is not perhaps to be wondered at. Ignorant as you previously were of everything concerning either, detection could not be in your power, and suspicion certainly not in your inclination.
|
||
"You may possibly wonder why all this was not told you last night; but I was not then master enough of myself to know what could or ought to be revealed. For the truth of everything here related, I can appeal more particularly to the testimony of Colonel Fitzwilliam, who, from our near relationship and constant intimacy, and, still more, as one of the executors of my father's will, has been unavoidably acquainted with every particular of these transactions. If your abhorrence of ME should make MY assertions valueless, you cannot be prevented by the same cause from confiding in my cousin; and that there may be the possibility of consulting him, I shall endeavour to find some opportunity of putting this letter in your hands in the course of the morning. I will only add, God bless you,
|
||
"FITZWILLIAM DARCY"
|
||
Chapter 36
|
||
If Elizabeth, when Mr. Darcy gave her the letter, did not expect it to contain a renewal of his offers, she had formed no expectation at all of its contents. But such as they were, it may well be supposed how eagerly she went through them, and what a contrariety of emotion they excited. Her feelings as she read were scarcely to be defined. With amazement did she first understand that he believed any apology to be in his power; and steadfastly was she persuaded, that he could have no explanation to give, which a just sense of shame would not conceal. With a strong prejudice against everything he might say, she began his account of what had happened at Netherfield. She read with an eagerness which hardly left her power of comprehension, and from impatience of knowing what the next sentence might bring, was incapable of attending to the sense of the one before her eyes. His belief of her sister's insensibility she instantly resolved to be false; and his account of the real, the worst objections to the match, made her too angry to have any wish of doing him justice. He expressed no regret for what he had done which satisfied her; his style was not penitent, but haughty. It was all pride and insolence.
|
||
But when this subject was succeeded by his account of Mr. Wickham—when she read with somewhat clearer attention a relation of events which, if true, must overthrow every cherished opinion of his worth, and which bore so alarming an affinity to his own history of himself—her feelings were yet more acutely painful and more difficult of definition. Astonishment, apprehension, and even horror, oppressed her. She wished to discredit it entirely, repeatedly exclaiming, "This must be false! This cannot be! This must be the grossest falsehood!"—and when she had gone through the whole letter, though scarcely knowing anything of the last page or two, put it hastily away, protesting that she would not regard it, that she would never look in it again.
|
||
In this perturbed state of mind, with thoughts that could rest on nothing, she walked on; but it would not do; in half a minute the letter was unfolded again, and collecting herself as well as she could, she again began the mortifying perusal of all that related to Wickham, and commanded herself so far as to examine the meaning of every sentence. The account of his connection with the Pemberley family was exactly what he had related himself; and the kindness of the late Mr. Darcy, though she had not before known its extent, agreed equally well with his own words. So far each recital confirmed the other; but when she came to the will, the difference was great. What Wickham had said of the living was fresh in her memory, and as she recalled his very words, it was impossible not to feel that there was gross duplicity on one side or the other; and, for a few moments, she flattered herself that her wishes did not err. But when she read and re-read with the closest attention, the particulars immediately following of Wickham's resigning all pretensions to the living, of his receiving in lieu so considerable a sum as three thousand pounds, again was she forced to hesitate. She put down the letter, weighed every circumstance with what she meant to be impartiality—deliberated on the probability of each statement—but with little success. On both sides it was only assertion. Again she read on; but every line proved more clearly that the affair, which she had believed it impossible that any contrivance could so represent as to render Mr. Darcy's conduct in it less than infamous, was capable of a turn which must make him entirely blameless throughout the whole.
|
||
The extravagance and general profligacy which he scrupled not to lay at Mr. Wickham's charge, exceedingly shocked her; the more so, as she could bring no proof of its injustice. She had never heard of him before his entrance into the ——shire Militia, in which he had engaged at the persuasion of the young man who, on meeting him accidentally in town, had there renewed a slight acquaintance. Of his former way of life nothing had been known in Hertfordshire but what he told himself. As to his real character, had information been in her power, she had never felt a wish of inquiring. His countenance, voice, and manner had established him at once in the possession of every virtue. She tried to recollect some instance of goodness, some distinguished trait of integrity or benevolence, that might rescue him from the attacks of Mr. Darcy; or at least, by the predominance of virtue, atone for those casual errors under which she would endeavour to class what Mr. Darcy had described as the idleness and vice of many years' continuance. But no such recollection befriended her. She could see him instantly before her, in every charm of air and address; but she could remember no more substantial good than the general approbation of the neighbourhood, and the regard which his social powers had gained him in the mess. After pausing on this point a considerable while, she once more continued to read. But, alas! the story which followed, of his designs on Miss Darcy, received some confirmation from what had passed between Colonel Fitzwilliam and herself only the morning before; and at last she was referred for the truth of every particular to Colonel Fitzwilliam himself—from whom she had previously received the information of his near concern in all his cousin's affairs, and whose character she had no reason to question. At one time she had almost resolved on applying to him, but the idea was checked by the awkwardness of the application, and at length wholly banished by the conviction that Mr. Darcy would never have hazarded such a proposal, if he had not been well assured of his cousin's corroboration.
|
||
She perfectly remembered everything that had passed in conversation between Wickham and herself, in their first evening at Mr. Phillips's. Many of his expressions were still fresh in her memory. She was NOW struck with the impropriety of such communications to a stranger, and wondered it had escaped her before. She saw the indelicacy of putting himself forward as he had done, and the inconsistency of his professions with his conduct. She remembered that he had boasted of having no fear of seeing Mr. Darcy—that Mr. Darcy might leave the country, but that HE should stand his ground; yet he had avoided the Netherfield ball the very next week. She remembered also that, till the Netherfield family had quitted the country, he had told his story to no one but herself; but that after their removal it had been everywhere discussed; that he had then no reserves, no scruples in sinking Mr. Darcy's character, though he had assured her that respect for the father would always prevent his exposing the son.
|
||
How differently did everything now appear in which he was concerned! His attentions to Miss King were now the consequence of views solely and hatefully mercenary; and the mediocrity of her fortune proved no longer the moderation of his wishes, but his eagerness to grasp at anything. His behaviour to herself could now have had no tolerable motive; he had either been deceived with regard to her fortune, or had been gratifying his vanity by encouraging the preference which she believed she had most incautiously shown. Every lingering struggle in his favour grew fainter and fainter; and in farther justification of Mr. Darcy, she could not but allow Mr. Bingley, when questioned by Jane, had long ago asserted his blamelessness in the affair; that proud and repulsive as were his manners, she had never, in the whole course of their acquaintance—an acquaintance which had latterly brought them much together, and given her a sort of intimacy with his ways—seen anything that betrayed him to be unprincipled or unjust—anything that spoke him of irreligious or immoral habits; that among his own connections he was esteemed and valued—that even Wickham had allowed him merit as a brother, and that she had often heard him speak so affectionately of his sister as to prove him capable of SOME amiable feeling; that had his actions been what Mr. Wickham represented them, so gross a violation of everything right could hardly have been concealed from the world; and that friendship between a person capable of it, and such an amiable man as Mr. Bingley, was incomprehensible.
|
||
She grew absolutely ashamed of herself. Of neither Darcy nor Wickham could she think without feeling she had been blind, partial, prejudiced, absurd.
|
||
"How despicably I have acted!" she cried; "I, who have prided myself on my discernment! I, who have valued myself on my abilities! who have often disdained the generous candour of my sister, and gratified my vanity in useless or blameable mistrust! How humiliating is this discovery! Yet, how just a humiliation! Had I been in love, I could not have been more wretchedly blind! But vanity, not love, has been my folly. Pleased with the preference of one, and offended by the neglect of the other, on the very beginning of our acquaintance, I have courted prepossession and ignorance, and driven reason away, where either were concerned. Till this moment I never knew myself."
|
||
From herself to Jane—from Jane to Bingley, her thoughts were in a line which soon brought to her recollection that Mr. Darcy's explanation THERE had appeared very insufficient, and she read it again. Widely different was the effect of a second perusal. How could she deny that credit to his assertions in one instance, which she had been obliged to give in the other? He declared himself to be totally unsuspicious of her sister's attachment; and she could not help remembering what Charlotte's opinion had always been. Neither could she deny the justice of his description of Jane. She felt that Jane's feelings, though fervent, were little displayed, and that there was a constant complacency in her air and manner not often united with great sensibility.
|
||
When she came to that part of the letter in which her family were mentioned in terms of such mortifying, yet merited reproach, her sense of shame was severe. The justice of the charge struck her too forcibly for denial, and the circumstances to which he particularly alluded as having passed at the Netherfield ball, and as confirming all his first disapprobation, could not have made a stronger impression on his mind than on hers.
|
||
The compliment to herself and her sister was not unfelt. It soothed, but it could not console her for the contempt which had thus been self-attracted by the rest of her family; and as she considered that Jane's disappointment had in fact been the work of her nearest relations, and reflected how materially the credit of both must be hurt by such impropriety of conduct, she felt depressed beyond anything she had ever known before.
|
||
After wandering along the lane for two hours, giving way to every variety of thought—re-considering events, determining probabilities, and reconciling herself, as well as she could, to a change so sudden and so important, fatigue, and a recollection of her long absence, made her at length return home; and she entered the house with the wish of appearing cheerful as usual, and the resolution of repressing such reflections as must make her unfit for conversation.
|
||
She was immediately told that the two gentlemen from Rosings had each called during her absence; Mr. Darcy, only for a few minutes, to take leave—but that Colonel Fitzwilliam had been sitting with them at least an hour, hoping for her return, and almost resolving to walk after her till she could be found. Elizabeth could but just AFFECT concern in missing him; she really rejoiced at it. Colonel Fitzwilliam was no longer an object; she could think only of her letter.
|
||
Chapter 37
|
||
The two gentlemen left Rosings the next morning, and Mr. Collins having been in waiting near the lodges, to make them his parting obeisance, was able to bring home the pleasing intelligence, of their appearing in very good health, and in as tolerable spirits as could be expected, after the melancholy scene so lately gone through at Rosings. To Rosings he then hastened, to console Lady Catherine and her daughter; and on his return brought back, with great satisfaction, a message from her ladyship, importing that she felt herself so dull as to make her very desirous of having them all to dine with her.
|
||
Elizabeth could not see Lady Catherine without recollecting that, had she chosen it, she might by this time have been presented to her as her future niece; nor could she think, without a smile, of what her ladyship's indignation would have been. "What would she have said? how would she have behaved?" were questions with which she amused herself.
|
||
Their first subject was the diminution of the Rosings party. "I assure you, I feel it exceedingly," said Lady Catherine; "I believe no one feels the loss of friends so much as I do. But I am particularly attached to these young men, and know them to be so much attached to me! They were excessively sorry to go! But so they always are. The dear Colonel rallied his spirits tolerably till just at last; but Darcy seemed to feel it most acutely, more, I think, than last year. His attachment to Rosings certainly increases."
|
||
Mr. Collins had a compliment, and an allusion to throw in here, which were kindly smiled on by the mother and daughter.
|
||
Lady Catherine observed, after dinner, that Miss Bennet seemed out of spirits, and immediately accounting for it by herself, by supposing that she did not like to go home again so soon, she added:
|
||
"But if that is the case, you must write to your mother and beg that you may stay a little longer. Mrs. Collins will be very glad of your company, I am sure."
|
||
"I am much obliged to your ladyship for your kind invitation," replied Elizabeth, "but it is not in my power to accept it. I must be in town next Saturday."
|
||
"Why, at that rate, you will have been here only six weeks. I expected you to stay two months. I told Mrs. Collins so before you came. There can be no occasion for your going so soon. Mrs. Bennet could certainly spare you for another fortnight."
|
||
"But my father cannot. He wrote last week to hurry my return."
|
||
"Oh! your father of course may spare you, if your mother can. Daughters are never of so much consequence to a father. And if you will stay another MONTH complete, it will be in my power to take one of you as far as London, for I am going there early in June, for a week; and as Dawson does not object to the barouche-box, there will be very good room for one of you—and indeed, if the weather should happen to be cool, I should not object to taking you both, as you are neither of you large."
|
||
"You are all kindness, madam; but I believe we must abide by our original plan."
|
||
Lady Catherine seemed resigned. "Mrs. Collins, you must send a servant with them. You know I always speak my mind, and I cannot bear the idea of two young women travelling post by themselves. It is highly improper. You must contrive to send somebody. I have the greatest dislike in the world to that sort of thing. Young women should always be properly guarded and attended, according to their situation in life. When my niece Georgiana went to Ramsgate last summer, I made a point of her having two men-servants go with her. Miss Darcy, the daughter of Mr. Darcy, of Pemberley, and Lady Anne, could not have appeared with propriety in a different manner. I am excessively attentive to all those things. You must send John with the young ladies, Mrs. Collins. I am glad it occurred to me to mention it; for it would really be discreditable to YOU to let them go alone."
|
||
"My uncle is to send a servant for us."
|
||
"Oh! Your uncle! He keeps a man-servant, does he? I am very glad you have somebody who thinks of these things. Where shall you change horses? Oh! Bromley, of course. If you mention my name at the Bell, you will be attended to."
|
||
Lady Catherine had many other questions to ask respecting their journey, and as she did not answer them all herself, attention was necessary, which Elizabeth believed to be lucky for her; or, with a mind so occupied, she might have forgotten where she was. Reflection must be reserved for solitary hours; whenever she was alone, she gave way to it as the greatest relief; and not a day went by without a solitary walk, in which she might indulge in all the delight of unpleasant recollections.
|
||
Mr. Darcy's letter she was in a fair way of soon knowing by heart. She studied every sentence; and her feelings towards its writer were at times widely different. When she remembered the style of his address, she was still full of indignation; but when she considered how unjustly she had condemned and upbraided him, her anger was turned against herself; and his disappointed feelings became the object of compassion. His attachment excited gratitude, his general character respect; but she could not approve him; nor could she for a moment repent her refusal, or feel the slightest inclination ever to see him again. In her own past behaviour, there was a constant source of vexation and regret; and in the unhappy defects of her family, a subject of yet heavier chagrin. They were hopeless of remedy. Her father, contented with laughing at them, would never exert himself to restrain the wild giddiness of his youngest daughters; and her mother, with manners so far from right herself, was entirely insensible of the evil. Elizabeth had frequently united with Jane in an endeavour to check the imprudence of Catherine and Lydia; but while they were supported by their mother's indulgence, what chance could there be of improvement? Catherine, weak-spirited, irritable, and completely under Lydia's guidance, had been always affronted by their advice; and Lydia, self-willed and careless, would scarcely give them a hearing. They were ignorant, idle, and vain. While there was an officer in Meryton, they would flirt with him; and while Meryton was within a walk of Longbourn, they would be going there forever.
|
||
Anxiety on Jane's behalf was another prevailing concern; and Mr. Darcy's explanation, by restoring Bingley to all her former good opinion, heightened the sense of what Jane had lost. His affection was proved to have been sincere, and his conduct cleared of all blame, unless any could attach to the implicitness of his confidence in his friend. How grievous then was the thought that, of a situation so desirable in every respect, so replete with advantage, so promising for happiness, Jane had been deprived, by the folly and indecorum of her own family!
|
||
When to these recollections was added the developement of Wickham's character, it may be easily believed that the happy spirits which had seldom been depressed before, were now so much affected as to make it almost impossible for her to appear tolerably cheerful.
|
||
Their engagements at Rosings were as frequent during the last week of her stay as they had been at first. The very last evening was spent there; and her ladyship again inquired minutely into the particulars of their journey, gave them directions as to the best method of packing, and was so urgent on the necessity of placing gowns in the only right way, that Maria thought herself obliged, on her return, to undo all the work of the morning, and pack her trunk afresh.
|
||
When they parted, Lady Catherine, with great condescension, wished them a good journey, and invited them to come to Hunsford again next year; and Miss de Bourgh exerted herself so far as to curtsey and hold out her hand to both.
|
||
Chapter 38
|
||
On Saturday morning Elizabeth and Mr. Collins met for breakfast a few minutes before the others appeared; and he took the opportunity of paying the parting civilities which he deemed indispensably necessary.
|
||
"I know not, Miss Elizabeth," said he, "whether Mrs. Collins has yet expressed her sense of your kindness in coming to us; but I am very certain you will not leave the house without receiving her thanks for it. The favor of your company has been much felt, I assure you. We know how little there is to tempt anyone to our humble abode. Our plain manner of living, our small rooms and few domestics, and the little we see of the world, must make Hunsford extremely dull to a young lady like yourself; but I hope you will believe us grateful for the condescension, and that we have done everything in our power to prevent your spending your time unpleasantly."
|
||
Elizabeth was eager with her thanks and assurances of happiness. She had spent six weeks with great enjoyment; and the pleasure of being with Charlotte, and the kind attentions she had received, must make HER feel the obliged. Mr. Collins was gratified, and with a more smiling solemnity replied:
|
||
"It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have passed your time not disagreeably. We have certainly done our best; and most fortunately having it in our power to introduce you to very superior society, and, from our connection with Rosings, the frequent means of varying the humble home scene, I think we may flatter ourselves that your Hunsford visit cannot have been entirely irksome. Our situation with regard to Lady Catherine's family is indeed the sort of extraordinary advantage and blessing which few can boast. You see on what a footing we are. You see how continually we are engaged there. In truth I must acknowledge that, with all the disadvantages of this humble parsonage, I should not think anyone abiding in it an object of compassion, while they are sharers of our intimacy at Rosings."
|
||
Words were insufficient for the elevation of his feelings; and he was obliged to walk about the room, while Elizabeth tried to unite civility and truth in a few short sentences.
|
||
"You may, in fact, carry a very favourable report of us into Hertfordshire, my dear cousin. I flatter myself at least that you will be able to do so. Lady Catherine's great attentions to Mrs. Collins you have been a daily witness of; and altogether I trust it does not appear that your friend has drawn an unfortunate—but on this point it will be as well to be silent. Only let me assure you, my dear Miss Elizabeth, that I can from my heart most cordially wish you equal felicity in marriage. My dear Charlotte and I have but one mind and one way of thinking. There is in everything a most remarkable resemblance of character and ideas between us. We seem to have been designed for each other."
|
||
Elizabeth could safely say that it was a great happiness where that was the case, and with equal sincerity could add, that she firmly believed and rejoiced in his domestic comforts. She was not sorry, however, to have the recital of them interrupted by the lady from whom they sprang. Poor Charlotte! it was melancholy to leave her to such society! But she had chosen it with her eyes open; and though evidently regretting that her visitors were to go, she did not seem to ask for compassion. Her home and her housekeeping, her parish and her poultry, and all their dependent concerns, had not yet lost their charms.
|
||
At length the chaise arrived, the trunks were fastened on, the parcels placed within, and it was pronounced to be ready. After an affectionate parting between the friends, Elizabeth was attended to the carriage by Mr. Collins, and as they walked down the garden he was commissioning her with his best respects to all her family, not forgetting his thanks for the kindness he had received at Longbourn in the winter, and his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, though unknown. He then handed her in, Maria followed, and the door was on the point of being closed, when he suddenly reminded them, with some consternation, that they had hitherto forgotten to leave any message for the ladies at Rosings.
|
||
"But," he added, "you will of course wish to have your humble respects delivered to them, with your grateful thanks for their kindness to you while you have been here."
|
||
Elizabeth made no objection; the door was then allowed to be shut, and the carriage drove off.
|
||
"Good gracious!" cried Maria, after a few minutes' silence, "it seems but a day or two since we first came! and yet how many things have happened!"
|
||
"A great many indeed," said her companion with a sigh.
|
||
"We have dined nine times at Rosings, besides drinking tea there twice! How much I shall have to tell!"
|
||
Elizabeth added privately, "And how much I shall have to conceal!"
|
||
Their journey was performed without much conversation, or any alarm; and within four hours of their leaving Hunsford they reached Mr. Gardiner's house, where they were to remain a few days.
|
||
Jane looked well, and Elizabeth had little opportunity of studying her spirits, amidst the various engagements which the kindness of her aunt had reserved for them. But Jane was to go home with her, and at Longbourn there would be leisure enough for observation.
|
||
It was not without an effort, meanwhile, that she could wait even for Longbourn, before she told her sister of Mr. Darcy's proposals. To know that she had the power of revealing what would so exceedingly astonish Jane, and must, at the same time, so highly gratify whatever of her own vanity she had not yet been able to reason away, was such a temptation to openness as nothing could have conquered but the state of indecision in which she remained as to the extent of what she should communicate; and her fear, if she once entered on the subject, of being hurried into repeating something of Bingley which might only grieve her sister further.
|
||
Chapter 39
|
||
It was the second week in May, in which the three young ladies set out together from Gracechurch Street for the town of ——, in Hertfordshire; and, as they drew near the appointed inn where Mr. Bennet's carriage was to meet them, they quickly perceived, in token of the coachman's punctuality, both Kitty and Lydia looking out of a dining-room upstairs. These two girls had been above an hour in the place, happily employed in visiting an opposite milliner, watching the sentinel on guard, and dressing a salad and cucumber.
|
||
After welcoming their sisters, they triumphantly displayed a table set out with such cold meat as an inn larder usually affords, exclaiming, "Is not this nice? Is not this an agreeable surprise?"
|
||
"And we mean to treat you all," added Lydia, "but you must lend us the money, for we have just spent ours at the shop out there." Then, showing her purchases—"Look here, I have bought this bonnet. I do not think it is very pretty; but I thought I might as well buy it as not. I shall pull it to pieces as soon as I get home, and see if I can make it up any better."
|
||
And when her sisters abused it as ugly, she added, with perfect unconcern, "Oh! but there were two or three much uglier in the shop; and when I have bought some prettier-coloured satin to trim it with fresh, I think it will be very tolerable. Besides, it will not much signify what one wears this summer, after the ——shire have left Meryton, and they are going in a fortnight."
|
||
"Are they indeed!" cried Elizabeth, with the greatest satisfaction.
|
||
"They are going to be encamped near Brighton; and I do so want papa to take us all there for the summer! It would be such a delicious scheme; and I dare say would hardly cost anything at all. Mamma would like to go too of all things! Only think what a miserable summer else we shall have!"
|
||
"Yes," thought Elizabeth, "THAT would be a delightful scheme indeed, and completely do for us at once. Good Heaven! Brighton, and a whole campful of soldiers, to us, who have been overset already by one poor regiment of militia, and the monthly balls of Meryton!"
|
||
"Now I have got some news for you," said Lydia, as they sat down at table. "What do you think? It is excellent news—capital news—and about a certain person we all like!"
|
||
Jane and Elizabeth looked at each other, and the waiter was told he need not stay. Lydia laughed, and said:
|
||
"Aye, that is just like your formality and discretion. You thought the waiter must not hear, as if he cared! I dare say he often hears worse things said than I am going to say. But he is an ugly fellow! I am glad he is gone. I never saw such a long chin in my life. Well, but now for my news; it is about dear Wickham; too good for the waiter, is it not? There is no danger of Wickham's marrying Mary King. There's for you! She is gone down to her uncle at Liverpool: gone to stay. Wickham is safe."
|
||
"And Mary King is safe!" added Elizabeth; "safe from a connection imprudent as to fortune."
|
||
"She is a great fool for going away, if she liked him."
|
||
"But I hope there is no strong attachment on either side," said Jane.
|
||
"I am sure there is not on HIS. I will answer for it, he never cared three straws about her—who could about such a nasty little freckled thing?"
|
||
Elizabeth was shocked to think that, however incapable of such coarseness of EXPRESSION herself, the coarseness of the SENTIMENT was little other than her own breast had harboured and fancied liberal!
|
||
As soon as all had ate, and the elder ones paid, the carriage was ordered; and after some contrivance, the whole party, with all their boxes, work-bags, and parcels, and the unwelcome addition of Kitty's and Lydia's purchases, were seated in it.
|
||
"How nicely we are all crammed in," cried Lydia. "I am glad I bought my bonnet, if it is only for the fun of having another bandbox! Well, now let us be quite comfortable and snug, and talk and laugh all the way home. And in the first place, let us hear what has happened to you all since you went away. Have you seen any pleasant men? Have you had any flirting? I was in great hopes that one of you would have got a husband before you came back. Jane will be quite an old maid soon, I declare. She is almost three-and-twenty! Lord, how ashamed I should be of not being married before three-and-twenty! My aunt Phillips wants you so to get husbands, you can't think. She says Lizzy had better have taken Mr. Collins; but I do not think there would have been any fun in it. Lord! how I should like to be married before any of you; and then I would chaperon you about to all the balls. Dear me! we had such a good piece of fun the other day at Colonel Forster's. Kitty and me were to spend the day there, and Mrs. Forster promised to have a little dance in the evening; (by the bye, Mrs. Forster and me are SUCH friends!) and so she asked the two Harringtons to come, but Harriet was ill, and so Pen was forced to come by herself; and then, what do you think we did? We dressed up Chamberlayne in woman's clothes on purpose to pass for a lady, only think what fun! Not a soul knew of it, but Colonel and Mrs. Forster, and Kitty and me, except my aunt, for we were forced to borrow one of her gowns; and you cannot imagine how well he looked! When Denny, and Wickham, and Pratt, and two or three more of the men came in, they did not know him in the least. Lord! how I laughed! and so did Mrs. Forster. I thought I should have died. And THAT made the men suspect something, and then they soon found out what was the matter."
|
||
With such kinds of histories of their parties and good jokes, did Lydia, assisted by Kitty's hints and additions, endeavour to amuse her companions all the way to Longbourn. Elizabeth listened as little as she could, but there was no escaping the frequent mention of Wickham's name.
|
||
Their reception at home was most kind. Mrs. Bennet rejoiced to see Jane in undiminished beauty; and more than once during dinner did Mr. Bennet say voluntarily to Elizabeth:
|
||
"I am glad you are come back, Lizzy."
|
||
Their party in the dining-room was large, for almost all the Lucases came to meet Maria and hear the news; and various were the subjects that occupied them: Lady Lucas was inquiring of Maria, after the welfare and poultry of her eldest daughter; Mrs. Bennet was doubly engaged, on one hand collecting an account of the present fashions from Jane, who sat some way below her, and, on the other, retailing them all to the younger Lucases; and Lydia, in a voice rather louder than any other person's, was enumerating the various pleasures of the morning to anybody who would hear her.
|
||
"Oh! Mary," said she, "I wish you had gone with us, for we had such fun! As we went along, Kitty and I drew up the blinds, and pretended there was nobody in the coach; and I should have gone so all the way, if Kitty had not been sick; and when we got to the George, I do think we behaved very handsomely, for we treated the other three with the nicest cold luncheon in the world, and if you would have gone, we would have treated you too. And then when we came away it was such fun! I thought we never should have got into the coach. I was ready to die of laughter. And then we were so merry all the way home! we talked and laughed so loud, that anybody might have heard us ten miles off!"
|
||
To this Mary very gravely replied, "Far be it from me, my dear sister, to depreciate such pleasures! They would doubtless be congenial with the generality of female minds. But I confess they would have no charms for ME—I should infinitely prefer a book."
|
||
But of this answer Lydia heard not a word. She seldom listened to anybody for more than half a minute, and never attended to Mary at all.
|
||
In the afternoon Lydia was urgent with the rest of the girls to walk to Meryton, and to see how everybody went on; but Elizabeth steadily opposed the scheme. It should not be said that the Miss Bennets could not be at home half a day before they were in pursuit of the officers. There was another reason too for her opposition. She dreaded seeing Mr. Wickham again, and was resolved to avoid it as long as possible. The comfort to HER of the regiment's approaching removal was indeed beyond expression. In a fortnight they were to go—and once gone, she hoped there could be nothing more to plague her on his account.
|
||
She had not been many hours at home before she found that the Brighton scheme, of which Lydia had given them a hint at the inn, was under frequent discussion between her parents. Elizabeth saw directly that her father had not the smallest intention of yielding; but his answers were at the same time so vague and equivocal, that her mother, though often disheartened, had never yet despaired of succeeding at last.
|
||
Chapter 40
|
||
Elizabeth's impatience to acquaint Jane with what had happened could no longer be overcome; and at length, resolving to suppress every particular in which her sister was concerned, and preparing her to be surprised, she related to her the next morning the chief of the scene between Mr. Darcy and herself.
|
||
Miss Bennet's astonishment was soon lessened by the strong sisterly partiality which made any admiration of Elizabeth appear perfectly natural; and all surprise was shortly lost in other feelings. She was sorry that Mr. Darcy should have delivered his sentiments in a manner so little suited to recommend them; but still more was she grieved for the unhappiness which her sister's refusal must have given him.
|
||
"His being so sure of succeeding was wrong," said she, "and certainly ought not to have appeared; but consider how much it must increase his disappointment!"
|
||
"Indeed," replied Elizabeth, "I am heartily sorry for him; but he has other feelings, which will probably soon drive away his regard for me. You do not blame me, however, for refusing him?"
|
||
"Blame you! Oh, no."
|
||
"But you blame me for having spoken so warmly of Wickham?"
|
||
"No—I do not know that you were wrong in saying what you did."
|
||
"But you WILL know it, when I tell you what happened the very next day."
|
||
She then spoke of the letter, repeating the whole of its contents as far as they concerned George Wickham. What a stroke was this for poor Jane! who would willingly have gone through the world without believing that so much wickedness existed in the whole race of mankind, as was here collected in one individual. Nor was Darcy's vindication, though grateful to her feelings, capable of consoling her for such discovery. Most earnestly did she labour to prove the probability of error, and seek to clear the one without involving the other.
|
||
"This will not do," said Elizabeth; "you never will be able to make both of them good for anything. Take your choice, but you must be satisfied with only one. There is but such a quantity of merit between them; just enough to make one good sort of man; and of late it has been shifting about pretty much. For my part, I am inclined to believe it all Darcy's; but you shall do as you choose."
|
||
It was some time, however, before a smile could be extorted from Jane.
|
||
"I do not know when I have been more shocked," said she. "Wickham so very bad! It is almost past belief. And poor Mr. Darcy! Dear Lizzy, only consider what he must have suffered. Such a disappointment! and with the knowledge of your ill opinion, too! and having to relate such a thing of his sister! It is really too distressing. I am sure you must feel it so."
|
||
"Oh! no, my regret and compassion are all done away by seeing you so full of both. I know you will do him such ample justice, that I am growing every moment more unconcerned and indifferent. Your profusion makes me saving; and if you lament over him much longer, my heart will be as light as a feather."
|
||
"Poor Wickham! there is such an expression of goodness in his countenance! such an openness and gentleness in his manner!"
|
||
"There certainly was some great mismanagement in the education of those two young men. One has got all the goodness, and the other all the appearance of it."
|
||
"I never thought Mr. Darcy so deficient in the APPEARANCE of it as you used to do."
|
||
"And yet I meant to be uncommonly clever in taking so decided a dislike to him, without any reason. It is such a spur to one's genius, such an opening for wit, to have a dislike of that kind. One may be continually abusive without saying anything just; but one cannot always be laughing at a man without now and then stumbling on something witty."
|
||
"Lizzy, when you first read that letter, I am sure you could not treat the matter as you do now."
|
||
"Indeed, I could not. I was uncomfortable enough, I may say unhappy. And with no one to speak to about what I felt, no Jane to comfort me and say that I had not been so very weak and vain and nonsensical as I knew I had! Oh! how I wanted you!"
|
||
"How unfortunate that you should have used such very strong expressions in speaking of Wickham to Mr. Darcy, for now they DO appear wholly undeserved."
|
||
"Certainly. But the misfortune of speaking with bitterness is a most natural consequence of the prejudices I had been encouraging. There is one point on which I want your advice. I want to be told whether I ought, or ought not, to make our acquaintances in general understand Wickham's character."
|
||
Miss Bennet paused a little, and then replied, "Surely there can be no occasion for exposing him so dreadfully. What is your opinion?"
|
||
"That it ought not to be attempted. Mr. Darcy has not authorised me to make his communication public. On the contrary, every particular relative to his sister was meant to be kept as much as possible to myself; and if I endeavour to undeceive people as to the rest of his conduct, who will believe me? The general prejudice against Mr. Darcy is so violent, that it would be the death of half the good people in Meryton to attempt to place him in an amiable light. I am not equal to it. Wickham will soon be gone; and therefore it will not signify to anyone here what he really is. Some time hence it will be all found out, and then we may laugh at their stupidity in not knowing it before. At present I will say nothing about it."
|
||
"You are quite right. To have his errors made public might ruin him for ever. He is now, perhaps, sorry for what he has done, and anxious to re-establish a character. We must not make him desperate."
|
||
The tumult of Elizabeth's mind was allayed by this conversation. She had got rid of two of the secrets which had weighed on her for a fortnight, and was certain of a willing listener in Jane, whenever she might wish to talk again of either. But there was still something lurking behind, of which prudence forbade the disclosure. She dared not relate the other half of Mr. Darcy's letter, nor explain to her sister how sincerely she had been valued by her friend. Here was knowledge in which no one could partake; and she was sensible that nothing less than a perfect understanding between the parties could justify her in throwing off this last encumbrance of mystery. "And then," said she, "if that very improbable event should ever take place, I shall merely be able to tell what Bingley may tell in a much more agreeable manner himself. The liberty of communication cannot be mine till it has lost all its value!"
|
||
She was now, on being settled at home, at leisure to observe the real state of her sister's spirits. Jane was not happy. She still cherished a very tender affection for Bingley. Having never even fancied herself in love before, her regard had all the warmth of first attachment, and, from her age and disposition, greater steadiness than most first attachments often boast; and so fervently did she value his remembrance, and prefer him to every other man, that all her good sense, and all her attention to the feelings of her friends, were requisite to check the indulgence of those regrets which must have been injurious to her own health and their tranquillity.
|
||
"Well, Lizzy," said Mrs. Bennet one day, "what is your opinion NOW of this sad business of Jane's? For my part, I am determined never to speak of it again to anybody. I told my sister Phillips so the other day. But I cannot find out that Jane saw anything of him in London. Well, he is a very undeserving young man—and I do not suppose there's the least chance in the world of her ever getting him now. There is no talk of his coming to Netherfield again in the summer; and I have inquired of everybody, too, who is likely to know."
|
||
"I do not believe he will ever live at Netherfield any more."
|
||
"Oh well! it is just as he chooses. Nobody wants him to come. Though I shall always say he used my daughter extremely ill; and if I was her, I would not have put up with it. Well, my comfort is, I am sure Jane will die of a broken heart; and then he will be sorry for what he has done."
|
||
But as Elizabeth could not receive comfort from any such expectation, she made no answer.
|
||
"Well, Lizzy," continued her mother, soon afterwards, "and so the Collinses live very comfortable, do they? Well, well, I only hope it will last. And what sort of table do they keep? Charlotte is an excellent manager, I dare say. If she is half as sharp as her mother, she is saving enough. There is nothing extravagant in THEIR housekeeping, I dare say."
|
||
"No, nothing at all."
|
||
"A great deal of good management, depend upon it. Yes, yes. THEY will take care not to outrun their income. THEY will never be distressed for money. Well, much good may it do them! And so, I suppose, they often talk of having Longbourn when your father is dead. They look upon it as quite their own, I dare say, whenever that happens."
|
||
"It was a subject which they could not mention before me."
|
||
"No; it would have been strange if they had; but I make no doubt they often talk of it between themselves. Well, if they can be easy with an estate that is not lawfully their own, so much the better. I should be ashamed of having one that was only entailed on me."
|
||
Chapter 41
|
||
The first week of their return was soon gone. The second began. It was the last of the regiment's stay in Meryton, and all the young ladies in the neighbourhood were drooping apace. The dejection was almost universal. The elder Miss Bennets alone were still able to eat, drink, and sleep, and pursue the usual course of their employments. Very frequently were they reproached for this insensibility by Kitty and Lydia, whose own misery was extreme, and who could not comprehend such hard-heartedness in any of the family.
|
||
"Good Heaven! what is to become of us? What are we to do?" would they often exclaiming the bitterness of woe. "How can you be smiling so, Lizzy?"
|
||
Their affectionate mother shared all their grief; she remembered what she had herself endured on a similar occasion, five-and-twenty years ago.
|
||
"I am sure," said she, "I cried for two days together when Colonel Miller's regiment went away. I thought I should have broken my heart."
|
||
"I am sure I shall break MINE," said Lydia.
|
||
"If one could but go to Brighton!" observed Mrs. Bennet.
|
||
"Oh, yes!—if one could but go to Brighton! But papa is so disagreeable."
|
||
"A little sea-bathing would set me up forever."
|
||
"And my aunt Phillips is sure it would do ME a great deal of good," added Kitty.
|
||
Such were the kind of lamentations resounding perpetually through Longbourn House. Elizabeth tried to be diverted by them; but all sense of pleasure was lost in shame. She felt anew the justice of Mr. Darcy's objections; and never had she been so much disposed to pardon his interference in the views of his friend.
|
||
But the gloom of Lydia's prospect was shortly cleared away; for she received an invitation from Mrs. Forster, the wife of the colonel of the regiment, to accompany her to Brighton. This invaluable friend was a very young woman, and very lately married. A resemblance in good humour and good spirits had recommended her and Lydia to each other, and out of their THREE months' acquaintance they had been intimate TWO.
|
||
The rapture of Lydia on this occasion, her adoration of Mrs. Forster, the delight of Mrs. Bennet, and the mortification of Kitty, are scarcely to be described. Wholly inattentive to her sister's feelings, Lydia flew about the house in restless ecstasy, calling for everyone's congratulations, and laughing and talking with more violence than ever; whilst the luckless Kitty continued in the parlour repined at her fate in terms as unreasonable as her accent was peevish.
|
||
"I cannot see why Mrs. Forster should not ask ME as well as Lydia," said she, "Though I am NOT her particular friend. I have just as much right to be asked as she has, and more too, for I am two years older."
|
||
In vain did Elizabeth attempt to make her reasonable, and Jane to make her resigned. As for Elizabeth herself, this invitation was so far from exciting in her the same feelings as in her mother and Lydia, that she considered it as the death warrant of all possibility of common sense for the latter; and detestable as such a step must make her were it known, she could not help secretly advising her father not to let her go. She represented to him all the improprieties of Lydia's general behaviour, the little advantage she could derive from the friendship of such a woman as Mrs. Forster, and the probability of her being yet more imprudent with such a companion at Brighton, where the temptations must be greater than at home. He heard her attentively, and then said:
|
||
"Lydia will never be easy until she has exposed herself in some public place or other, and we can never expect her to do it with so little expense or inconvenience to her family as under the present circumstances."
|
||
"If you were aware," said Elizabeth, "of the very great disadvantage to us all which must arise from the public notice of Lydia's unguarded and imprudent manner—nay, which has already arisen from it, I am sure you would judge differently in the affair."
|
||
"Already arisen?" repeated Mr. Bennet. "What, has she frightened away some of your lovers? Poor little Lizzy! But do not be cast down. Such squeamish youths as cannot bear to be connected with a little absurdity are not worth a regret. Come, let me see the list of pitiful fellows who have been kept aloof by Lydia's folly."
|
||
"Indeed you are mistaken. I have no such injuries to resent. It is not of particular, but of general evils, which I am now complaining. Our importance, our respectability in the world must be affected by the wild volatility, the assurance and disdain of all restraint which mark Lydia's character. Excuse me, for I must speak plainly. If you, my dear father, will not take the trouble of checking her exuberant spirits, and of teaching her that her present pursuits are not to be the business of her life, she will soon be beyond the reach of amendment. Her character will be fixed, and she will, at sixteen, be the most determined flirt that ever made herself or her family ridiculous; a flirt, too, in the worst and meanest degree of flirtation; without any attraction beyond youth and a tolerable person; and, from the ignorance and emptiness of her mind, wholly unable to ward off any portion of that universal contempt which her rage for admiration will excite. In this danger Kitty also is comprehended. She will follow wherever Lydia leads. Vain, ignorant, idle, and absolutely uncontrolled! Oh! my dear father, can you suppose it possible that they will not be censured and despised wherever they are known, and that their sisters will not be often involved in the disgrace?"
|
||
Mr. Bennet saw that her whole heart was in the subject, and affectionately taking her hand said in reply:
|
||
"Do not make yourself uneasy, my love. Wherever you and Jane are known you must be respected and valued; and you will not appear to less advantage for having a couple of—or I may say, three—very silly sisters. We shall have no peace at Longbourn if Lydia does not go to Brighton. Let her go, then. Colonel Forster is a sensible man, and will keep her out of any real mischief; and she is luckily too poor to be an object of prey to anybody. At Brighton she will be of less importance even as a common flirt than she has been here. The officers will find women better worth their notice. Let us hope, therefore, that her being there may teach her her own insignificance. At any rate, she cannot grow many degrees worse, without authorising us to lock her up for the rest of her life."
|
||
With this answer Elizabeth was forced to be content; but her own opinion continued the same, and she left him disappointed and sorry. It was not in her nature, however, to increase her vexations by dwelling on them. She was confident of having performed her duty, and to fret over unavoidable evils, or augment them by anxiety, was no part of her disposition.
|
||
Had Lydia and her mother known the substance of her conference with her father, their indignation would hardly have found expression in their united volubility. In Lydia's imagination, a visit to Brighton comprised every possibility of earthly happiness. She saw, with the creative eye of fancy, the streets of that gay bathing-place covered with officers. She saw herself the object of attention, to tens and to scores of them at present unknown. She saw all the glories of the camp—its tents stretched forth in beauteous uniformity of lines, crowded with the young and the gay, and dazzling with scarlet; and, to complete the view, she saw herself seated beneath a tent, tenderly flirting with at least six officers at once.
|
||
Had she known her sister sought to tear her from such prospects and such realities as these, what would have been her sensations? They could have been understood only by her mother, who might have felt nearly the same. Lydia's going to Brighton was all that consoled her for her melancholy conviction of her husband's never intending to go there himself.
|
||
But they were entirely ignorant of what had passed; and their raptures continued, with little intermission, to the very day of Lydia's leaving home.
|
||
Elizabeth was now to see Mr. Wickham for the last time. Having been frequently in company with him since her return, agitation was pretty well over; the agitations of formal partiality entirely so. She had even learnt to detect, in the very gentleness which had first delighted her, an affectation and a sameness to disgust and weary. In his present behaviour to herself, moreover, she had a fresh source of displeasure, for the inclination he soon testified of renewing those intentions which had marked the early part of their acquaintance could only serve, after what had since passed, to provoke her. She lost all concern for him in finding herself thus selected as the object of such idle and frivolous gallantry; and while she steadily repressed it, could not but feel the reproof contained in his believing, that however long, and for whatever cause, his attentions had been withdrawn, her vanity would be gratified, and her preference secured at any time by their renewal.
|
||
On the very last day of the regiment's remaining at Meryton, he dined, with other of the officers, at Longbourn; and so little was Elizabeth disposed to part from him in good humour, that on his making some inquiry as to the manner in which her time had passed at Hunsford, she mentioned Colonel Fitzwilliam's and Mr. Darcy's having both spent three weeks at Rosings, and asked him, if he was acquainted with the former.
|
||
He looked surprised, displeased, alarmed; but with a moment's recollection and a returning smile, replied, that he had formerly seen him often; and, after observing that he was a very gentlemanlike man, asked her how she had liked him. Her answer was warmly in his favour. With an air of indifference he soon afterwards added:
|
||
"How long did you say he was at Rosings?"
|
||
"Nearly three weeks."
|
||
"And you saw him frequently?"
|
||
"Yes, almost every day."
|
||
"His manners are very different from his cousin's."
|
||
"Yes, very different. But I think Mr. Darcy improves upon acquaintance."
|
||
"Indeed!" cried Mr. Wickham with a look which did not escape her. "And pray, may I ask?—" But checking himself, he added, in a gayer tone, "Is it in address that he improves? Has he deigned to add aught of civility to his ordinary style?—for I dare not hope," he continued in a lower and more serious tone, "that he is improved in essentials."
|
||
"Oh, no!" said Elizabeth. "In essentials, I believe, he is very much what he ever was."
|
||
While she spoke, Wickham looked as if scarcely knowing whether to rejoice over her words, or to distrust their meaning. There was a something in her countenance which made him listen with an apprehensive and anxious attention, while she added:
|
||
"When I said that he improved on acquaintance, I did not mean that his mind or his manners were in a state of improvement, but that, from knowing him better, his disposition was better understood."
|
||
Wickham's alarm now appeared in a heightened complexion and agitated look; for a few minuted he was silent, till, shaking off his embarrassment, he turned to her again, and said in the gentlest of accents:
|
||
"You, who so well know my feeling towards Mr. Darcy, will readily comprehend how sincerely I must rejoice that he is wise enough to assume even the APPEARANCE of what is right. His pride, in that direction, may be of service, if not to himself, to many others, for it must only deter him from such foul misconduct as I have suffered by. I only fear that the sort of cautiousness to which you, I imagine, have been alluding, is merely adopted on his visits to his aunt, of whose good opinion and judgement he stands much in awe. His fear of her has always operated, I know, when they were together; and a good deal is to be imputed to his wish of forwarding the match with Miss de Bourgh, which I am certain he has very much at heart."
|
||
Elizabeth could not repress a smile at this, but she answered only by a slight inclination of the head. She saw that he wanted to engage her on the old subject of his grievances, and she was in no humour to indulge him. The rest of the evening passed with the APPEARANCE, on his side, of usual cheerfulness, but with no further attempt to distinguish Elizabeth; and they parted at last with mutual civility, and possibly a mutual desire of never meeting again.
|
||
When the party broke up, Lydia returned with Mrs. Forster to Meryton, from whence they were to set out early the next morning. The separation between her and her family was rather noisy than pathetic. Kitty was the only one who shed tears; but she did weep from vexation and envy. Mrs. Bennet was diffuse in her good wishes for the felicity of her daughter, and impressive in her injunctions that she should not miss the opportunity of enjoying herself as much as possible—advice which there was every reason to believe would be well attended to; and in the clamorous happiness of Lydia herself in bidding farewell, the more gentle adieus of her sisters were uttered without being heard.
|
||
Chapter 42
|
||
Had Elizabeth's opinion been all drawn from her own family, she could not have formed a very pleasing opinion of conjugal felicity or domestic comfort. Her father, captivated by youth and beauty, and that appearance of good humour which youth and beauty generally give, had married a woman whose weak understanding and illiberal mind had very early in their marriage put and end to all real affection for her. Respect, esteem, and confidence had vanished for ever; and all his views of domestic happiness were overthrown. But Mr. Bennet was not of a disposition to seek comfort for the disappointment which his own imprudence had brought on, in any of those pleasures which too often console the unfortunate for their folly of their vice. He was fond of the country and of books; and from these tastes had arisen his principal enjoyments. To his wife he was very little otherwise indebted, than as her ignorance and folly had contributed to his amusement. This is not the sort of happiness which a man would in general wish to owe to his wife; but where other powers of entertainment are wanting, the true philosopher will derive benefit from such as are given.
|
||
Elizabeth, however, had never been blind to the impropriety of her father's behaviour as a husband. She had always seen it with pain; but respecting his abilities, and grateful for his affectionate treatment of herself, she endeavoured to forget what she could not overlook, and to banish from her thoughts that continual breach of conjugal obligation and decorum which, in exposing his wife to the contempt of her own children, was so highly reprehensible. But she had never felt so strongly as now the disadvantages which must attend the children of so unsuitable a marriage, nor ever been so fully aware of the evils arising from so ill-judged a direction of talents; talents, which, rightly used, might at least have preserved the respectability of his daughters, even if incapable of enlarging the mind of his wife.
|
||
When Elizabeth had rejoiced over Wickham's departure she found little other cause for satisfaction in the loss of the regiment. Their parties abroad were less varied than before, and at home she had a mother and sister whose constant repinings at the dullness of everything around them threw a real gloom over their domestic circle; and, though Kitty might in time regain her natural degree of sense, since the disturbers of her brain were removed, her other sister, from whose disposition greater evil might be apprehended, was likely to be hardened in all her folly and assurance by a situation of such double danger as a watering-place and a camp. Upon the whole, therefore, she found, what has been sometimes been found before, that an event to which she had been looking with impatient desire did not, in taking place, bring all the satisfaction she had promised herself. It was consequently necessary to name some other period for the commencement of actual felicity—to have some other point on which her wishes and hopes might be fixed, and by again enjoying the pleasure of anticipation, console herself for the present, and prepare for another disappointment. Her tour to the Lakes was now the object of her happiest thoughts; it was her best consolation for all the uncomfortable hours which the discontentedness of her mother and Kitty made inevitable; and could she have included Jane in the scheme, every part of it would have been perfect.
|
||
"But it is fortunate," thought she, "that I have something to wish for. Were the whole arrangement complete, my disappointment would be certain. But here, by carrying with me one ceaseless source of regret in my sister's absence, I may reasonably hope to have all my expectations of pleasure realised. A scheme of which every part promises delight can never be successful; and general disappointment is only warded off by the defence of some little peculiar vexation."
|
||
When Lydia went away she promised to write very often and very minutely to her mother and Kitty; but her letters were always long expected, and always very short. Those to her mother contained little else than that they were just returned from the library, where such and such officers had attended them, and where she had seen such beautiful ornaments as made her quite wild; that she had a new gown, or a new parasol, which she would have described more fully, but was obliged to leave off in a violent hurry, as Mrs. Forster called her, and they were going off to the camp; and from her correspondence with her sister, there was still less to be learnt—for her letters to Kitty, though rather longer, were much too full of lines under the words to be made public.
|
||
After the first fortnight or three weeks of her absence, health, good humour, and cheerfulness began to reappear at Longbourn. Everything wore a happier aspect. The families who had been in town for the winter came back again, and summer finery and summer engagements arose. Mrs. Bennet was restored to her usual querulous serenity; and, by the middle of June, Kitty was so much recovered as to be able to enter Meryton without tears; an event of such happy promise as to make Elizabeth hope that by the following Christmas she might be so tolerably reasonable as not to mention an officer above once a day, unless, by some cruel and malicious arrangement at the War Office, another regiment should be quartered in Meryton.
|
||
The time fixed for the beginning of their northern tour was now fast approaching, and a fortnight only was wanting of it, when a letter arrived from Mrs. Gardiner, which at once delayed its commencement and curtailed its extent. Mr. Gardiner would be prevented by business from setting out till a fortnight later in July, and must be in London again within a month, and as that left too short a period for them to go so far, and see so much as they had proposed, or at least to see it with the leisure and comfort they had built on, they were obliged to give up the Lakes, and substitute a more contracted tour, and, according to the present plan, were to go no farther northwards than Derbyshire. In that county there was enough to be seen to occupy the chief of their three weeks; and to Mrs. Gardiner it had a peculiarly strong attraction. The town where she had formerly passed some years of her life, and where they were now to spend a few days, was probably as great an object of her curiosity as all the celebrated beauties of Matlock, Chatsworth, Dovedale, or the Peak.
|
||
Elizabeth was excessively disappointed; she had set her heart on seeing the Lakes, and still thought there might have been time enough. But it was her business to be satisfied—and certainly her temper to be happy; and all was soon right again.
|
||
With the mention of Derbyshire there were many ideas connected. It was impossible for her to see the word without thinking of Pemberley and its owner. "But surely," said she, "I may enter his county without impunity, and rob it of a few petrified spars without his perceiving me."
|
||
The period of expectation was now doubled. Four weeks were to pass away before her uncle and aunt's arrival. But they did pass away, and Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, with their four children, did at length appear at Longbourn. The children, two girls of six and eight years old, and two younger boys, were to be left under the particular care of their cousin Jane, who was the general favourite, and whose steady sense and sweetness of temper exactly adapted her for attending to them in every way—teaching them, playing with them, and loving them.
|
||
The Gardiners stayed only one night at Longbourn, and set off the next morning with Elizabeth in pursuit of novelty and amusement. One enjoyment was certain—that of suitableness of companions; a suitableness which comprehended health and temper to bear inconveniences—cheerfulness to enhance every pleasure—and affection and intelligence, which might supply it among themselves if there were disappointments abroad.
|
||
It is not the object of this work to give a description of Derbyshire, nor of any of the remarkable places through which their route thither lay; Oxford, Blenheim, Warwick, Kenilworth, Birmingham, etc. are sufficiently known. A small part of Derbyshire is all the present concern. To the little town of Lambton, the scene of Mrs. Gardiner's former residence, and where she had lately learned some acquaintance still remained, they bent their steps, after having seen all the principal wonders of the country; and within five miles of Lambton, Elizabeth found from her aunt that Pemberley was situated. It was not in their direct road, nor more than a mile or two out of it. In talking over their route the evening before, Mrs. Gardiner expressed an inclination to see the place again. Mr. Gardiner declared his willingness, and Elizabeth was applied to for her approbation.
|
||
"My love, should not you like to see a place of which you have heard so much?" said her aunt; "a place, too, with which so many of your acquaintances are connected. Wickham passed all his youth there, you know."
|
||
Elizabeth was distressed. She felt that she had no business at Pemberley, and was obliged to assume a disinclination for seeing it. She must own that she was tired of seeing great houses; after going over so many, she really had no pleasure in fine carpets or satin curtains.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner abused her stupidity. "If it were merely a fine house richly furnished," said she, "I should not care about it myself; but the grounds are delightful. They have some of the finest woods in the country."
|
||
Elizabeth said no more—but her mind could not acquiesce. The possibility of meeting Mr. Darcy, while viewing the place, instantly occurred. It would be dreadful! She blushed at the very idea, and thought it would be better to speak openly to her aunt than to run such a risk. But against this there were objections; and she finally resolved that it could be the last resource, if her private inquiries to the absence of the family were unfavourably answered.
|
||
Accordingly, when she retired at night, she asked the chambermaid whether Pemberley were not a very fine place? what was the name of its proprietor? and, with no little alarm, whether the family were down for the summer? A most welcome negative followed the last question—and her alarms now being removed, she was at leisure to feel a great deal of curiosity to see the house herself; and when the subject was revived the next morning, and she was again applied to, could readily answer, and with a proper air of indifference, that she had not really any dislike to the scheme. To Pemberley, therefore, they were to go.
|
||
Chapter 43
|
||
Elizabeth, as they drove along, watched for the first appearance of Pemberley Woods with some perturbation; and when at length they turned in at the lodge, her spirits were in a high flutter.
|
||
The park was very large, and contained great variety of ground. They entered it in one of its lowest points, and drove for some time through a beautiful wood stretching over a wide extent.
|
||
Elizabeth's mind was too full for conversation, but she saw and admired every remarkable spot and point of view. They gradually ascended for half-a-mile, and then found themselves at the top of a considerable eminence, where the wood ceased, and the eye was instantly caught by Pemberley House, situated on the opposite side of a valley, into which the road with some abruptness wound. It was a large, handsome stone building, standing well on rising ground, and backed by a ridge of high woody hills; and in front, a stream of some natural importance was swelled into greater, but without any artificial appearance. Its banks were neither formal nor falsely adorned. Elizabeth was delighted. She had never seen a place for which nature had done more, or where natural beauty had been so little counteracted by an awkward taste. They were all of them warm in their admiration; and at that moment she felt that to be mistress of Pemberley might be something!
|
||
They descended the hill, crossed the bridge, and drove to the door; and, while examining the nearer aspect of the house, all her apprehension of meeting its owner returned. She dreaded lest the chambermaid had been mistaken. On applying to see the place, they were admitted into the hall; and Elizabeth, as they waited for the housekeeper, had leisure to wonder at her being where she was.
|
||
The housekeeper came; a respectable-looking elderly woman, much less fine, and more civil, than she had any notion of finding her. They followed her into the dining-parlour. It was a large, well proportioned room, handsomely fitted up. Elizabeth, after slightly surveying it, went to a window to enjoy its prospect. The hill, crowned with wood, which they had descended, receiving increased abruptness from the distance, was a beautiful object. Every disposition of the ground was good; and she looked on the whole scene, the river, the trees scattered on its banks and the winding of the valley, as far as she could trace it, with delight. As they passed into other rooms these objects were taking different positions; but from every window there were beauties to be seen. The rooms were lofty and handsome, and their furniture suitable to the fortune of its proprietor; but Elizabeth saw, with admiration of his taste, that it was neither gaudy nor uselessly fine; with less of splendour, and more real elegance, than the furniture of Rosings.
|
||
"And of this place," thought she, "I might have been mistress! With these rooms I might now have been familiarly acquainted! Instead of viewing them as a stranger, I might have rejoiced in them as my own, and welcomed to them as visitors my uncle and aunt. But no,"—recollecting herself—"that could never be; my uncle and aunt would have been lost to me; I should not have been allowed to invite them."
|
||
This was a lucky recollection—it saved her from something very like regret.
|
||
She longed to inquire of the housekeeper whether her master was really absent, but had not the courage for it. At length however, the question was asked by her uncle; and she turned away with alarm, while Mrs. Reynolds replied that he was, adding, "But we expect him to-morrow, with a large party of friends." How rejoiced was Elizabeth that their own journey had not by any circumstance been delayed a day!
|
||
Her aunt now called her to look at a picture. She approached and saw the likeness of Mr. Wickham, suspended, amongst several other miniatures, over the mantelpiece. Her aunt asked her, smilingly, how she liked it. The housekeeper came forward, and told them it was a picture of a young gentleman, the son of her late master's steward, who had been brought up by him at his own expense. "He is now gone into the army," she added; "but I am afraid he has turned out very wild."
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece with a smile, but Elizabeth could not return it.
|
||
"And that," said Mrs. Reynolds, pointing to another of the miniatures, "is my master—and very like him. It was drawn at the same time as the other—about eight years ago."
|
||
"I have heard much of your master's fine person," said Mrs. Gardiner, looking at the picture; "it is a handsome face. But, Lizzy, you can tell us whether it is like or not."
|
||
Mrs. Reynolds respect for Elizabeth seemed to increase on this intimation of her knowing her master.
|
||
"Does that young lady know Mr. Darcy?"
|
||
Elizabeth coloured, and said: "A little."
|
||
"And do not you think him a very handsome gentleman, ma'am?"
|
||
"Yes, very handsome."
|
||
"I am sure I know none so handsome; but in the gallery upstairs you will see a finer, larger picture of him than this. This room was my late master's favourite room, and these miniatures are just as they used to be then. He was very fond of them."
|
||
This accounted to Elizabeth for Mr. Wickham's being among them.
|
||
Mrs. Reynolds then directed their attention to one of Miss Darcy, drawn when she was only eight years old.
|
||
"And is Miss Darcy as handsome as her brother?" said Mrs. Gardiner.
|
||
"Oh! yes—the handsomest young lady that ever was seen; and so accomplished!—She plays and sings all day long. In the next room is a new instrument just come down for her—a present from my master; she comes here to-morrow with him."
|
||
Mr. Gardiner, whose manners were very easy and pleasant, encouraged her communicativeness by his questions and remarks; Mrs. Reynolds, either by pride or attachment, had evidently great pleasure in talking of her master and his sister.
|
||
"Is your master much at Pemberley in the course of the year?"
|
||
"Not so much as I could wish, sir; but I dare say he may spend half his time here; and Miss Darcy is always down for the summer months."
|
||
"Except," thought Elizabeth, "when she goes to Ramsgate."
|
||
"If your master would marry, you might see more of him."
|
||
"Yes, sir; but I do not know when THAT will be. I do not know who is good enough for him."
|
||
Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner smiled. Elizabeth could not help saying, "It is very much to his credit, I am sure, that you should think so."
|
||
"I say no more than the truth, and everybody will say that knows him," replied the other. Elizabeth thought this was going pretty far; and she listened with increasing astonishment as the housekeeper added, "I have never known a cross word from him in my life, and I have known him ever since he was four years old."
|
||
This was praise, of all others most extraordinary, most opposite to her ideas. That he was not a good-tempered man had been her firmest opinion. Her keenest attention was awakened; she longed to hear more, and was grateful to her uncle for saying:
|
||
"There are very few people of whom so much can be said. You are lucky in having such a master."
|
||
"Yes, sir, I know I am. If I were to go through the world, I could not meet with a better. But I have always observed, that they who are good-natured when children, are good-natured when they grow up; and he was always the sweetest-tempered, most generous-hearted boy in the world."
|
||
Elizabeth almost stared at her. "Can this be Mr. Darcy?" thought she.
|
||
"His father was an excellent man," said Mrs. Gardiner.
|
||
"Yes, ma'am, that he was indeed; and his son will be just like him—just as affable to the poor."
|
||
Elizabeth listened, wondered, doubted, and was impatient for more. Mrs. Reynolds could interest her on no other point. She related the subjects of the pictures, the dimensions of the rooms, and the price of the furniture, in vain, Mr. Gardiner, highly amused by the kind of family prejudice to which he attributed her excessive commendation of her master, soon led again to the subject; and she dwelt with energy on his many merits as they proceeded together up the great staircase.
|
||
"He is the best landlord, and the best master," said she, "that ever lived; not like the wild young men nowadays, who think of nothing but themselves. There is not one of his tenants or servants but will give him a good name. Some people call him proud; but I am sure I never saw anything of it. To my fancy, it is only because he does not rattle away like other young men."
|
||
"In what an amiable light does this place him!" thought Elizabeth.
|
||
"This fine account of him," whispered her aunt as they walked, "is not quite consistent with his behaviour to our poor friend."
|
||
"Perhaps we might be deceived."
|
||
"That is not very likely; our authority was too good."
|
||
On reaching the spacious lobby above they were shown into a very pretty sitting-room, lately fitted up with greater elegance and lightness than the apartments below; and were informed that it was but just done to give pleasure to Miss Darcy, who had taken a liking to the room when last at Pemberley.
|
||
"He is certainly a good brother," said Elizabeth, as she walked towards one of the windows.
|
||
Mrs. Reynolds anticipated Miss Darcy's delight, when she should enter the room. "And this is always the way with him," she added. "Whatever can give his sister any pleasure is sure to be done in a moment. There is nothing he would not do for her."
|
||
The picture-gallery, and two or three of the principal bedrooms, were all that remained to be shown. In the former were many good paintings; but Elizabeth knew nothing of the art; and from such as had been already visible below, she had willingly turned to look at some drawings of Miss Darcy's, in crayons, whose subjects were usually more interesting, and also more intelligible.
|
||
In the gallery there were many family portraits, but they could have little to fix the attention of a stranger. Elizabeth walked in quest of the only face whose features would be known to her. At last it arrested her—and she beheld a striking resemblance to Mr. Darcy, with such a smile over the face as she remembered to have sometimes seen when he looked at her. She stood several minutes before the picture, in earnest contemplation, and returned to it again before they quitted the gallery. Mrs. Reynolds informed them that it had been taken in his father's lifetime.
|
||
There was certainly at this moment, in Elizabeth's mind, a more gentle sensation towards the original than she had ever felt at the height of their acquaintance. The commendation bestowed on him by Mrs. Reynolds was of no trifling nature. What praise is more valuable than the praise of an intelligent servant? As a brother, a landlord, a master, she considered how many people's happiness were in his guardianship!—how much of pleasure or pain was it in his power to bestow!—how much of good or evil must be done by him! Every idea that had been brought forward by the housekeeper was favourable to his character, and as she stood before the canvas on which he was represented, and fixed his eyes upon herself, she thought of his regard with a deeper sentiment of gratitude than it had ever raised before; she remembered its warmth, and softened its impropriety of expression.
|
||
When all of the house that was open to general inspection had been seen, they returned downstairs, and, taking leave of the housekeeper, were consigned over to the gardener, who met them at the hall-door.
|
||
As they walked across the hall towards the river, Elizabeth turned back to look again; her uncle and aunt stopped also, and while the former was conjecturing as to the date of the building, the owner of it himself suddenly came forward from the road, which led behind it to the stables.
|
||
They were within twenty yards of each other, and so abrupt was his appearance, that it was impossible to avoid his sight. Their eyes instantly met, and the cheeks of both were overspread with the deepest blush. He absolutely started, and for a moment seemed immovable from surprise; but shortly recovering himself, advanced towards the party, and spoke to Elizabeth, if not in terms of perfect composure, at least of perfect civility.
|
||
She had instinctively turned away; but stopping on his approach, received his compliments with an embarrassment impossible to be overcome. Had his first appearance, or his resemblance to the picture they had just been examining, been insufficient to assure the other two that they now saw Mr. Darcy, the gardener's expression of surprise, on beholding his master, must immediately have told it. They stood a little aloof while he was talking to their niece, who, astonished and confused, scarcely dared lift her eyes to his face, and knew not what answer she returned to his civil inquiries after her family. Amazed at the alteration of his manner since they last parted, every sentence that he uttered was increasing her embarrassment; and every idea of the impropriety of her being found there recurring to her mind, the few minutes in which they continued were some of the most uncomfortable in her life. Nor did he seem much more at ease; when he spoke, his accent had none of its usual sedateness; and he repeated his inquiries as to the time of her having left Longbourn, and of her having stayed in Derbyshire, so often, and in so hurried a way, as plainly spoke the distraction of his thoughts.
|
||
At length every idea seemed to fail him; and, after standing a few moments without saying a word, he suddenly recollected himself, and took leave.
|
||
The others then joined her, and expressed admiration of his figure; but Elizabeth heard not a word, and wholly engrossed by her own feelings, followed them in silence. She was overpowered by shame and vexation. Her coming there was the most unfortunate, the most ill-judged thing in the world! How strange it must appear to him! In what a disgraceful light might it not strike so vain a man! It might seem as if she had purposely thrown herself in his way again! Oh! why did she come? Or, why did he thus come a day before he was expected? Had they been only ten minutes sooner, they should have been beyond the reach of his discrimination; for it was plain that he was that moment arrived—that moment alighted from his horse or his carriage. She blushed again and again over the perverseness of the meeting. And his behaviour, so strikingly altered—what could it mean? That he should even speak to her was amazing!—but to speak with such civility, to inquire after her family! Never in her life had she seen his manners so little dignified, never had he spoken with such gentleness as on this unexpected meeting. What a contrast did it offer to his last address in Rosings Park, when he put his letter into her hand! She knew not what to think, or how to account for it.
|
||
They had now entered a beautiful walk by the side of the water, and every step was bringing forward a nobler fall of ground, or a finer reach of the woods to which they were approaching; but it was some time before Elizabeth was sensible of any of it; and, though she answered mechanically to the repeated appeals of her uncle and aunt, and seemed to direct her eyes to such objects as they pointed out, she distinguished no part of the scene. Her thoughts were all fixed on that one spot of Pemberley House, whichever it might be, where Mr. Darcy then was. She longed to know what at the moment was passing in his mind—in what manner he thought of her, and whether, in defiance of everything, she was still dear to him. Perhaps he had been civil only because he felt himself at ease; yet there had been THAT in his voice which was not like ease. Whether he had felt more of pain or of pleasure in seeing her she could not tell, but he certainly had not seen her with composure.
|
||
At length, however, the remarks of her companions on her absence of mind aroused her, and she felt the necessity of appearing more like herself.
|
||
They entered the woods, and bidding adieu to the river for a while, ascended some of the higher grounds; when, in spots where the opening of the trees gave the eye power to wander, were many charming views of the valley, the opposite hills, with the long range of woods overspreading many, and occasionally part of the stream. Mr. Gardiner expressed a wish of going round the whole park, but feared it might be beyond a walk. With a triumphant smile they were told that it was ten miles round. It settled the matter; and they pursued the accustomed circuit; which brought them again, after some time, in a descent among hanging woods, to the edge of the water, and one of its narrowest parts. They crossed it by a simple bridge, in character with the general air of the scene; it was a spot less adorned than any they had yet visited; and the valley, here contracted into a glen, allowed room only for the stream, and a narrow walk amidst the rough coppice-wood which bordered it. Elizabeth longed to explore its windings; but when they had crossed the bridge, and perceived their distance from the house, Mrs. Gardiner, who was not a great walker, could go no farther, and thought only of returning to the carriage as quickly as possible. Her niece was, therefore, obliged to submit, and they took their way towards the house on the opposite side of the river, in the nearest direction; but their progress was slow, for Mr. Gardiner, though seldom able to indulge the taste, was very fond of fishing, and was so much engaged in watching the occasional appearance of some trout in the water, and talking to the man about them, that he advanced but little. Whilst wandering on in this slow manner, they were again surprised, and Elizabeth's astonishment was quite equal to what it had been at first, by the sight of Mr. Darcy approaching them, and at no great distance. The walk here being here less sheltered than on the other side, allowed them to see him before they met. Elizabeth, however astonished, was at least more prepared for an interview than before, and resolved to appear and to speak with calmness, if he really intended to meet them. For a few moments, indeed, she felt that he would probably strike into some other path. The idea lasted while a turning in the walk concealed him from their view; the turning past, he was immediately before them. With a glance, she saw that he had lost none of his recent civility; and, to imitate his politeness, she began, as they met, to admire the beauty of the place; but she had not got beyond the words "delightful," and "charming," when some unlucky recollections obtruded, and she fancied that praise of Pemberley from her might be mischievously construed. Her colour changed, and she said no more.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner was standing a little behind; and on her pausing, he asked her if she would do him the honour of introducing him to her friends. This was a stroke of civility for which she was quite unprepared; and she could hardly suppress a smile at his being now seeking the acquaintance of some of those very people against whom his pride had revolted in his offer to herself. "What will be his surprise," thought she, "when he knows who they are? He takes them now for people of fashion."
|
||
The introduction, however, was immediately made; and as she named their relationship to herself, she stole a sly look at him, to see how he bore it, and was not without the expectation of his decamping as fast as he could from such disgraceful companions. That he was SURPRISED by the connection was evident; he sustained it, however, with fortitude, and so far from going away, turned his back with them, and entered into conversation with Mr. Gardiner. Elizabeth could not but be pleased, could not but triumph. It was consoling that he should know she had some relations for whom there was no need to blush. She listened most attentively to all that passed between them, and gloried in every expression, every sentence of her uncle, which marked his intelligence, his taste, or his good manners.
|
||
The conversation soon turned upon fishing; and she heard Mr. Darcy invite him, with the greatest civility, to fish there as often as he chose while he continued in the neighbourhood, offering at the same time to supply him with fishing tackle, and pointing out those parts of the stream where there was usually most sport. Mrs. Gardiner, who was walking arm-in-arm with Elizabeth, gave her a look expressive of wonder. Elizabeth said nothing, but it gratified her exceedingly; the compliment must be all for herself. Her astonishment, however, was extreme, and continually was she repeating, "Why is he so altered? From what can it proceed? It cannot be for ME—it cannot be for MY sake that his manners are thus softened. My reproofs at Hunsford could not work such a change as this. It is impossible that he should still love me."
|
||
After walking some time in this way, the two ladies in front, the two gentlemen behind, on resuming their places, after descending to the brink of the river for the better inspection of some curious water-plant, there chanced to be a little alteration. It originated in Mrs. Gardiner, who, fatigued by the exercise of the morning, found Elizabeth's arm inadequate to her support, and consequently preferred her husband's. Mr. Darcy took her place by her niece, and they walked on together. After a short silence, the lady first spoke. She wished him to know that she had been assured of his absence before she came to the place, and accordingly began by observing, that his arrival had been very unexpected—"for your housekeeper," she added, "informed us that you would certainly not be here till to-morrow; and indeed, before we left Bakewell, we understood that you were not immediately expected in the country." He acknowledged the truth of it all, and said that business with his steward had occasioned his coming forward a few hours before the rest of the party with whom he had been travelling. "They will join me early to-morrow," he continued, "and among them are some who will claim an acquaintance with you—Mr. Bingley and his sisters."
|
||
Elizabeth answered only by a slight bow. Her thoughts were instantly driven back to the time when Mr. Bingley's name had been the last mentioned between them; and, if she might judge by his complexion, HIS mind was not very differently engaged.
|
||
"There is also one other person in the party," he continued after a pause, "who more particularly wishes to be known to you. Will you allow me, or do I ask too much, to introduce my sister to your acquaintance during your stay at Lambton?"
|
||
The surprise of such an application was great indeed; it was too great for her to know in what manner she acceded to it. She immediately felt that whatever desire Miss Darcy might have of being acquainted with her must be the work of her brother, and, without looking farther, it was satisfactory; it was gratifying to know that his resentment had not made him think really ill of her.
|
||
They now walked on in silence, each of them deep in thought. Elizabeth was not comfortable; that was impossible; but she was flattered and pleased. His wish of introducing his sister to her was a compliment of the highest kind. They soon outstripped the others, and when they had reached the carriage, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were half a quarter of a mile behind.
|
||
He then asked her to walk into the house—but she declared herself not tired, and they stood together on the lawn. At such a time much might have been said, and silence was very awkward. She wanted to talk, but there seemed to be an embargo on every subject. At last she recollected that she had been travelling, and they talked of Matlock and Dove Dale with great perseverance. Yet time and her aunt moved slowly—and her patience and her ideas were nearly worn our before the tete-a-tete was over. On Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's coming up they were all pressed to go into the house and take some refreshment; but this was declined, and they parted on each side with utmost politeness. Mr. Darcy handed the ladies into the carriage; and when it drove off, Elizabeth saw him walking slowly towards the house.
|
||
The observations of her uncle and aunt now began; and each of them pronounced him to be infinitely superior to anything they had expected. "He is perfectly well behaved, polite, and unassuming," said her uncle.
|
||
"There IS something a little stately in him, to be sure," replied her aunt, "but it is confined to his air, and is not unbecoming. I can now say with the housekeeper, that though some people may call him proud, I have seen nothing of it."
|
||
"I was never more surprised than by his behaviour to us. It was more than civil; it was really attentive; and there was no necessity for such attention. His acquaintance with Elizabeth was very trifling."
|
||
"To be sure, Lizzy," said her aunt, "he is not so handsome as Wickham; or, rather, he has not Wickham's countenance, for his features are perfectly good. But how came you to tell me that he was so disagreeable?"
|
||
Elizabeth excused herself as well as she could; said that she had liked him better when they had met in Kent than before, and that she had never seen him so pleasant as this morning.
|
||
"But perhaps he may be a little whimsical in his civilities," replied her uncle. "Your great men often are; and therefore I shall not take him at his word, as he might change his mind another day, and warn me off his grounds."
|
||
Elizabeth felt that they had entirely misunderstood his character, but said nothing.
|
||
"From what we have seen of him," continued Mrs. Gardiner, "I really should not have thought that he could have behaved in so cruel a way by anybody as he has done by poor Wickham. He has not an ill-natured look. On the contrary, there is something pleasing about his mouth when he speaks. And there is something of dignity in his countenance that would not give one an unfavourable idea of his heart. But, to be sure, the good lady who showed us his house did give him a most flaming character! I could hardly help laughing aloud sometimes. But he is a liberal master, I suppose, and THAT in the eye of a servant comprehends every virtue."
|
||
Elizabeth here felt herself called on to say something in vindication of his behaviour to Wickham; and therefore gave them to understand, in as guarded a manner as she could, that by what she had heard from his relations in Kent, his actions were capable of a very different construction; and that his character was by no means so faulty, nor Wickham's so amiable, as they had been considered in Hertfordshire. In confirmation of this, she related the particulars of all the pecuniary transactions in which they had been connected, without actually naming her authority, but stating it to be such as such as might be relied on.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner was surprised and concerned; but as they were now approaching the scene of her former pleasures, every idea gave way to the charm of recollection; and she was too much engaged in pointing out to her husband all the interesting spots in its environs to think of anything else. Fatigued as she had been by the morning's walk they had no sooner dined than she set off again in quest of her former acquaintance, and the evening was spent in the satisfactions of a intercourse renewed after many years' discontinuance.
|
||
The occurrences of the day were too full of interest to leave Elizabeth much attention for any of these new friends; and she could do nothing but think, and think with wonder, of Mr. Darcy's civility, and, above all, of his wishing her to be acquainted with his sister.
|
||
Chapter 44
|
||
Elizabeth had settled it that Mr. Darcy would bring his sister to visit her the very day after her reaching Pemberley; and was consequently resolved not to be out of sight of the inn the whole of that morning. But her conclusion was false; for on the very morning after their arrival at Lambton, these visitors came. They had been walking about the place with some of their new friends, and were just returning to the inn to dress themselves for dining with the same family, when the sound of a carriage drew them to a window, and they saw a gentleman and a lady in a curricle driving up the street. Elizabeth immediately recognizing the livery, guessed what it meant, and imparted no small degree of her surprise to her relations by acquainting them with the honour which she expected. Her uncle and aunt were all amazement; and the embarrassment of her manner as she spoke, joined to the circumstance itself, and many of the circumstances of the preceding day, opened to them a new idea on the business. Nothing had ever suggested it before, but they felt that there was no other way of accounting for such attentions from such a quarter than by supposing a partiality for their niece. While these newly-born notions were passing in their heads, the perturbation of Elizabeth's feelings was at every moment increasing. She was quite amazed at her own discomposure; but amongst other causes of disquiet, she dreaded lest the partiality of the brother should have said too much in her favour; and, more than commonly anxious to please, she naturally suspected that every power of pleasing would fail her.
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||
She retreated from the window, fearful of being seen; and as she walked up and down the room, endeavouring to compose herself, saw such looks of inquiring surprise in her uncle and aunt as made everything worse.
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||
Miss Darcy and her brother appeared, and this formidable introduction took place. With astonishment did Elizabeth see that her new acquaintance was at least as much embarrassed as herself. Since her being at Lambton, she had heard that Miss Darcy was exceedingly proud; but the observation of a very few minutes convinced her that she was only exceedingly shy. She found it difficult to obtain even a word from her beyond a monosyllable.
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||
Miss Darcy was tall, and on a larger scale than Elizabeth; and, though little more than sixteen, her figure was formed, and her appearance womanly and graceful. She was less handsome than her brother; but there was sense and good humour in her face, and her manners were perfectly unassuming and gentle. Elizabeth, who had expected to find in her as acute and unembarrassed an observer as ever Mr. Darcy had been, was much relieved by discerning such different feelings.
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||
They had not long been together before Mr. Darcy told her that Bingley was also coming to wait on her; and she had barely time to express her satisfaction, and prepare for such a visitor, when Bingley's quick step was heard on the stairs, and in a moment he entered the room. All Elizabeth's anger against him had been long done away; but had she still felt any, it could hardly have stood its ground against the unaffected cordiality with which he expressed himself on seeing her again. He inquired in a friendly, though general way, after her family, and looked and spoke with the same good-humoured ease that he had ever done.
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||
To Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner he was scarcely a less interesting personage than to herself. They had long wished to see him. The whole party before them, indeed, excited a lively attention. The suspicions which had just arisen of Mr. Darcy and their niece directed their observation towards each with an earnest though guarded inquiry; and they soon drew from those inquiries the full conviction that one of them at least knew what it was to love. Of the lady's sensations they remained a little in doubt; but that the gentleman was overflowing with admiration was evident enough.
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||
Elizabeth, on her side, had much to do. She wanted to ascertain the feelings of each of her visitors; she wanted to compose her own, and to make herself agreeable to all; and in the latter object, where she feared most to fail, she was most sure of success, for those to whom she endeavoured to give pleasure were prepossessed in her favour. Bingley was ready, Georgiana was eager, and Darcy determined, to be pleased.
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||
In seeing Bingley, her thoughts naturally flew to her sister; and, oh! how ardently did she long to know whether any of his were directed in a like manner. Sometimes she could fancy that he talked less than on former occasions, and once or twice pleased herself with the notion that, as he looked at her, he was trying to trace a resemblance. But, though this might be imaginary, she could not be deceived as to his behaviour to Miss Darcy, who had been set up as a rival to Jane. No look appeared on either side that spoke particular regard. Nothing occurred between them that could justify the hopes of his sister. On this point she was soon satisfied; and two or three little circumstances occurred ere they parted, which, in her anxious interpretation, denoted a recollection of Jane not untinctured by tenderness, and a wish of saying more that might lead to the mention of her, had he dared. He observed to her, at a moment when the others were talking together, and in a tone which had something of real regret, that it "was a very long time since he had had the pleasure of seeing her;" and, before she could reply, he added, "It is above eight months. We have not met since the 26th of November, when we were all dancing together at Netherfield."
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||
Elizabeth was pleased to find his memory so exact; and he afterwards took occasion to ask her, when unattended to by any of the rest, whether ALL her sisters were at Longbourn. There was not much in the question, nor in the preceding remark; but there was a look and a manner which gave them meaning.
|
||
It was not often that she could turn her eyes on Mr. Darcy himself; but, whenever she did catch a glimpse, she saw an expression of general complaisance, and in all that he said she heard an accent so removed from hauteur or disdain of his companions, as convinced her that the improvement of manners which she had yesterday witnessed however temporary its existence might prove, had at least outlived one day. When she saw him thus seeking the acquaintance and courting the good opinion of people with whom any intercourse a few months ago would have been a disgrace—when she saw him thus civil, not only to herself, but to the very relations whom he had openly disdained, and recollected their last lively scene in Hunsford Parsonage—the difference, the change was so great, and struck so forcibly on her mind, that she could hardly restrain her astonishment from being visible. Never, even in the company of his dear friends at Netherfield, or his dignified relations at Rosings, had she seen him so desirous to please, so free from self-consequence or unbending reserve, as now, when no importance could result from the success of his endeavours, and when even the acquaintance of those to whom his attentions were addressed would draw down the ridicule and censure of the ladies both of Netherfield as Rosings.
|
||
Their visitors stayed with them above half-an-hour; and when they arose to depart, Mr. Darcy called on his sister to join him in expressing their wish of seeing Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner, and Miss Bennet, to dinner at Pemberley, before they left the country. Miss Darcy, though with a diffidence which marked her little in the habit of giving invitations, readily obeyed. Mrs. Gardiner looked at her niece, desirous of knowing how SHE, whom the invitation most concerned, felt disposed as to its acceptance, but Elizabeth had turned away her head. Presuming however, that this studied avoidance spoke rather a momentary embarrassment than any dislike of the proposal, and seeing in her husband, who was fond of society, a perfect willingness to accept it, she ventured to engage for her attendance, and the day after the next was fixed on.
|
||
Bingley expressed great pleasure in the certainty of seeing Elizabeth again, having still a great deal to say to her, and many inquiries to make after all their Hertfordshire friends. Elizabeth, construing all this into a wish of hearing her speak of her sister, was pleased, and on this account, as well as some others, found herself, when their visitors left them, capable of considering the last half-hour with some satisfaction, though while it was passing, the enjoyment of it had been little. Eager to be alone, and fearful of inquiries or hints from her uncle and aunt, she stayed with them only long enough to hear their favourable opinion of Bingley, and then hurried away to dress.
|
||
But she had no reason to fear Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner's curiosity; it was not their wish to force her communication. It was evident that she was much better acquainted with Mr. Darcy than they had before any idea of; it was evident that he was very much in love with her. They saw much to interest, but nothing to justify inquiry.
|
||
Of Mr. Darcy it was now a matter of anxiety to think well; and, as far as their acquaintance reached, there was no fault to find. They could not be untouched by his politeness; and had they drawn his character from their own feelings and his servant's report, without any reference to any other account, the circle in Hertfordshire to which he was known would not have recognized it for Mr. Darcy. There was now an interest, however, in believing the housekeeper; and they soon became sensible that the authority of a servant who had known him since he was four years old, and whose own manners indicated respectability, was not to be hastily rejected. Neither had anything occurred in the intelligence of their Lambton friends that could materially lessen its weight. They had nothing to accuse him of but pride; pride he probably had, and if not, it would certainly be imputed by the inhabitants of a small market-town where the family did not visit. It was acknowledged, however, that he was a liberal man, and did much good among the poor.
|
||
With respect to Wickham, the travellers soon found that he was not held there in much estimation; for though the chief of his concerns with the son of his patron were imperfectly understood, it was yet a well-known fact that, on his quitting Derbyshire, he had left many debts behind him, which Mr. Darcy afterwards discharged.
|
||
As for Elizabeth, her thoughts were at Pemberley this evening more than the last; and the evening, though as it passed it seemed long, was not long enough to determine her feelings towards ONE in that mansion; and she lay awake two whole hours endeavouring to make them out. She certainly did not hate him. No; hatred had vanished long ago, and she had almost as long been ashamed of ever feeling a dislike against him, that could be so called. The respect created by the conviction of his valuable qualities, though at first unwillingly admitted, had for some time ceased to be repugnant to her feeling; and it was now heightened into somewhat of a friendlier nature, by the testimony so highly in his favour, and bringing forward his disposition in so amiable a light, which yesterday had produced. But above all, above respect and esteem, there was a motive within her of goodwill which could not be overlooked. It was gratitude; gratitude, not merely for having once loved her, but for loving her still well enough to forgive all the petulance and acrimony of her manner in rejecting him, and all the unjust accusations accompanying her rejection. He who, she had been persuaded, would avoid her as his greatest enemy, seemed, on this accidental meeting, most eager to preserve the acquaintance, and without any indelicate display of regard, or any peculiarity of manner, where their two selves only were concerned, was soliciting the good opinion of her friends, and bent on making her known to his sister. Such a change in a man of so much pride exciting not only astonishment but gratitude—for to love, ardent love, it must be attributed; and as such its impression on her was of a sort to be encouraged, as by no means unpleasing, though it could not be exactly defined. She respected, she esteemed, she was grateful to him, she felt a real interest in his welfare; and she only wanted to know how far she wished that welfare to depend upon herself, and how far it would be for the happiness of both that she should employ the power, which her fancy told her she still possessed, of bringing on her the renewal of his addresses.
|
||
It had been settled in the evening between the aunt and the niece, that such a striking civility as Miss Darcy's in coming to see them on the very day of her arrival at Pemberley, for she had reached it only to a late breakfast, ought to be imitated, though it could not be equalled, by some exertion of politeness on their side; and, consequently, that it would be highly expedient to wait on her at Pemberley the following morning. They were, therefore, to go. Elizabeth was pleased; though when she asked herself the reason, she had very little to say in reply.
|
||
Mr. Gardiner left them soon after breakfast. The fishing scheme had been renewed the day before, and a positive engagement made of his meeting some of the gentlemen at Pemberley before noon.
|
||
Chapter 45
|
||
Convinced as Elizabeth now was that Miss Bingley's dislike of her had originated in jealousy, she could not help feeling how unwelcome her appearance at Pemberley must be to her, and was curious to know with how much civility on that lady's side the acquaintance would now be renewed.
|
||
On reaching the house, they were shown through the hall into the saloon, whose northern aspect rendered it delightful for summer. Its windows opening to the ground, admitted a most refreshing view of the high woody hills behind the house, and of the beautiful oaks and Spanish chestnuts which were scattered over the intermediate lawn.
|
||
In this house they were received by Miss Darcy, who was sitting there with Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley, and the lady with whom she lived in London. Georgiana's reception of them was very civil, but attended with all the embarrassment which, though proceeding from shyness and the fear of doing wrong, would easily give to those who felt themselves inferior the belief of her being proud and reserved. Mrs. Gardiner and her niece, however, did her justice, and pitied her.
|
||
By Mrs. Hurst and Miss Bingley they were noticed only by a curtsey; and, on their being seated, a pause, awkward as such pauses must always be, succeeded for a few moments. It was first broken by Mrs. Annesley, a genteel, agreeable-looking woman, whose endeavour to introduce some kind of discourse proved her to be more truly well-bred than either of the others; and between her and Mrs. Gardiner, with occasional help from Elizabeth, the conversation was carried on. Miss Darcy looked as if she wished for courage enough to join in it; and sometimes did venture a short sentence when there was least danger of its being heard.
|
||
Elizabeth soon saw that she was herself closely watched by Miss Bingley, and that she could not speak a word, especially to Miss Darcy, without calling her attention. This observation would not have prevented her from trying to talk to the latter, had they not been seated at an inconvenient distance; but she was not sorry to be spared the necessity of saying much. Her own thoughts were employing her. She expected every moment that some of the gentlemen would enter the room. She wished, she feared that the master of the house might be amongst them; and whether she wished or feared it most, she could scarcely determine. After sitting in this manner a quarter of an hour without hearing Miss Bingley's voice, Elizabeth was roused by receiving from her a cold inquiry after the health of her family. She answered with equal indifference and brevity, and the others said no more.
|
||
The next variation which their visit afforded was produced by the entrance of servants with cold meat, cake, and a variety of all the finest fruits in season; but this did not take place till after many a significant look and smile from Mrs. Annesley to Miss Darcy had been given, to remind her of her post. There was now employment for the whole party—for though they could not all talk, they could all eat; and the beautiful pyramids of grapes, nectarines, and peaches soon collected them round the table.
|
||
While thus engaged, Elizabeth had a fair opportunity of deciding whether she most feared or wished for the appearance of Mr. Darcy, by the feelings which prevailed on his entering the room; and then, though but a moment before she had believed her wishes to predominate, she began to regret that he came.
|
||
He had been some time with Mr. Gardiner, who, with two or three other gentlemen from the house, was engaged by the river, and had left him only on learning that the ladies of the family intended a visit to Georgiana that morning. No sooner did he appear than Elizabeth wisely resolved to be perfectly easy and unembarrassed; a resolution the more necessary to be made, but perhaps not the more easily kept, because she saw that the suspicions of the whole party were awakened against them, and that there was scarcely an eye which did not watch his behaviour when he first came into the room. In no countenance was attentive curiosity so strongly marked as in Miss Bingley's, in spite of the smiles which overspread her face whenever she spoke to one of its objects; for jealousy had not yet made her desperate, and her attentions to Mr. Darcy were by no means over. Miss Darcy, on her brother's entrance, exerted herself much more to talk, and Elizabeth saw that he was anxious for his sister and herself to get acquainted, and forwarded as much as possible, every attempt at conversation on either side. Miss Bingley saw all this likewise; and, in the imprudence of anger, took the first opportunity of saying, with sneering civility:
|
||
"Pray, Miss Eliza, are not the ——shire Militia removed from Meryton? They must be a great loss to YOUR family."
|
||
In Darcy's presence she dared not mention Wickham's name; but Elizabeth instantly comprehended that he was uppermost in her thoughts; and the various recollections connected with him gave her a moment's distress; but exerting herself vigorously to repel the ill-natured attack, she presently answered the question in a tolerably detached tone. While she spoke, an involuntary glance showed her Darcy, with a heightened complexion, earnestly looking at her, and his sister overcome with confusion, and unable to lift up her eyes. Had Miss Bingley known what pain she was then giving her beloved friend, she undoubtedly would have refrained from the hint; but she had merely intended to discompose Elizabeth by bringing forward the idea of a man to whom she believed her partial, to make her betray a sensibility which might injure her in Darcy's opinion, and, perhaps, to remind the latter of all the follies and absurdities by which some part of her family were connected with that corps. Not a syllable had ever reached her of Miss Darcy's meditated elopement. To no creature had it been revealed, where secrecy was possible, except to Elizabeth; and from all Bingley's connections her brother was particularly anxious to conceal it, from the very wish which Elizabeth had long ago attributed to him, of their becoming hereafter her own. He had certainly formed such a plan, and without meaning that it should effect his endeavour to separate him from Miss Bennet, it is probable that it might add something to his lively concern for the welfare of his friend.
|
||
Elizabeth's collected behaviour, however, soon quieted his emotion; and as Miss Bingley, vexed and disappointed, dared not approach nearer to Wickham, Georgiana also recovered in time, though not enough to be able to speak any more. Her brother, whose eye she feared to meet, scarcely recollected her interest in the affair, and the very circumstance which had been designed to turn his thoughts from Elizabeth seemed to have fixed them on her more and more cheerfully.
|
||
Their visit did not continue long after the question and answer above mentioned; and while Mr. Darcy was attending them to their carriage Miss Bingley was venting her feelings in criticisms on Elizabeth's person, behaviour, and dress. But Georgiana would not join her. Her brother's recommendation was enough to ensure her favour; his judgement could not err. And he had spoken in such terms of Elizabeth as to leave Georgiana without the power of finding her otherwise than lovely and amiable. When Darcy returned to the saloon, Miss Bingley could not help repeating to him some part of what she had been saying to his sister.
|
||
"How very ill Miss Eliza Bennet looks this morning, Mr. Darcy," she cried; "I never in my life saw anyone so much altered as she is since the winter. She is grown so brown and coarse! Louisa and I were agreeing that we should not have known her again."
|
||
However little Mr. Darcy might have liked such an address, he contented himself with coolly replying that he perceived no other alteration than her being rather tanned, no miraculous consequence of travelling in the summer.
|
||
"For my own part," she rejoined, "I must confess that I never could see any beauty in her. Her face is too thin; her complexion has no brilliancy; and her features are not at all handsome. Her nose wants character—there is nothing marked in its lines. Her teeth are tolerable, but not out of the common way; and as for her eyes, which have sometimes been called so fine, I could never see anything extraordinary in them. They have a sharp, shrewish look, which I do not like at all; and in her air altogether there is a self-sufficiency without fashion, which is intolerable."
|
||
Persuaded as Miss Bingley was that Darcy admired Elizabeth, this was not the best method of recommending herself; but angry people are not always wise; and in seeing him at last look somewhat nettled, she had all the success she expected. He was resolutely silent, however, and, from a determination of making him speak, she continued:
|
||
"I remember, when we first knew her in Hertfordshire, how amazed we all were to find that she was a reputed beauty; and I particularly recollect your saying one night, after they had been dining at Netherfield, 'SHE a beauty!—I should as soon call her mother a wit.' But afterwards she seemed to improve on you, and I believe you thought her rather pretty at one time."
|
||
"Yes," replied Darcy, who could contain himself no longer, "but THAT was only when I first saw her, for it is many months since I have considered her as one of the handsomest women of my acquaintances."
|
||
He then went away, and Miss Bingley was left to all the satisfaction of having forced him to say what gave no one any pain but herself.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner and Elizabeth talked of all that had occurred during their visit, as they returned, except what had particularly interested them both. The look and behaviour of everybody they had seen were discussed, except of the person who had mostly engaged their attention. They talked of his sister, his friends, his house, his fruit—of everything but himself; yet Elizabeth was longing to know what Mrs. Gardiner thought of him, and Mrs. Gardiner would have been highly gratified by her niece's beginning the subject.
|
||
Chapter 46
|
||
Elizabeth had been a good deal disappointed in not finding a letter from Jane on their first arrival at Lambton; and this disappointment had been renewed on each of the mornings that had now been spent there; but on the third her repining was over, and her sister justified, by the receipt of two letters from her at once, on one of which was marked that it had been missent elsewhere. Elizabeth was not surprised at it, as Jane had written the direction remarkably ill.
|
||
They had just been preparing to walk as the letters came in; and her uncle and aunt, leaving her to enjoy them in quiet, set off by themselves. The one missent must first be attended to; it had been written five days ago. The beginning contained an account of all their little parties and engagements, with such news as the country afforded; but the latter half, which was dated a day later, and written in evident agitation, gave more important intelligence. It was to this effect:
|
||
"Since writing the above, dearest Lizzy, something has occurred of a most unexpected and serious nature; but I am afraid of alarming you—be assured that we are all well. What I have to say relates to poor Lydia. An express came at twelve last night, just as we were all gone to bed, from Colonel Forster, to inform us that she was gone off to Scotland with one of his officers; to own the truth, with Wickham! Imagine our surprise. To Kitty, however, it does not seem so wholly unexpected. I am very, very sorry. So imprudent a match on both sides! But I am willing to hope the best, and that his character has been misunderstood. Thoughtless and indiscreet I can easily believe him, but this step (and let us rejoice over it) marks nothing bad at heart. His choice is disinterested at least, for he must know my father can give her nothing. Our poor mother is sadly grieved. My father bears it better. How thankful am I that we never let them know what has been said against him; we must forget it ourselves. They were off Saturday night about twelve, as is conjectured, but were not missed till yesterday morning at eight. The express was sent off directly. My dear Lizzy, they must have passed within ten miles of us. Colonel Forster gives us reason to expect him here soon. Lydia left a few lines for his wife, informing her of their intention. I must conclude, for I cannot be long from my poor mother. I am afraid you will not be able to make it out, but I hardly know what I have written."
|
||
Without allowing herself time for consideration, and scarcely knowing what she felt, Elizabeth on finishing this letter instantly seized the other, and opening it with the utmost impatience, read as follows: it had been written a day later than the conclusion of the first.
|
||
"By this time, my dearest sister, you have received my hurried letter; I wish this may be more intelligible, but though not confined for time, my head is so bewildered that I cannot answer for being coherent. Dearest Lizzy, I hardly know what I would write, but I have bad news for you, and it cannot be delayed. Imprudent as the marriage between Mr. Wickham and our poor Lydia would be, we are now anxious to be assured it has taken place, for there is but too much reason to fear they are not gone to Scotland. Colonel Forster came yesterday, having left Brighton the day before, not many hours after the express. Though Lydia's short letter to Mrs. F. gave them to understand that they were going to Gretna Green, something was dropped by Denny expressing his belief that W. never intended to go there, or to marry Lydia at all, which was repeated to Colonel F., who, instantly taking the alarm, set off from B. intending to trace their route. He did trace them easily to Clapham, but no further; for on entering that place, they removed into a hackney coach, and dismissed the chaise that brought them from Epsom. All that is known after this is, that they were seen to continue the London road. I know not what to think. After making every possible inquiry on that side London, Colonel F. came on into Hertfordshire, anxiously renewing them at all the turnpikes, and at the inns in Barnet and Hatfield, but without any success—no such people had been seen to pass through. With the kindest concern he came on to Longbourn, and broke his apprehensions to us in a manner most creditable to his heart. I am sincerely grieved for him and Mrs. F., but no one can throw any blame on them. Our distress, my dear Lizzy, is very great. My father and mother believe the worst, but I cannot think so ill of him. Many circumstances might make it more eligible for them to be married privately in town than to pursue their first plan; and even if HE could form such a design against a young woman of Lydia's connections, which is not likely, can I suppose her so lost to everything? Impossible! I grieve to find, however, that Colonel F. is not disposed to depend upon their marriage; he shook his head when I expressed my hopes, and said he fear W. was not a man to be trusted. My poor mother is really ill, and keeps her room. Could she exert herself, it would be better; but this is not to be expected. And as to my father, I never in my life saw him so affected. Poor Kitty has anger for having concealed their attachment; but as it was a matter of confidence, one cannot wonder. I am truly glad, dearest Lizzy, that you have been spared something of these distressing scenes; but now, as the first shock is over, shall I own that I long for your return? I am not so selfish, however, as to press for it, if inconvenient. Adieu! I take up my pen again to do what I have just told you I would not; but circumstances are such that I cannot help earnestly begging you all to come here as soon as possible. I know my dear uncle and aunt so well, that I am not afraid of requesting it, though I have still something more to ask of the former. My father is going to London with Colonel Forster instantly, to try to discover her. What he means to do I am sure I know not; but his excessive distress will not allow him to pursue any measure in the best and safest way, and Colonel Forster is obliged to be at Brighton again to-morrow evening. In such and exigence, my uncle's advice and assistance would be everything in the world; he will immediately comprehend what I must feel, and I rely upon his goodness."
|
||
"Oh! where, where is my uncle?" cried Elizabeth, darting from her seat as she finished the letter, in eagerness to follow him, without losing a moment of the time so precious; but as she reached the door it was opened by a servant, and Mr. Darcy appeared. Her pale face and impetuous manner made him start, and before he could recover himself to speak, she, in whose mind every idea was superseded by Lydia's situation, hastily exclaimed, "I beg your pardon, but I must leave you. I must find Mr. Gardiner this moment, on business that cannot be delayed; I have not an instant to loose."
|
||
"Good God! what is the matter?" cried he, with more feeling than politeness; then recollecting himself, "I will not detain you a minute; but let me, or let the servant go after Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner. You are not well enough; you cannot go yourself."
|
||
Elizabeth hesitated, but her knees trembled under her and she felt how little would be gained by her attempting to pursue them. Calling back the servant, therefore, she commissioned him, though in so breathless an accent as made her almost unintelligible, to fetch his master and mistress home instantly.
|
||
On his quitting the room she sat down, unable to support herself, and looking so miserably ill, that it was impossible for Darcy to leave her, or to refrain from saying, in a tone of gentleness and commiseration, "Let me call your maid. Is there nothing you could take to give you present relief? A glass of wine; shall I get you one? You are very ill."
|
||
"No, I thank you," she replied, endeavouring to recover herself. "There is nothing the matter with me. I am quite well; I am only distressed by some dreadful news which I have just received from Longbourn."
|
||
She burst into tears as she alluded to it, and for a few minutes could not speak another word. Darcy, in wretched suspense, could only say something indistinctly of his concern, and observe her in compassionate silence. At length she spoke again. "I have just had a letter from Jane, with such dreadful news. It cannot be concealed from anyone. My younger sister has left all her friends—has eloped; has thrown herself into the power of—of Mr. Wickham. They are gone off together from Brighton. YOU know him too well to doubt the rest. She has no money, no connections, nothing that can tempt him to—she is lost for ever."
|
||
Darcy was fixed in astonishment. "When I consider," she added in a yet more agitated voice, "that I might have prevented it! I, who knew what he was. Had I but explained some part of it only—some part of what I learnt, to my own family! Had his character been known, this could not have happened. But it is all—all too late now."
|
||
"I am grieved indeed," cried Darcy; "grieved—shocked. But is it certain—absolutely certain?"
|
||
"Oh, yes! They left Brighton together on Sunday night, and were traced almost to London, but not beyond; they are certainly not gone to Scotland."
|
||
"And what has been done, what has been attempted, to recover her?"
|
||
"My father is gone to London, and Jane has written to beg my uncle's immediate assistance; and we shall be off, I hope, in half-an-hour. But nothing can be done—I know very well that nothing can be done. How is such a man to be worked on? How are they even to be discovered? I have not the smallest hope. It is every way horrible!"
|
||
Darcy shook his head in silent acquiescence.
|
||
"When MY eyes were opened to his real character—Oh! had I known what I ought, what I dared to do! But I knew not—I was afraid of doing too much. Wretched, wretched mistake!"
|
||
Darcy made no answer. He seemed scarcely to hear her, and was walking up and down the room in earnest meditation, his brow contracted, his air gloomy. Elizabeth soon observed, and instantly understood it. Her power was sinking; everything MUST sink under such a proof of family weakness, such an assurance of the deepest disgrace. She could neither wonder nor condemn, but the belief of his self-conquest brought nothing to her consolatory to her bosom, afforded no palliation of her distress. It was, on the contrary, exactly calculated to make her understand her own wishes; and never had she so honestly felt that she could have loved him, as now, when all love must be vain.
|
||
But self, though it would intrude, could not engross her. Lydia—the humiliation, the misery she was bringing on them all, soon swallowed up every private care; and covering her face with her handkerchief, Elizabeth was soon lost to everything else; and, after a pause of several minutes, was only recalled to a sense of her situation by the voice of her companion, who, in a manner which, though it spoke compassion, spoke likewise restraint, said, "I am afraid you have been long desiring my absence, nor have I anything to plead in excuse of my stay, but real, though unavailing concern. Would to Heaven that anything could be either said or done on my part that might offer consolation to such distress! But I will not torment you with vain wishes, which may seem purposely to ask for your thanks. This unfortunate affair will, I fear, prevent my sister's having the pleasure of seeing you at Pemberley to-day."
|
||
"Oh, yes. Be so kind as to apologise for us to Miss Darcy. Say that urgent business calls us home immediately. Conceal the unhappy truth as long as it is possible, I know it cannot be long."
|
||
He readily assured her of his secrecy; again expressed his sorrow for her distress, wished it a happier conclusion than there was at present reason to hope, and leaving his compliments for her relations, with only one serious, parting look, went away.
|
||
As he quitted the room, Elizabeth felt how improbable it was that they should ever see each other again on such terms of cordiality as had marked their several meetings in Derbyshire; and as she threw a retrospective glance over the whole of their acquaintance, so full of contradictions and varieties, sighed at the perverseness of those feelings which would now have promoted its continuance, and would formerly have rejoiced in its termination.
|
||
If gratitude and esteem are good foundations of affection, Elizabeth's change of sentiment will be neither improbable nor faulty. But if otherwise—if regard springing from such sources is unreasonable or unnatural, in comparison of what is so often described as arising on a first interview with its object, and even before two words have been exchanged, nothing can be said in her defence, except that she had given somewhat of a trial to the latter method in her partiality for Wickham, and that its ill success might, perhaps, authorise her to seek the other less interesting mode of attachment. Be that as it may, she saw him go with regret; and in this early example of what Lydia's infamy must produce, found additional anguish as she reflected on that wretched business. Never, since reading Jane's second letter, had she entertained a hope of Wickham's meaning to marry her. No one but Jane, she thought, could flatter herself with such an expectation. Surprise was the least of her feelings on this development. While the contents of the first letter remained in her mind, she was all surprise—all astonishment that Wickham should marry a girl whom it was impossible he could marry for money; and how Lydia could ever have attached him had appeared incomprehensible. But now it was all too natural. For such an attachment as this she might have sufficient charms; and though she did not suppose Lydia to be deliberately engaging in an elopement without the intention of marriage, she had no difficulty in believing that neither her virtue nor her understanding would preserve her from falling an easy prey.
|
||
She had never perceived, while the regiment was in Hertfordshire, that Lydia had any partiality for him; but she was convinced that Lydia wanted only encouragement to attach herself to anybody. Sometimes one officer, sometimes another, had been her favourite, as their attentions raised them in her opinion. Her affections had continually been fluctuating but never without an object. The mischief of neglect and mistaken indulgence towards such a girl—oh! how acutely did she now feel it!
|
||
She was wild to be at home—to hear, to see, to be upon the spot to share with Jane in the cares that must now fall wholly upon her, in a family so deranged, a father absent, a mother incapable of exertion, and requiring constant attendance; and though almost persuaded that nothing could be done for Lydia, her uncle's interference seemed of the utmost importance, and till he entered the room her impatience was severe. Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner had hurried back in alarm, supposing by the servant's account that their niece was taken suddenly ill; but satisfying them instantly on that head, she eagerly communicated the cause of their summons, reading the two letters aloud, and dwelling on the postscript of the last with trembling energy, though Lydia had never been a favourite with them, Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner could not but be deeply afflicted. Not Lydia only, but all were concerned in it; and after the first exclamations of surprise and horror, Mr. Gardiner promised every assistance in his power. Elizabeth, though expecting no less, thanked him with tears of gratitude; and all three being actuated by one spirit, everything relating to their journey was speedily settled. They were to be off as soon as possible. "But what is to be done about Pemberley?" cried Mrs. Gardiner. "John told us Mr. Darcy was here when you sent for us; was it so?"
|
||
"Yes; and I told him we should not be able to keep our engagement. THAT is all settled."
|
||
"What is all settled?" repeated the other, as she ran into her room to prepare. "And are they upon such terms as for her to disclose the real truth? Oh, that I knew how it was!"
|
||
But wishes were vain, or at least could only serve to amuse her in the hurry and confusion of the following hour. Had Elizabeth been at leisure to be idle, she would have remained certain that all employment was impossible to one so wretched as herself; but she had her share of business as well as her aunt, and amongst the rest there were notes to be written to all their friends at Lambton, with false excuses for their sudden departure. An hour, however, saw the whole completed; and Mr. Gardiner meanwhile having settled his account at the inn, nothing remained to be done but to go; and Elizabeth, after all the misery of the morning, found herself, in a shorter space of time than she could have supposed, seated in the carriage, and on the road to Longbourn.
|
||
Chapter 47
|
||
"I have been thinking it over again, Elizabeth," said her uncle, as they drove from the town; "and really, upon serious consideration, I am much more inclined than I was to judge as your eldest sister does on the matter. It appears to me so very unlikely that any young man should form such a design against a girl who is by no means unprotected or friendless, and who was actually staying in his colonel's family, that I am strongly inclined to hope the best. Could he expect that her friends would not step forward? Could he expect to be noticed again by the regiment, after such an affront to Colonel Forster? His temptation is not adequate to the risk!"
|
||
"Do you really think so?" cried Elizabeth, brightening up for a moment.
|
||
"Upon my word," said Mrs. Gardiner, "I begin to be of your uncle's opinion. It is really too great a violation of decency, honour, and interest, for him to be guilty of. I cannot think so very ill of Wickham. Can you yourself, Lizzy, so wholly give him up, as to believe him capable of it?"
|
||
"Not, perhaps, of neglecting his own interest; but of every other neglect I can believe him capable. If, indeed, it should be so! But I dare not hope it. Why should they not go on to Scotland if that had been the case?"
|
||
"In the first place," replied Mr. Gardiner, "there is no absolute proof that they are not gone to Scotland."
|
||
"Oh! but their removing from the chaise into a hackney coach is such a presumption! And, besides, no traces of them were to be found on the Barnet road."
|
||
"Well, then—supposing them to be in London. They may be there, though for the purpose of concealment, for no more exceptional purpose. It is not likely that money should be very abundant on either side; and it might strike them that they could be more economically, though less expeditiously, married in London than in Scotland."
|
||
But why all this secrecy? Why any fear of detection? Why must their marriage be private? Oh, no, no—this is not likely. His most particular friend, you see by Jane's account, was persuaded of his never intending to marry her. Wickham will never marry a woman without some money. He cannot afford it. And what claims has Lydia—what attraction has she beyond youth, health, and good humour that could make him, for her sake, forego every chance of benefiting himself by marrying well? As to what restraint the apprehensions of disgrace in the corps might throw on a dishonourable elopement with her, I am not able to judge; for I know nothing of the effects that such a step might produce. But as to your other objection, I am afraid it will hardly hold good. Lydia has no brothers to step forward; and he might imagine, from my father's behaviour, from his indolence and the little attention he has ever seemed to give to what was going forward in his family, that HE would do as little, and think as little about it, as any father could do, in such a matter."
|
||
"But can you think that Lydia is so lost to everything but love of him as to consent to live with him on any terms other than marriage?"
|
||
"It does seem, and it is most shocking indeed," replied Elizabeth, with tears in her eyes, "that a sister's sense of decency and virtue in such a point should admit of doubt. But, really, I know not what to say. Perhaps I am not doing her justice. But she is very young; she has never been taught to think on serious subjects; and for the last half-year, nay, for a twelvemonth—she has been given up to nothing but amusement and vanity. She has been allowed to dispose of her time in the most idle and frivolous manner, and to adopt any opinions that came in her way. Since the ——shire were first quartered in Meryton, nothing but love, flirtation, and officers have been in her head. She has been doing everything in her power by thinking and talking on the subject, to give greater—what shall I call it? susceptibility to her feelings; which are naturally lively enough. And we all know that Wickham has every charm of person and address that can captivate a woman."
|
||
"But you see that Jane," said her aunt, "does not think so very ill of Wickham as to believe him capable of the attempt."
|
||
"Of whom does Jane ever think ill? And who is there, whatever might be their former conduct, that she would think capable of such an attempt, till it were proved against them? But Jane knows, as well as I do, what Wickham really is. We both know that he has been profligate in every sense of the word; that he has neither integrity nor honour; that he is as false and deceitful as he is insinuating."
|
||
"And do you really know all this?" cried Mrs. Gardiner, whose curiosity as to the mode of her intelligence was all alive.
|
||
"I do indeed," replied Elizabeth, colouring. "I told you, the other day, of his infamous behaviour to Mr. Darcy; and you yourself, when last at Longbourn, heard in what manner he spoke of the man who had behaved with such forbearance and liberality towards him. And there are other circumstances which I am not at liberty—which it is not worth while to relate; but his lies about the whole Pemberley family are endless. From what he said of Miss Darcy I was thoroughly prepared to see a proud, reserved, disagreeable girl. Yet he knew to the contrary himself. He must know that she was as amiable and unpretending as we have found her."
|
||
"But does Lydia know nothing of this? can she be ignorant of what you and Jane seem so well to understand?"
|
||
"Oh, yes!—that, that is the worst of all. Till I was in Kent, and saw so much both of Mr. Darcy and his relation Colonel Fitzwilliam, I was ignorant of the truth myself. And when I returned home, the ——shire was to leave Meryton in a week or fortnight's time. As that was the case, neither Jane, to whom I related the whole, nor I, thought it necessary to make our knowledge public; for of what use could it apparently be to any one, that the good opinion which all the neighbourhood had of him should then be overthrown? And even when it was settled that Lydia should go with Mrs. Forster, the necessity of opening her eyes to his character never occurred to me. That SHE could be in any danger from the deception never entered my head. That such a consequence as THIS could ensue, you may easily believe, was far enough from my thoughts."
|
||
"When they all removed to Brighton, therefore, you had no reason, I suppose, to believe them fond of each other?"
|
||
"Not the slightest. I can remember no symptom of affection on either side; and had anything of the kind been perceptible, you must be aware that ours is not a family on which it could be thrown away. When first he entered the corps, she was ready enough to admire him; but so we all were. Every girl in or near Meryton was out of her senses about him for the first two months; but he never distinguished HER by any particular attention; and, consequently, after a moderate period of extravagant and wild admiration, her fancy for him gave way, and others of the regiment, who treated her with more distinction, again became her favourites."
|
||
* * * * *
|
||
It may be easily believed, that however little of novelty could be added to their fears, hopes, and conjectures, on this interesting subject, by its repeated discussion, no other could detain them from it long, during the whole of the journey. From Elizabeth's thoughts it was never absent. Fixed there by the keenest of all anguish, self-reproach, she could find no interval of ease or forgetfulness.
|
||
They travelled as expeditiously as possible, and, sleeping one night on the road, reached Longbourn by dinner time the next day. It was a comfort to Elizabeth to consider that Jane could not have been wearied by long expectations.
|
||
The little Gardiners, attracted by the sight of a chaise, were standing on the steps of the house as they entered the paddock; and, when the carriage drove up to the door, the joyful surprise that lighted up their faces, and displayed itself over their whole bodies, in a variety of capers and frisks, was the first pleasing earnest of their welcome.
|
||
Elizabeth jumped out; and, after giving each of them a hasty kiss, hurried into the vestibule, where Jane, who came running down from her mother's apartment, immediately met her.
|
||
Elizabeth, as she affectionately embraced her, whilst tears filled the eyes of both, lost not a moment in asking whether anything had been heard of the fugitives.
|
||
"Not yet," replied Jane. "But now that my dear uncle is come, I hope everything will be well."
|
||
"Is my father in town?"
|
||
"Yes, he went on Tuesday, as I wrote you word."
|
||
"And have you heard from him often?"
|
||
"We have heard only twice. He wrote me a few lines on Wednesday to say that he had arrived in safety, and to give me his directions, which I particularly begged him to do. He merely added that he should not write again till he had something of importance to mention."
|
||
"And my mother—how is she? How are you all?"
|
||
"My mother is tolerably well, I trust; though her spirits are greatly shaken. She is upstairs and will have great satisfaction in seeing you all. She does not yet leave her dressing-room. Mary and Kitty are, thank Heaven, are quite well."
|
||
"But you—how are you?" cried Elizabeth. "You look pale. How much you must have gone through!"
|
||
Her sister, however, assured her of her being perfectly well; and their conversation, which had been passing while Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner were engaged with their children, was now put an end to by the approach of the whole party. Jane ran to her uncle and aunt, and welcomed and thanked them both, with alternate smiles and tears.
|
||
When they were all in the drawing-room, the questions which Elizabeth had already asked were of course repeated by the others, and they soon found that Jane had no intelligence to give. The sanguine hope of good, however, which the benevolence of her heart suggested had not yet deserted her; she still expected that it would all end well, and that every morning would bring some letter, either from Lydia or her father, to explain their proceedings, and, perhaps, announce their marriage.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet, to whose apartment they all repaired, after a few minutes' conversation together, received them exactly as might be expected; with tears and lamentations of regret, invectives against the villainous conduct of Wickham, and complaints of her own sufferings and ill-usage; blaming everybody but the person to whose ill-judging indulgence the errors of her daughter must principally be owing.
|
||
"If I had been able," said she, "to carry my point in going to Brighton, with all my family, THIS would not have happened; but poor dear Lydia had nobody to take care of her. Why did the Forsters ever let her go out of their sight? I am sure there was some great neglect or other on their side, for she is not the kind of girl to do such a thing if she had been well looked after. I always thought they were very unfit to have the charge of her; but I was overruled, as I always am. Poor dear child! And now here's Mr. Bennet gone away, and I know he will fight Wickham, wherever he meets him and then he will be killed, and what is to become of us all? The Collinses will turn us out before he is cold in his grave, and if you are not kind to us, brother, I do not know what we shall do."
|
||
They all exclaimed against such terrific ideas; and Mr. Gardiner, after general assurances of his affection for her and all her family, told her that he meant to be in London the very next day, and would assist Mr. Bennet in every endeavour for recovering Lydia.
|
||
"Do not give way to useless alarm," added he; "though it is right to be prepared for the worst, there is no occasion to look on it as certain. It is not quite a week since they left Brighton. In a few days more we may gain some news of them; and till we know that they are not married, and have no design of marrying, do not let us give the matter over as lost. As soon as I get to town I shall go to my brother, and make him come home with me to Gracechurch Street; and then we may consult together as to what is to be done."
|
||
"Oh! my dear brother," replied Mrs. Bennet, "that is exactly what I could most wish for. And now do, when you get to town, find them out, wherever they may be; and if they are not married already, MAKE them marry. And as for wedding clothes, do not let them wait for that, but tell Lydia she shall have as much money as she chooses to buy them, after they are married. And, above all, keep Mr. Bennet from fighting. Tell him what a dreadful state I am in, that I am frighted out of my wits—and have such tremblings, such flutterings, all over me—such spasms in my side and pains in my head, and such beatings at heart, that I can get no rest by night nor by day. And tell my dear Lydia not to give any directions about her clothes till she has seen me, for she does not know which are the best warehouses. Oh, brother, how kind you are! I know you will contrive it all."
|
||
But Mr. Gardiner, though he assured her again of his earnest endeavours in the cause, could not avoid recommending moderation to her, as well in her hopes as her fear; and after talking with her in this manner till dinner was on the table, they all left her to vent all her feelings on the housekeeper, who attended in the absence of her daughters.
|
||
Though her brother and sister were persuaded that there was no real occasion for such a seclusion from the family, they did not attempt to oppose it, for they knew that she had not prudence enough to hold her tongue before the servants, while they waited at table, and judged it better that ONE only of the household, and the one whom they could most trust should comprehend all her fears and solicitude on the subject.
|
||
In the dining-room they were soon joined by Mary and Kitty, who had been too busily engaged in their separate apartments to make their appearance before. One came from her books, and the other from her toilette. The faces of both, however, were tolerably calm; and no change was visible in either, except that the loss of her favourite sister, or the anger which she had herself incurred in this business, had given more of fretfulness than usual to the accents of Kitty. As for Mary, she was mistress enough of herself to whisper to Elizabeth, with a countenance of grave reflection, soon after they were seated at table:
|
||
"This is a most unfortunate affair, and will probably be much talked of. But we must stem the tide of malice, and pour into the wounded bosoms of each other the balm of sisterly consolation."
|
||
Then, perceiving in Elizabeth no inclination of replying, she added, "Unhappy as the event must be for Lydia, we may draw from it this useful lesson: that loss of virtue in a female is irretrievable; that one false step involves her in endless ruin; that her reputation is no less brittle than it is beautiful; and that she cannot be too much guarded in her behaviour towards the undeserving of the other sex."
|
||
Elizabeth lifted up her eyes in amazement, but was too much oppressed to make any reply. Mary, however, continued to console herself with such kind of moral extractions from the evil before them.
|
||
In the afternoon, the two elder Miss Bennets were able to be for half-an-hour by themselves; and Elizabeth instantly availed herself of the opportunity of making any inquiries, which Jane was equally eager to satisfy. After joining in general lamentations over the dreadful sequel of this event, which Elizabeth considered as all but certain, and Miss Bennet could not assert to be wholly impossible, the former continued the subject, by saying, "But tell me all and everything about it which I have not already heard. Give me further particulars. hat did Colonel Forster say? Had they no apprehension of anything before the elopement took place? They must have seen them together for ever."
|
||
"Colonel Forster did own that he had often suspected some partiality, especially on Lydia's side, but nothing to give him any alarm. I am so grieved for him! His behaviour was attentive and kind to the utmost. He WAS coming to us, in order to assure us of his concern, before he had any idea of their not being gone to Scotland: when that apprehension first got abroad, it hastened his journey."
|
||
"And was Denny convinced that Wickham would not marry? Did he know of their intending to go off? Had Colonel Forster seen Denny himself?"
|
||
"Yes; but, when questioned by HIM, Denny denied knowing anything of their plans, and would not give his real opinion about it. He did not repeat his persuasion of their not marrying—and from THAT, I am inclined to hope, he might have been misunderstood before."
|
||
"And till Colonel Forster came himself, not one of you entertained a doubt, I suppose, of their being really married?"
|
||
"How was it possible that such an idea should enter our brains? I felt a little uneasy—a little fearful of my sister's happiness with him in marriage, because I knew that his conduct had not been always quite right. My father and mother knew nothing of that; they only felt how imprudent a match it must be. Kitty then owned, with a very natural triumph on knowing more than the rest of us, that in Lydia's last letter she had prepared her for such a step. She had known, it seems, of their being in love with each other, many weeks."
|
||
"But not before they went to Brighton?"
|
||
"No, I believe not."
|
||
"And did Colonel Forster appear to think well of Wickham himself? Does he know his real character?"
|
||
"I must confess that he did not speak so well of Wickham as he formerly did. He believed him to be imprudent and extravagant. And since this sad affair has taken place, it is said that he left Meryton greatly in debt; but I hope this may be false."
|
||
"Oh, Jane, had we been less secret, had we told what we knew of him, this could not have happened!"
|
||
"Perhaps it would have been better," replied her sister. "But to expose the former faults of any person without knowing what their present feelings were, seemed unjustifiable. We acted with the best intentions."
|
||
"Could Colonel Forster repeat the particulars of Lydia's note to his wife?"
|
||
"He brought it with him for us to see."
|
||
Jane then took it from her pocket-book, and gave it to Elizabeth. These were the contents:
|
||
"MY DEAR HARRIET,
|
||
"You will laugh when you know where I am gone, and I cannot help laughing myself at your surprise to-morrow morning, as soon as I am missed. I am going to Gretna Green, and if you cannot guess with who, I shall think you a simpleton, for there is but one man in the world I love, and he is an angel. I should never be happy without him, so think it no harm to be off. You need not send them word at Longbourn of my going, if you do not like it, for it will make the surprise the greater, when I write to them and sign my name 'Lydia Wickham.' What a good joke it will be! I can hardly write for laughing. Pray make my excuses to Pratt for not keeping my engagement, and dancing with him to-night. Tell him I hope he will excuse me when he knows all; and tell him I will dance with him at the next ball we meet, with great pleasure. I shall send for my clothes when I get to Longbourn; but I wish you would tell Sally to mend a great slit in my worked muslin gown before they are packed up. Good-bye. Give my love to Colonel Forster. I hope you will drink to our good journey.
|
||
"Your affectionate friend,
|
||
"LYDIA BENNET."
|
||
"Oh! thoughtless, thoughtless Lydia!" cried Elizabeth when she had finished it. What a letter is this, to be written at such a moment! But at least it shows that SHE was serious on the subject of their journey. Whatever he might afterwards persuade her to, it was not on her side a SCHEME of infamy. My poor father! how he must have felt it!"
|
||
"I never saw anyone so shocked. He could not speak a word for full ten minutes. My mother was taken ill immediately, and the whole house in such confusion!"
|
||
"Oh! Jane," cried Elizabeth, "was there a servant belonging to it who did not know the whole story before the end of the day?"
|
||
"I do not know. I hope there was. But to be guarded at such a time is very difficult. My mother was in hysterics, and though I endeavoured to give her every assistance in my power, I am afraid I did not do so much as I might have done! But the horror of what might possibly happen almost took from me my faculties."
|
||
"Your attendance upon her has been too much for you. You do not look well. Oh that I had been with you! you have had every care and anxiety upon yourself alone."
|
||
"Mary and Kitty have been very kind, and would have shared in every fatigue, I am sure; but I did not think it right for either of them. Kitty is slight and delicate; and Mary studies so much, that her hours of repose should not be broken in on. My aunt Phillips came to Longbourn on Tuesday, after my father went away; and was so good as to stay till Thursday with me. She was of great use and comfort to us all. And Lady Lucas has been very kind; she walked here on Wednesday morning to condole with us, and offered her services, or any of her daughters', if they should be of use to us."
|
||
"She had better have stayed at home," cried Elizabeth; "perhaps she MEANT well, but, under such a misfortune as this, one cannot see too little of one's neighbours. Assistance is impossible; condolence insufferable. Let them triumph over us at a distance, and be satisfied."
|
||
She then proceeded to inquire into the measures which her father had intended to pursue, while in town, for the recovery of his daughter.
|
||
"He meant I believe," replied Jane, "to go to Epsom, the place where they last changed horses, see the postilions and try if anything could be made out from them. His principal object must be to discover the number of the hackney coach which took them from Clapham. It had come with a fare from London; and as he thought that the circumstance of a gentleman and lady's removing from one carriage into another might be remarked he meant to make inquiries at Clapham. If he could anyhow discover at what house the coachman had before set down his fare, he determined to make inquiries there, and hoped it might not be impossible to find out the stand and number of the coach. I do not know of any other designs that he had formed; but he was in such a hurry to be gone, and his spirits so greatly discomposed, that I had difficulty in finding out even so much as this."
|
||
Chapter 48
|
||
The whole party were in hopes of a letter from Mr. Bennet the next morning, but the post came in without bringing a single line from him. His family knew him to be, on all common occasions, a most negligent and dilatory correspondent; but at such a time they had hoped for exertion. They were forced to conclude that he had no pleasing intelligence to send; but even of THAT they would have been glad to be certain. Mr. Gardiner had waited only for the letters before he set off.
|
||
When he was gone, they were certain at least of receiving constant information of what was going on, and their uncle promised, at parting, to prevail on Mr. Bennet to return to Longbourn, as soon as he could, to the great consolation of his sister, who considered it as the only security for her husband's not being killed in a duel.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner and the children were to remain in Hertfordshire a few days longer, as the former thought her presence might be serviceable to her nieces. She shared in their attendance on Mrs. Bennet, and was a great comfort to them in their hours of freedom. Their other aunt also visited them frequently, and always, as she said, with the design of cheering and heartening them up—though, as she never came without reporting some fresh instance of Wickham's extravagance or irregularity, she seldom went away without leaving them more dispirited than she found them.
|
||
All Meryton seemed striving to blacken the man who, but three months before, had been almost an angel of light. He was declared to be in debt to every tradesman in the place, and his intrigues, all honoured with the title of seduction, had been extended into every tradesman's family. Everybody declared that he was the wickedest young man in the world; and everybody began to find out that they had always distrusted the appearance of his goodness. Elizabeth, though she did not credit above half of what was said, believed enough to make her former assurance of her sister's ruin more certain; and even Jane, who believed still less of it, became almost hopeless, more especially as the time was now come when, if they had gone to Scotland, which she had never before entirely despaired of, they must in all probability have gained some news of them.
|
||
Mr. Gardiner left Longbourn on Sunday; on Tuesday his wife received a letter from him; it told them that, on his arrival, he had immediately found out his brother, and persuaded him to come to Gracechurch Street; that Mr. Bennet had been to Epsom and Clapham, before his arrival, but without gaining any satisfactory information; and that he was now determined to inquire at all the principal hotels in town, as Mr. Bennet thought it possible they might have gone to one of them, on their first coming to London, before they procured lodgings. Mr. Gardiner himself did not expect any success from this measure, but as his brother was eager in it, he meant to assist him in pursuing it. He added that Mr. Bennet seemed wholly disinclined at present to leave London and promised to write again very soon. There was also a postscript to this effect:
|
||
"I have written to Colonel Forster to desire him to find out, if possible, from some of the young man's intimates in the regiment, whether Wickham has any relations or connections who would be likely to know in what part of town he has now concealed himself. If there were anyone that one could apply to with a probability of gaining such a clue as that, it might be of essential consequence. At present we have nothing to guide us. Colonel Forster will, I dare say, do everything in his power to satisfy us on this head. But, on second thoughts, perhaps, Lizzy could tell us what relations he has now living, better than any other person."
|
||
Elizabeth was at no loss to understand from whence this deference to her authority proceeded; but it was not in her power to give any information of so satisfactory a nature as the compliment deserved. She had never heard of his having had any relations, except a father and mother, both of whom had been dead many years. It was possible, however, that some of his companions in the ——shire might be able to give more information; and though she was not very sanguine in expecting it, the application was a something to look forward to.
|
||
Every day at Longbourn was now a day of anxiety; but the most anxious part of each was when the post was expected. The arrival of letters was the grand object of every morning's impatience. Through letters, whatever of good or bad was to be told would be communicated, and every succeeding day was expected to bring some news of importance.
|
||
But before they heard again from Mr. Gardiner, a letter arrived for their father, from a different quarter, from Mr. Collins; which, as Jane had received directions to open all that came for him in his absence, she accordingly read; and Elizabeth, who knew what curiosities his letters always were, looked over her, and read it likewise. It was as follows:
|
||
"MY DEAR SIR,
|
||
"I feel myself called upon, by our relationship, and my situation in life, to condole with you on the grievous affliction you are now suffering under, of which we were yesterday informed by a letter from Hertfordshire. Be assured, my dear sir, that Mrs. Collins and myself sincerely sympathise with you and all your respectable family, in your present distress, which must be of the bitterest kind, because proceeding from a cause which no time can remove. No arguments shall be wanting on my part that can alleviate so severe a misfortune—or that may comfort you, under a circumstance that must be of all others the most afflicting to a parent's mind. The death of your daughter would have been a blessing in comparison of this. And it is the more to be lamented, because there is reason to suppose as my dear Charlotte informs me, that this licentiousness of behaviour in your daughter has proceeded from a faulty degree of indulgence; though, at the same time, for the consolation of yourself and Mrs. Bennet, I am inclined to think that her own disposition must be naturally bad, or she could not be guilty of such an enormity, at so early an age. Howsoever that may be, you are grievously to be pitied; in which opinion I am not only joined by Mrs. Collins, but likewise by Lady Catherine and her daughter, to whom I have related the affair. They agree with me in apprehending that this false step in one daughter will be injurious to the fortunes of all the others; for who, as Lady Catherine herself condescendingly says, will connect themselves with such a family? And this consideration leads me moreover to reflect, with augmented satisfaction, on a certain event of last November; for had it been otherwise, I must have been involved in all your sorrow and disgrace. Let me then advise you, dear sir, to console yourself as much as possible, to throw off your unworthy child from your affection for ever, and leave her to reap the fruits of her own heinous offense.
|
||
"I am, dear sir, etc., etc."
|
||
Mr. Gardiner did not write again till he had received an answer from Colonel Forster; and then he had nothing of a pleasant nature to send. It was not known that Wickham had a single relationship with whom he kept up any connection, and it was certain that he had no near one living. His former acquaintances had been numerous; but since he had been in the militia, it did not appear that he was on terms of particular friendship with any of them. There was no one, therefore, who could be pointed out as likely to give any news of him. And in the wretched state of his own finances, there was a very powerful motive for secrecy, in addition to his fear of discovery by Lydia's relations, for it had just transpired that he had left gaming debts behind him to a very considerable amount. Colonel Forster believed that more than a thousand pounds would be necessary to clear his expenses at Brighton. He owed a good deal in town, but his debts of honour were still more formidable. Mr. Gardiner did not attempt to conceal these particulars from the Longbourn family. Jane heard them with horror. "A gamester!" she cried. "This is wholly unexpected. I had not an idea of it."
|
||
Mr. Gardiner added in his letter, that they might expect to see their father at home on the following day, which was Saturday. Rendered spiritless by the ill-success of all their endeavours, he had yielded to his brother-in-law's entreaty that he would return to his family, and leave it to him to do whatever occasion might suggest to be advisable for continuing their pursuit. When Mrs. Bennet was told of this, she did not express so much satisfaction as her children expected, considering what her anxiety for his life had been before.
|
||
"What, is he coming home, and without poor Lydia?" she cried. "Sure he will not leave London before he has found them. Who is to fight Wickham, and make him marry her, if he comes away?"
|
||
As Mrs. Gardiner began to wish to be at home, it was settled that she and the children should go to London, at the same time that Mr. Bennet came from it. The coach, therefore, took them the first stage of their journey, and brought its master back to Longbourn.
|
||
Mrs. Gardiner went away in all the perplexity about Elizabeth and her Derbyshire friend that had attended her from that part of the world. His name had never been voluntarily mentioned before them by her niece; and the kind of half-expectation which Mrs. Gardiner had formed, of their being followed by a letter from him, had ended in nothing. Elizabeth had received none since her return that could come from Pemberley.
|
||
The present unhappy state of the family rendered any other excuse for the lowness of her spirits unnecessary; nothing, therefore, could be fairly conjectured from THAT, though Elizabeth, who was by this time tolerably well acquainted with her own feelings, was perfectly aware that, had she known nothing of Darcy, she could have borne the dread of Lydia's infamy somewhat better. It would have spared her, she thought, one sleepless night out of two.
|
||
When Mr. Bennet arrived, he had all the appearance of his usual philosophic composure. He said as little as he had ever been in the habit of saying; made no mention of the business that had taken him away, and it was some time before his daughters had courage to speak of it.
|
||
It was not till the afternoon, when he had joined them at tea, that Elizabeth ventured to introduce the subject; and then, on her briefly expressing her sorrow for what he must have endured, he replied, "Say nothing of that. Who should suffer but myself? It has been my own doing, and I ought to feel it."
|
||
"You must not be too severe upon yourself," replied Elizabeth.
|
||
"You may well warn me against such an evil. Human nature is so prone to fall into it! No, Lizzy, let me once in my life feel how much I have been to blame. I am not afraid of being overpowered by the impression. It will pass away soon enough."
|
||
"Do you suppose them to be in London?"
|
||
"Yes; where else can they be so well concealed?"
|
||
"And Lydia used to want to go to London," added Kitty.
|
||
"She is happy then," said her father drily; "and her residence there will probably be of some duration."
|
||
Then after a short silence he continued:
|
||
"Lizzy, I bear you no ill-will for being justified in your advice to me last May, which, considering the event, shows some greatness of mind."
|
||
They were interrupted by Miss Bennet, who came to fetch her mother's tea.
|
||
"This is a parade," he cried, "which does one good; it gives such an elegance to misfortune! Another day I will do the same; I will sit in my library, in my nightcap and powdering gown, and give as much trouble as I can; or, perhaps, I may defer it till Kitty runs away."
|
||
"I am not going to run away, papa," said Kitty fretfully. "If I should ever go to Brighton, I would behave better than Lydia."
|
||
"YOU go to Brighton. I would not trust you so near it as Eastbourne for fifty pounds! No, Kitty, I have at last learnt to be cautious, and you will feel the effects of it. No officer is ever to enter into my house again, nor even to pass through the village. Balls will be absolutely prohibited, unless you stand up with one of your sisters. And you are never to stir out of doors till you can prove that you have spent ten minutes of every day in a rational manner."
|
||
Kitty, who took all these threats in a serious light, began to cry.
|
||
"Well, well," said he, "do not make yourself unhappy. If you are a good girl for the next ten years, I will take you to a review at the end of them."
|
||
Chapter 49
|
||
Two days after Mr. Bennet's return, as Jane and Elizabeth were walking together in the shrubbery behind the house, they saw the housekeeper coming towards them, and, concluding that she came to call them to their mother, went forward to meet her; but, instead of the expected summons, when they approached her, she said to Miss Bennet, "I beg your pardon, madam, for interrupting you, but I was in hopes you might have got some good news from town, so I took the liberty of coming to ask."
|
||
"What do you mean, Hill? We have heard nothing from town."
|
||
"Dear madam," cried Mrs. Hill, in great astonishment, "don't you know there is an express come for master from Mr. Gardiner? He has been here this half-hour, and master has had a letter."
|
||
Away ran the girls, too eager to get in to have time for speech. They ran through the vestibule into the breakfast-room; from thence to the library; their father was in neither; and they were on the point of seeking him upstairs with their mother, when they were met by the butler, who said:
|
||
"If you are looking for my master, ma'am, he is walking towards the little copse."
|
||
Upon this information, they instantly passed through the hall once more, and ran across the lawn after their father, who was deliberately pursuing his way towards a small wood on one side of the paddock.
|
||
Jane, who was not so light nor so much in the habit of running as Elizabeth, soon lagged behind, while her sister, panting for breath, came up with him, and eagerly cried out:
|
||
"Oh, papa, what news—what news? Have you heard from my uncle?"
|
||
"Yes I have had a letter from him by express."
|
||
"Well, and what news does it bring—good or bad?"
|
||
"What is there of good to be expected?" said he, taking the letter from his pocket. "But perhaps you would like to read it."
|
||
Elizabeth impatiently caught it from his hand. Jane now came up.
|
||
"Read it aloud," said their father, "for I hardly know myself what it is about."
|
||
"Gracechurch Street, Monday, August 2.
|
||
"MY DEAR BROTHER,
|
||
"At last I am able to send you some tidings of my niece, and such as, upon the whole, I hope it will give you satisfaction. Soon after you left me on Saturday, I was fortunate enough to find out in what part of London they were. The particulars I reserve till we meet; it is enough to know they are discovered. I have seen them both—"
|
||
"Then it is as I always hoped," cried Jane; "they are married!"
|
||
Elizabeth read on:
|
||
"I have seen them both. They are not married, nor can I find there was any intention of being so; but if you are willing to perform the engagements which I have ventured to make on your side, I hope it will not be long before they are. All that is required of you is, to assure to your daughter, by settlement, her equal share of the five thousand pounds secured among your children after the decease of yourself and my sister; and, moreover, to enter into an engagement of allowing her, during your life, one hundred pounds per annum. These are conditions which, considering everything, I had no hesitation in complying with, as far as I thought myself privileged, for you. I shall send this by express, that no time may be lost in bringing me your answer. You will easily comprehend, from these particulars, that Mr. Wickham's circumstances are not so hopeless as they are generally believed to be. The world has been deceived in that respect; and I am happy to say there will be some little money, even when all his debts are discharged, to settle on my niece, in addition to her own fortune. If, as I conclude will be the case, you send me full powers to act in your name throughout the whole of this business, I will immediately give directions to Haggerston for preparing a proper settlement. There will not be the smallest occasion for your coming to town again; therefore stay quiet at Longbourn, and depend on my diligence and care. Send back your answer as fast as you can, and be careful to write explicitly. We have judged it best that my niece should be married from this house, of which I hope you will approve. She comes to us to-day. I shall write again as soon as anything more is determined on. Yours, etc.,
|
||
"EDW. GARDINER."
|
||
"Is it possible?" cried Elizabeth, when she had finished. "Can it be possible that he will marry her?"
|
||
"Wickham is not so undeserving, then, as we thought him," said her sister. "My dear father, I congratulate you."
|
||
"And have you answered the letter?" cried Elizabeth.
|
||
"No; but it must be done soon."
|
||
Most earnestly did she then entreaty him to lose no more time before he wrote.
|
||
"Oh! my dear father," she cried, "come back and write immediately. Consider how important every moment is in such a case."
|
||
"Let me write for you," said Jane, "if you dislike the trouble yourself."
|
||
"I dislike it very much," he replied; "but it must be done."
|
||
And so saying, he turned back with them, and walked towards the house.
|
||
"And may I ask—" said Elizabeth; "but the terms, I suppose, must be complied with."
|
||
"Complied with! I am only ashamed of his asking so little."
|
||
"And they MUST marry! Yet he is SUCH a man!"
|
||
"Yes, yes, they must marry. There is nothing else to be done. But there are two things that I want very much to know; one is, how much money your uncle has laid down to bring it about; and the other, how am I ever to pay him."
|
||
"Money! My uncle!" cried Jane, "what do you mean, sir?"
|
||
"I mean, that no man in his senses would marry Lydia on so slight a temptation as one hundred a year during my life, and fifty after I am gone."
|
||
"That is very true," said Elizabeth; "though it had not occurred to me before. His debts to be discharged, and something still to remain! Oh! it must be my uncle's doings! Generous, good man, I am afraid he has distressed himself. A small sum could not do all this."
|
||
"No," said her father; "Wickham's a fool if he takes her with a farthing less than ten thousand pounds. I should be sorry to think so ill of him, in the very beginning of our relationship."
|
||
"Ten thousand pounds! Heaven forbid! How is half such a sum to be repaid?"
|
||
Mr. Bennet made no answer, and each of them, deep in thought, continued silent till they reached the house. Their father then went on to the library to write, and the girls walked into the breakfast-room.
|
||
"And they are really to be married!" cried Elizabeth, as soon as they were by themselves. "How strange this is! And for THIS we are to be thankful. That they should marry, small as is their chance of happiness, and wretched as is his character, we are forced to rejoice. Oh, Lydia!"
|
||
"I comfort myself with thinking," replied Jane, "that he certainly would not marry Lydia if he had not a real regard for her. Though our kind uncle has done something towards clearing him, I cannot believe that ten thousand pounds, or anything like it, has been advanced. He has children of his own, and may have more. How could he spare half ten thousand pounds?"
|
||
"If he were ever able to learn what Wickham's debts have been," said Elizabeth, "and how much is settled on his side on our sister, we shall exactly know what Mr. Gardiner has done for them, because Wickham has not sixpence of his own. The kindness of my uncle and aunt can never be requited. Their taking her home, and affording her their personal protection and countenance, is such a sacrifice to her advantage as years of gratitude cannot enough acknowledge. By this time she is actually with them! If such goodness does not make her miserable now, she will never deserve to be happy! What a meeting for her, when she first sees my aunt!"
|
||
"We must endeavour to forget all that has passed on either side," said Jane: "I hope and trust they will yet be happy. His consenting to marry her is a proof, I will believe, that he is come to a right way of thinking. Their mutual affection will steady them; and I flatter myself they will settle so quietly, and live in so rational a manner, as may in time make their past imprudence forgotten."
|
||
"Their conduct has been such," replied Elizabeth, "as neither you, nor I, nor anybody can ever forget. It is useless to talk of it."
|
||
It now occurred to the girls that their mother was in all likelihood perfectly ignorant of what had happened. They went to the library, therefore, and asked their father whether he would not wish them to make it known to her. He was writing and, without raising his head, coolly replied:
|
||
"Just as you please."
|
||
"May we take my uncle's letter to read to her?"
|
||
"Take whatever you like, and get away."
|
||
Elizabeth took the letter from his writing-table, and they went upstairs together. Mary and Kitty were both with Mrs. Bennet: one communication would, therefore, do for all. After a slight preparation for good news, the letter was read aloud. Mrs. Bennet could hardly contain herself. As soon as Jane had read Mr. Gardiner's hope of Lydia's being soon married, her joy burst forth, and every following sentence added to its exuberance. She was now in an irritation as violent from delight, as she had ever been fidgety from alarm and vexation. To know that her daughter would be married was enough. She was disturbed by no fear for her felicity, nor humbled by any remembrance of her misconduct.
|
||
"My dear, dear Lydia!" she cried. "This is delightful indeed! She will be married! I shall see her again! She will be married at sixteen! My good, kind brother! I knew how it would be. I knew he would manage everything! How I long to see her! and to see dear Wickham too! But the clothes, the wedding clothes! I will write to my sister Gardiner about them directly. Lizzy, my dear, run down to your father, and ask him how much he will give her. Stay, stay, I will go myself. Ring the bell, Kitty, for Hill. I will put on my things in a moment. My dear, dear Lydia! How merry we shall be together when we meet!"
|
||
Her eldest daughter endeavoured to give some relief to the violence of these transports, by leading her thoughts to the obligations which Mr. Gardiner's behaviour laid them all under.
|
||
"For we must attribute this happy conclusion," she added, "in a great measure to his kindness. We are persuaded that he has pledged himself to assist Mr. Wickham with money."
|
||
"Well," cried her mother, "it is all very right; who should do it but her own uncle? If he had not had a family of his own, I and my children must have had all his money, you know; and it is the first time we have ever had anything from him, except a few presents. Well! I am so happy! In a short time I shall have a daughter married. Mrs. Wickham! How well it sounds! And she was only sixteen last June. My dear Jane, I am in such a flutter, that I am sure I can't write; so I will dictate, and you write for me. We will settle with your father about the money afterwards; but the things should be ordered immediately."
|
||
She was then proceeding to all the particulars of calico, muslin, and cambric, and would shortly have dictated some very plentiful orders, had not Jane, though with some difficulty, persuaded her to wait till her father was at leisure to be consulted. One day's delay, she observed, would be of small importance; and her mother was too happy to be quite so obstinate as usual. Other schemes, too, came into her head.
|
||
"I will go to Meryton," said she, "as soon as I am dressed, and tell the good, good news to my sister Philips. And as I come back, I can call on Lady Lucas and Mrs. Long. Kitty, run down and order the carriage. An airing would do me a great deal of good, I am sure. Girls, can I do anything for you in Meryton? Oh! Here comes Hill! My dear Hill, have you heard the good news? Miss Lydia is going to be married; and you shall all have a bowl of punch to make merry at her wedding."
|
||
Mrs. Hill began instantly to express her joy. Elizabeth received her congratulations amongst the rest, and then, sick of this folly, took refuge in her own room, that she might think with freedom.
|
||
Poor Lydia's situation must, at best, be bad enough; but that it was no worse, she had need to be thankful. She felt it so; and though, in looking forward, neither rational happiness nor worldly prosperity could be justly expected for her sister, in looking back to what they had feared, only two hours ago, she felt all the advantages of what they had gained.
|
||
Chapter 50
|
||
Mr. Bennet had very often wished before this period of his life that, instead of spending his whole income, he had laid by an annual sum for the better provision of his children, and of his wife, if she survived him. He now wished it more than ever. Had he done his duty in that respect, Lydia need not have been indebted to her uncle for whatever of honour or credit could now be purchased for her. The satisfaction of prevailing on one of the most worthless young men in Great Britain to be her husband might then have rested in its proper place.
|
||
He was seriously concerned that a cause of so little advantage to anyone should be forwarded at the sole expense of his brother-in-law, and he was determined, if possible, to find out the extent of his assistance, and to discharge the obligation as soon as he could.
|
||
When first Mr. Bennet had married, economy was held to be perfectly useless, for, of course, they were to have a son. The son was to join in cutting off the entail, as soon as he should be of age, and the widow and younger children would by that means be provided for. Five daughters successively entered the world, but yet the son was to come; and Mrs. Bennet, for many years after Lydia's birth, had been certain that he would. This event had at last been despaired of, but it was then too late to be saving. Mrs. Bennet had no turn for economy, and her husband's love of independence had alone prevented their exceeding their income.
|
||
Five thousand pounds was settled by marriage articles on Mrs. Bennet and the children. But in what proportions it should be divided amongst the latter depended on the will of the parents. This was one point, with regard to Lydia, at least, which was now to be settled, and Mr. Bennet could have no hesitation in acceding to the proposal before him. In terms of grateful acknowledgment for the kindness of his brother, though expressed most concisely, he then delivered on paper his perfect approbation of all that was done, and his willingness to fulfil the engagements that had been made for him. He had never before supposed that, could Wickham be prevailed on to marry his daughter, it would be done with so little inconvenience to himself as by the present arrangement. He would scarcely be ten pounds a year the loser by the hundred that was to be paid them; for, what with her board and pocket allowance, and the continual presents in money which passed to her through her mother's hands, Lydia's expenses had been very little within that sum.
|
||
That it would be done with such trifling exertion on his side, too, was another very welcome surprise; for his wish at present was to have as little trouble in the business as possible. When the first transports of rage which had produced his activity in seeking her were over, he naturally returned to all his former indolence. His letter was soon dispatched; for, though dilatory in undertaking business, he was quick in its execution. He begged to know further particulars of what he was indebted to his brother, but was too angry with Lydia to send any message to her.
|
||
The good news spread quickly through the house, and with proportionate speed through the neighbourhood. It was borne in the latter with decent philosophy. To be sure, it would have been more for the advantage of conversation had Miss Lydia Bennet come upon the town; or, as the happiest alternative, been secluded from the world, in some distant farmhouse. But there was much to be talked of in marrying her; and the good-natured wishes for her well-doing which had proceeded before from all the spiteful old ladies in Meryton lost but a little of their spirit in this change of circumstances, because with such an husband her misery was considered certain.
|
||
It was a fortnight since Mrs. Bennet had been downstairs; but on this happy day she again took her seat at the head of her table, and in spirits oppressively high. No sentiment of shame gave a damp to her triumph. The marriage of a daughter, which had been the first object of her wishes since Jane was sixteen, was now on the point of accomplishment, and her thoughts and her words ran wholly on those attendants of elegant nuptials, fine muslins, new carriages, and servants. She was busily searching through the neighbourhood for a proper situation for her daughter, and, without knowing or considering what their income might be, rejected many as deficient in size and importance.
|
||
"Haye Park might do," said she, "if the Gouldings could quit it—or the great house at Stoke, if the drawing-room were larger; but Ashworth is too far off! I could not bear to have her ten miles from me; and as for Pulvis Lodge, the attics are dreadful."
|
||
Her husband allowed her to talk on without interruption while the servants remained. But when they had withdrawn, he said to her: "Mrs. Bennet, before you take any or all of these houses for your son and daughter, let us come to a right understanding. Into ONE house in this neighbourhood they shall never have admittance. I will not encourage the impudence of either, by receiving them at Longbourn."
|
||
A long dispute followed this declaration; but Mr. Bennet was firm. It soon led to another; and Mrs. Bennet found, with amazement and horror, that her husband would not advance a guinea to buy clothes for his daughter. He protested that she should receive from him no mark of affection whatever on the occasion. Mrs. Bennet could hardly comprehend it. That his anger could be carried to such a point of inconceivable resentment as to refuse his daughter a privilege without which her marriage would scarcely seem valid, exceeded all she could believe possible. She was more alive to the disgrace which her want of new clothes must reflect on her daughter's nuptials, than to any sense of shame at her eloping and living with Wickham a fortnight before they took place.
|
||
Elizabeth was now most heartily sorry that she had, from the distress of the moment, been led to make Mr. Darcy acquainted with their fears for her sister; for since her marriage would so shortly give the proper termination to the elopement, they might hope to conceal its unfavourable beginning from all those who were not immediately on the spot.
|
||
She had no fear of its spreading farther through his means. There were few people on whose secrecy she would have more confidently depended; but, at the same time, there was no one whose knowledge of a sister's frailty would have mortified her so much—not, however, from any fear of disadvantage from it individually to herself, for, at any rate, there seemed a gulf impassable between them. Had Lydia's marriage been concluded on the most honourable terms, it was not to be supposed that Mr. Darcy would connect himself with a family where, to every other objection, would now be added an alliance and relationship of the nearest kind with a man whom he so justly scorned.
|
||
From such a connection she could not wonder that he would shrink. The wish of procuring her regard, which she had assured herself of his feeling in Derbyshire, could not in rational expectation survive such a blow as this. She was humbled, she was grieved; she repented, though she hardly knew of what. She became jealous of his esteem, when she could no longer hope to be benefited by it. She wanted to hear of him, when there seemed the least chance of gaining intelligence. She was convinced that she could have been happy with him, when it was no longer likely they should meet.
|
||
What a triumph for him, as she often thought, could he know that the proposals which she had proudly spurned only four months ago, would now have been most gladly and gratefully received! He was as generous, she doubted not, as the most generous of his sex; but while he was mortal, there must be a triumph.
|
||
She began now to comprehend that he was exactly the man who, in disposition and talents, would most suit her. His understanding and temper, though unlike her own, would have answered all her wishes. It was an union that must have been to the advantage of both; by her ease and liveliness, his mind might have been softened, his manners improved; and from his judgement, information, and knowledge of the world, she must have received benefit of greater importance.
|
||
But no such happy marriage could now teach the admiring multitude what connubial felicity really was. An union of a different tendency, and precluding the possibility of the other, was soon to be formed in their family.
|
||
How Wickham and Lydia were to be supported in tolerable independence, she could not imagine. But how little of permanent happiness could belong to a couple who were only brought together because their passions were stronger than their virtue, she could easily conjecture.
|
||
* * * * *
|
||
Mr. Gardiner soon wrote again to his brother. To Mr. Bennet's acknowledgments he briefly replied, with assurance of his eagerness to promote the welfare of any of his family; and concluded with entreaties that the subject might never be mentioned to him again. The principal purport of his letter was to inform them that Mr. Wickham had resolved on quitting the militia.
|
||
"It was greatly my wish that he should do so," he added, "as soon as his marriage was fixed on. And I think you will agree with me, in considering the removal from that corps as highly advisable, both on his account and my niece's. It is Mr. Wickham's intention to go into the regulars; and among his former friends, there are still some who are able and willing to assist him in the army. He has the promise of an ensigncy in General ——'s regiment, now quartered in the North. It is an advantage to have it so far from this part of the kingdom. He promises fairly; and I hope among different people, where they may each have a character to preserve, they will both be more prudent. I have written to Colonel Forster, to inform him of our present arrangements, and to request that he will satisfy the various creditors of Mr. Wickham in and near Brighton, with assurances of speedy payment, for which I have pledged myself. And will you give yourself the trouble of carrying similar assurances to his creditors in Meryton, of whom I shall subjoin a list according to his information? He has given in all his debts; I hope at least he has not deceived us. Haggerston has our directions, and all will be completed in a week. They will then join his regiment, unless they are first invited to Longbourn; and I understand from Mrs. Gardiner, that my niece is very desirous of seeing you all before she leaves the South. She is well, and begs to be dutifully remembered to you and your mother.—Yours, etc.,
|
||
"E. GARDINER."
|
||
Mr. Bennet and his daughters saw all the advantages of Wickham's removal from the ——shire as clearly as Mr. Gardiner could do. But Mrs. Bennet was not so well pleased with it. Lydia's being settled in the North, just when she had expected most pleasure and pride in her company, for she had by no means given up her plan of their residing in Hertfordshire, was a severe disappointment; and, besides, it was such a pity that Lydia should be taken from a regiment where she was acquainted with everybody, and had so many favourites.
|
||
"She is so fond of Mrs. Forster," said she, "it will be quite shocking to send her away! And there are several of the young men, too, that she likes very much. The officers may not be so pleasant in General——'s regiment."
|
||
His daughter's request, for such it might be considered, of being admitted into her family again before she set off for the North, received at first an absolute negative. But Jane and Elizabeth, who agreed in wishing, for the sake of their sister's feelings and consequence, that she should be noticed on her marriage by her parents, urged him so earnestly yet so rationally and so mildly, to receive her and her husband at Longbourn, as soon as they were married, that he was prevailed on to think as they thought, and act as they wished. And their mother had the satisfaction of knowing that she would be able to show her married daughter in the neighbourhood before she was banished to the North. When Mr. Bennet wrote again to his brother, therefore, he sent his permission for them to come; and it was settled, that as soon as the ceremony was over, they should proceed to Longbourn. Elizabeth was surprised, however, that Wickham should consent to such a scheme, and had she consulted only her own inclination, any meeting with him would have been the last object of her wishes.
|
||
Chapter 51
|
||
Their sister's wedding day arrived; and Jane and Elizabeth felt for her probably more than she felt for herself. The carriage was sent to meet them at ——, and they were to return in it by dinner-time. Their arrival was dreaded by the elder Miss Bennets, and Jane more especially, who gave Lydia the feelings which would have attended herself, had she been the culprit, and was wretched in the thought of what her sister must endure.
|
||
They came. The family were assembled in the breakfast room to receive them. Smiles decked the face of Mrs. Bennet as the carriage drove up to the door; her husband looked impenetrably grave; her daughters, alarmed, anxious, uneasy.
|
||
Lydia's voice was heard in the vestibule; the door was thrown open, and she ran into the room. Her mother stepped forwards, embraced her, and welcomed her with rapture; gave her hand, with an affectionate smile, to Wickham, who followed his lady; and wished them both joy with an alacrity which shewed no doubt of their happiness.
|
||
Their reception from Mr. Bennet, to whom they then turned, was not quite so cordial. His countenance rather gained in austerity; and he scarcely opened his lips. The easy assurance of the young couple, indeed, was enough to provoke him. Elizabeth was disgusted, and even Miss Bennet was shocked. Lydia was Lydia still; untamed, unabashed, wild, noisy, and fearless. She turned from sister to sister, demanding their congratulations; and when at length they all sat down, looked eagerly round the room, took notice of some little alteration in it, and observed, with a laugh, that it was a great while since she had been there.
|
||
Wickham was not at all more distressed than herself, but his manners were always so pleasing, that had his character and his marriage been exactly what they ought, his smiles and his easy address, while he claimed their relationship, would have delighted them all. Elizabeth had not before believed him quite equal to such assurance; but she sat down, resolving within herself to draw no limits in future to the impudence of an impudent man. She blushed, and Jane blushed; but the cheeks of the two who caused their confusion suffered no variation of colour.
|
||
There was no want of discourse. The bride and her mother could neither of them talk fast enough; and Wickham, who happened to sit near Elizabeth, began inquiring after his acquaintance in that neighbourhood, with a good humoured ease which she felt very unable to equal in her replies. They seemed each of them to have the happiest memories in the world. Nothing of the past was recollected with pain; and Lydia led voluntarily to subjects which her sisters would not have alluded to for the world.
|
||
"Only think of its being three months," she cried, "since I went away; it seems but a fortnight I declare; and yet there have been things enough happened in the time. Good gracious! when I went away, I am sure I had no more idea of being married till I came back again! though I thought it would be very good fun if I was."
|
||
Her father lifted up his eyes. Jane was distressed. Elizabeth looked expressively at Lydia; but she, who never heard nor saw any thing of which she chose to be insensible, gaily continued, "Oh! mamma, do the people here abouts know I am married to-day? I was afraid they might not; and we overtook William Goulding in his curricle, so I was determined he should know it, and so I let down the side-glass next to him, and took off my glove, and let my hand just rest upon the window frame, so that he might see the ring, and then I bowed and smiled like any thing."
|
||
Elizabeth could bear it no longer. She got up, and ran out of the room; and returned no more, till she heard them passing through the hall to the dining parlour. She then joined them soon enough to see Lydia, with anxious parade, walk up to her mother's right hand, and hear her say to her eldest sister, "Ah! Jane, I take your place now, and you must go lower, because I am a married woman."
|
||
It was not to be supposed that time would give Lydia that embarrassment from which she had been so wholly free at first. Her ease and good spirits increased. She longed to see Mrs. Phillips, the Lucases, and all their other neighbours, and to hear herself called "Mrs. Wickham" by each of them; and in the mean time, she went after dinner to show her ring, and boast of being married, to Mrs. Hill and the two housemaids.
|
||
"Well, mamma," said she, when they were all returned to the breakfast room, "and what do you think of my husband? Is not he a charming man? I am sure my sisters must all envy me. I only hope they may have half my good luck. They must all go to Brighton. That is the place to get husbands. What a pity it is, mamma, we did not all go."
|
||
"Very true; and if I had my will, we should. But my dear Lydia, I don't at all like your going such a way off. Must it be so?"
|
||
"Oh, lord! yes;—there is nothing in that. I shall like it of all things. You and papa, and my sisters, must come down and see us. We shall be at Newcastle all the winter, and I dare say there will be some balls, and I will take care to get good partners for them all."
|
||
"I should like it beyond any thing!" said her mother.
|
||
"And then when you go away, you may leave one or two of my sisters behind you; and I dare say I shall get husbands for them before the winter is over."
|
||
"I thank you for my share of the favour," said Elizabeth; "but I do not particularly like your way of getting husbands."
|
||
Their visitors were not to remain above ten days with them. Mr. Wickham had received his commission before he left London, and he was to join his regiment at the end of a fortnight.
|
||
No one but Mrs. Bennet regretted that their stay would be so short; and she made the most of the time by visiting about with her daughter, and having very frequent parties at home. These parties were acceptable to all; to avoid a family circle was even more desirable to such as did think, than such as did not.
|
||
Wickham's affection for Lydia was just what Elizabeth had expected to find it; not equal to Lydia's for him. She had scarcely needed her present observation to be satisfied, from the reason of things, that their elopement had been brought on by the strength of her love, rather than by his; and she would have wondered why, without violently caring for her, he chose to elope with her at all, had she not felt certain that his flight was rendered necessary by distress of circumstances; and if that were the case, he was not the young man to resist an opportunity of having a companion.
|
||
Lydia was exceedingly fond of him. He was her dear Wickham on every occasion; no one was to be put in competition with him. He did every thing best in the world; and she was sure he would kill more birds on the first of September, than any body else in the country.
|
||
One morning, soon after their arrival, as she was sitting with her two elder sisters, she said to Elizabeth:
|
||
"Lizzy, I never gave YOU an account of my wedding, I believe. You were not by, when I told mamma and the others all about it. Are not you curious to hear how it was managed?"
|
||
"No really," replied Elizabeth; "I think there cannot be too little said on the subject."
|
||
"La! You are so strange! But I must tell you how it went off. We were married, you know, at St. Clement's, because Wickham's lodgings were in that parish. And it was settled that we should all be there by eleven o'clock. My uncle and aunt and I were to go together; and the others were to meet us at the church. Well, Monday morning came, and I was in such a fuss! I was so afraid, you know, that something would happen to put it off, and then I should have gone quite distracted. And there was my aunt, all the time I was dressing, preaching and talking away just as if she was reading a sermon. However, I did not hear above one word in ten, for I was thinking, you may suppose, of my dear Wickham. I longed to know whether he would be married in his blue coat."
|
||
"Well, and so we breakfasted at ten as usual; I thought it would never be over; for, by the bye, you are to understand, that my uncle and aunt were horrid unpleasant all the time I was with them. If you'll believe me, I did not once put my foot out of doors, though I was there a fortnight. Not one party, or scheme, or any thing. To be sure London was rather thin, but, however, the Little Theatre was open. Well, and so just as the carriage came to the door, my uncle was called away upon business to that horrid man Mr. Stone. And then, you know, when once they get together, there is no end of it. Well, I was so frightened I did not know what to do, for my uncle was to give me away; and if we were beyond the hour, we could not be married all day. But, luckily, he came back again in ten minutes' time, and then we all set out. However, I recollected afterwards that if he had been prevented going, the wedding need not be put off, for Mr. Darcy might have done as well."
|
||
"Mr. Darcy!" repeated Elizabeth, in utter amazement.
|
||
"Oh, yes!—he was to come there with Wickham, you know. But gracious me! I quite forgot! I ought not to have said a word about it. I promised them so faithfully! What will Wickham say? It was to be such a secret!"
|
||
"If it was to be secret," said Jane, "say not another word on the subject. You may depend upon my seeking no further."
|
||
"Oh! certainly," said Elizabeth, though burning with curiosity; "we will ask you no questions."
|
||
"Thank you," said Lydia, "for if you did, I should certainly tell you all, and then Wickham would be angry."
|
||
On such encouragement to ask, Elizabeth was forced to put it out of her power, by running away.
|
||
But to live in ignorance on such a point was impossible; or at least it was impossible not to try for information. Mr. Darcy had been at her sister's wedding. It was exactly a scene, and exactly among people, where he had apparently least to do, and least temptation to go. Conjectures as to the meaning of it, rapid and wild, hurried into her brain; but she was satisfied with none. Those that best pleased her, as placing his conduct in the noblest light, seemed most improbable. She could not bear such suspense; and hastily seizing a sheet of paper, wrote a short letter to her aunt, to request an explanation of what Lydia had dropt, if it were compatible with the secrecy which had been intended.
|
||
"You may readily comprehend," she added, "what my curiosity must be to know how a person unconnected with any of us, and (comparatively speaking) a stranger to our family, should have been amongst you at such a time. Pray write instantly, and let me understand it—unless it is, for very cogent reasons, to remain in the secrecy which Lydia seems to think necessary; and then I must endeavour to be satisfied with ignorance."
|
||
"Not that I SHALL, though," she added to herself, as she finished the letter; "and my dear aunt, if you do not tell me in an honourable manner, I shall certainly be reduced to tricks and stratagems to find it out."
|
||
Jane's delicate sense of honour would not allow her to speak to Elizabeth privately of what Lydia had let fall; Elizabeth was glad of it;—till it appeared whether her inquiries would receive any satisfaction, she had rather be without a confidante.
|
||
Chapter 52
|
||
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of receiving an answer to her letter as soon as she possibly could. She was no sooner in possession of it than, hurrying into the little copse, where she was least likely to be interrupted, she sat down on one of the benches and prepared to be happy; for the length of the letter convinced her that it did not contain a denial.
|
||
"Gracechurch street, Sept. 6.
|
||
"MY DEAR NIECE,
|
||
"I have just received your letter, and shall devote this whole morning to answering it, as I foresee that a LITTLE writing will not comprise what I have to tell you. I must confess myself surprised by your application; I did not expect it from YOU. Don't think me angry, however, for I only mean to let you know that I had not imagined such inquiries to be necessary on YOUR side. If you do not choose to understand me, forgive my impertinence. Your uncle is as much surprised as I am—and nothing but the belief of your being a party concerned would have allowed him to act as he has done. But if you are really innocent and ignorant, I must be more explicit. On the very day of my coming home from Longbourn, your uncle had a most unexpected visitor. Mr. Darcy called, and was shut up with him several hours. It was all over before I arrived; so my curiosity was not so dreadfully racked as YOUR'S seems to have been. He came to tell Mr. Gardiner that he had found out where your sister and Mr. Wickham were, and that he had seen and talked with them both; Wickham repeatedly, Lydia once. From what I can collect, he left Derbyshire only one day after ourselves, and came to town with the resolution of hunting for them. The motive professed was his conviction of its being owing to himself that Wickham's worthlessness had not been so well known as to make it impossible for any young woman of character to love or confide in him. He generously imputed the whole to his mistaken pride, and confessed that he had before thought it beneath him to lay his private actions open to the world. His character was to speak for itself. He called it, therefore, his duty to step forward, and endeavour to remedy an evil which had been brought on by himself. If he HAD ANOTHER motive, I am sure it would never disgrace him. He had been some days in town, before he was able to discover them; but he had something to direct his search, which was more than WE had; and the consciousness of this was another reason for his resolving to follow us. There is a lady, it seems, a Mrs. Younge, who was some time ago governess to Miss Darcy, and was dismissed from her charge on some cause of disapprobation, though he did not say what. She then took a large house in Edward-street, and has since maintained herself by letting lodgings. This Mrs. Younge was, he knew, intimately acquainted with Wickham; and he went to her for intelligence of him as soon as he got to town. But it was two or three days before he could get from her what he wanted. She would not betray her trust, I suppose, without bribery and corruption, for she really did know where her friend was to be found. Wickham indeed had gone to her on their first arrival in London, and had she been able to receive them into her house, they would have taken up their abode with her. At length, however, our kind friend procured the wished-for direction. They were in —— street. He saw Wickham, and afterwards insisted on seeing Lydia. His first object with her, he acknowledged, had been to persuade her to quit her present disgraceful situation, and return to her friends as soon as they could be prevailed on to receive her, offering his assistance, as far as it would go. But he found Lydia absolutely resolved on remaining where she was. She cared for none of her friends; she wanted no help of his; she would not hear of leaving Wickham. She was sure they should be married some time or other, and it did not much signify when. Since such were her feelings, it only remained, he thought, to secure and expedite a marriage, which, in his very first conversation with Wickham, he easily learnt had never been HIS design. He confessed himself obliged to leave the regiment, on account of some debts of honour, which were very pressing; and scrupled not to lay all the ill-consequences of Lydia's flight on her own folly alone. He meant to resign his commission immediately; and as to his future situation, he could conjecture very little about it. He must go somewhere, but he did not know where, and he knew he should have nothing to live on. Mr. Darcy asked him why he had not married your sister at once. Though Mr. Bennet was not imagined to be very rich, he would have been able to do something for him, and his situation must have been benefited by marriage. But he found, in reply to this question, that Wickham still cherished the hope of more effectually making his fortune by marriage in some other country. Under such circumstances, however, he was not likely to be proof against the temptation of immediate relief. They met several times, for there was much to be discussed. Wickham of course wanted more than he could get; but at length was reduced to be reasonable. Every thing being settled between THEM, Mr. Darcy's next step was to make your uncle acquainted with it, and he first called in Gracechurch street the evening before I came home. But Mr. Gardiner could not be seen, and Mr. Darcy found, on further inquiry, that your father was still with him, but would quit town the next morning. He did not judge your father to be a person whom he could so properly consult as your uncle, and therefore readily postponed seeing him till after the departure of the former. He did not leave his name, and till the next day it was only known that a gentleman had called on business. On Saturday he came again. Your father was gone, your uncle at home, and, as I said before, they had a great deal of talk together. They met again on Sunday, and then I saw him too. It was not all settled before Monday: as soon as it was, the express was sent off to Longbourn. But our visitor was very obstinate. I fancy, Lizzy, that obstinacy is the real defect of his character, after all. He has been accused of many faults at different times, but THIS is the true one. Nothing was to be done that he did not do himself; though I am sure (and I do not speak it to be thanked, therefore say nothing about it), your uncle would most readily have settled the whole. They battled it together for a long time, which was more than either the gentleman or lady concerned in it deserved. But at last your uncle was forced to yield, and instead of being allowed to be of use to his niece, was forced to put up with only having the probable credit of it, which went sorely against the grain; and I really believe your letter this morning gave him great pleasure, because it required an explanation that would rob him of his borrowed feathers, and give the praise where it was due. But, Lizzy, this must go no farther than yourself, or Jane at most. You know pretty well, I suppose, what has been done for the young people. His debts are to be paid, amounting, I believe, to considerably more than a thousand pounds, another thousand in addition to her own settled upon HER, and his commission purchased. The reason why all this was to be done by him alone, was such as I have given above. It was owing to him, to his reserve and want of proper consideration, that Wickham's character had been so misunderstood, and consequently that he had been received and noticed as he was. Perhaps there was some truth in THIS; though I doubt whether HIS reserve, or ANYBODY'S reserve, can be answerable for the event. But in spite of all this fine talking, my dear Lizzy, you may rest perfectly assured that your uncle would never have yielded, if we had not given him credit for ANOTHER INTEREST in the affair. When all this was resolved on, he returned again to his friends, who were still staying at Pemberley; but it was agreed that he should be in London once more when the wedding took place, and all money matters were then to receive the last finish. I believe I have now told you every thing. It is a relation which you tell me is to give you great surprise; I hope at least it will not afford you any displeasure. Lydia came to us; and Wickham had constant admission to the house. HE was exactly what he had been, when I knew him in Hertfordshire; but I would not tell you how little I was satisfied with her behaviour while she staid with us, if I had not perceived, by Jane's letter last Wednesday, that her conduct on coming home was exactly of a piece with it, and therefore what I now tell you can give you no fresh pain. I talked to her repeatedly in the most serious manner, representing to her all the wickedness of what she had done, and all the unhappiness she had brought on her family. If she heard me, it was by good luck, for I am sure she did not listen. I was sometimes quite provoked, but then I recollected my dear Elizabeth and Jane, and for their sakes had patience with her. Mr. Darcy was punctual in his return, and as Lydia informed you, attended the wedding. He dined with us the next day, and was to leave town again on Wednesday or Thursday. Will you be very angry with me, my dear Lizzy, if I take this opportunity of saying (what I was never bold enough to say before) how much I like him. His behaviour to us has, in every respect, been as pleasing as when we were in Derbyshire. His understanding and opinions all please me; he wants nothing but a little more liveliness, and THAT, if he marry PRUDENTLY, his wife may teach him. I thought him very sly;—he hardly ever mentioned your name. But slyness seems the fashion. Pray forgive me if I have been very presuming, or at least do not punish me so far as to exclude me from P. I shall never be quite happy till I have been all round the park. A low phaeton, with a nice little pair of ponies, would be the very thing. But I must write no more. The children have been wanting me this half hour. Yours, very sincerely,
|
||
"M. GARDINER."
|
||
The contents of this letter threw Elizabeth into a flutter of spirits, in which it was difficult to determine whether pleasure or pain bore the greatest share. The vague and unsettled suspicions which uncertainty had produced of what Mr. Darcy might have been doing to forward her sister's match, which she had feared to encourage as an exertion of goodness too great to be probable, and at the same time dreaded to be just, from the pain of obligation, were proved beyond their greatest extent to be true! He had followed them purposely to town, he had taken on himself all the trouble and mortification attendant on such a research; in which supplication had been necessary to a woman whom he must abominate and despise, and where he was reduced to meet, frequently meet, reason with, persuade, and finally bribe, the man whom he always most wished to avoid, and whose very name it was punishment to him to pronounce. He had done all this for a girl whom he could neither regard nor esteem. Her heart did whisper that he had done it for her. But it was a hope shortly checked by other considerations, and she soon felt that even her vanity was insufficient, when required to depend on his affection for her —for a woman who had already refused him—as able to overcome a sentiment so natural as abhorrence against relationship with Wickham. Brother-in-law of Wickham! Every kind of pride must revolt from the connection. He had, to be sure, done much. She was ashamed to think how much. But he had given a reason for his interference, which asked no extraordinary stretch of belief. It was reasonable that he should feel he had been wrong; he had liberality, and he had the means of exercising it; and though she would not place herself as his principal inducement, she could, perhaps, believe that remaining partiality for her might assist his endeavours in a cause where her peace of mind must be materially concerned. It was painful, exceedingly painful, to know that they were under obligations to a person who could never receive a return. They owed the restoration of Lydia, her character, every thing, to him. Oh! how heartily did she grieve over every ungracious sensation she had ever encouraged, every saucy speech she had ever directed towards him. For herself she was humbled; but she was proud of him. Proud that in a cause of compassion and honour, he had been able to get the better of himself. She read over her aunt's commendation of him again and again. It was hardly enough; but it pleased her. She was even sensible of some pleasure, though mixed with regret, on finding how steadfastly both she and her uncle had been persuaded that affection and confidence subsisted between Mr. Darcy and herself.
|
||
She was roused from her seat, and her reflections, by some one's approach; and before she could strike into another path, she was overtaken by Wickham.
|
||
"I am afraid I interrupt your solitary ramble, my dear sister?" said he, as he joined her.
|
||
"You certainly do," she replied with a smile; "but it does not follow that the interruption must be unwelcome."
|
||
"I should be sorry indeed, if it were. We were always good friends; and now we are better."
|
||
"True. Are the others coming out?"
|
||
"I do not know. Mrs. Bennet and Lydia are going in the carriage to Meryton. And so, my dear sister, I find, from our uncle and aunt, that you have actually seen Pemberley."
|
||
She replied in the affirmative.
|
||
"I almost envy you the pleasure, and yet I believe it would be too much for me, or else I could take it in my way to Newcastle. And you saw the old housekeeper, I suppose? Poor Reynolds, she was always very fond of me. But of course she did not mention my name to you."
|
||
"Yes, she did."
|
||
"And what did she say?"
|
||
"That you were gone into the army, and she was afraid had —not turned out well. At such a distance as THAT, you know, things are strangely misrepresented."
|
||
"Certainly," he replied, biting his lips. Elizabeth hoped she had silenced him; but he soon afterwards said:
|
||
"I was surprised to see Darcy in town last month. We passed each other several times. I wonder what he can be doing there."
|
||
"Perhaps preparing for his marriage with Miss de Bourgh," said Elizabeth. "It must be something particular, to take him there at this time of year."
|
||
"Undoubtedly. Did you see him while you were at Lambton? I thought I understood from the Gardiners that you had."
|
||
"Yes; he introduced us to his sister."
|
||
"And do you like her?"
|
||
"Very much."
|
||
"I have heard, indeed, that she is uncommonly improved within this year or two. When I last saw her, she was not very promising. I am very glad you liked her. I hope she will turn out well."
|
||
"I dare say she will; she has got over the most trying age."
|
||
"Did you go by the village of Kympton?"
|
||
"I do not recollect that we did."
|
||
"I mention it, because it is the living which I ought to have had. A most delightful place!—Excellent Parsonage House! It would have suited me in every respect."
|
||
"How should you have liked making sermons?"
|
||
"Exceedingly well. I should have considered it as part of my duty, and the exertion would soon have been nothing. One ought not to repine;—but, to be sure, it would have been such a thing for me! The quiet, the retirement of such a life would have answered all my ideas of happiness! But it was not to be. Did you ever hear Darcy mention the circumstance, when you were in Kent?"
|
||
"I have heard from authority, which I thought AS GOOD, that it was left you conditionally only, and at the will of the present patron."
|
||
"You have. Yes, there was something in THAT; I told you so from the first, you may remember."
|
||
"I DID hear, too, that there was a time, when sermon-making was not so palatable to you as it seems to be at present; that you actually declared your resolution of never taking orders, and that the business had been compromised accordingly."
|
||
"You did! and it was not wholly without foundation. You may remember what I told you on that point, when first we talked of it."
|
||
They were now almost at the door of the house, for she had walked fast to get rid of him; and unwilling, for her sister's sake, to provoke him, she only said in reply, with a good-humoured smile:
|
||
"Come, Mr. Wickham, we are brother and sister, you know. Do not let us quarrel about the past. In future, I hope we shall be always of one mind."
|
||
She held out her hand; he kissed it with affectionate gallantry, though he hardly knew how to look, and they entered the house.
|
||
Chapter 53
|
||
Mr. Wickham was so perfectly satisfied with this conversation that he never again distressed himself, or provoked his dear sister Elizabeth, by introducing the subject of it; and she was pleased to find that she had said enough to keep him quiet.
|
||
The day of his and Lydia's departure soon came, and Mrs. Bennet was forced to submit to a separation, which, as her husband by no means entered into her scheme of their all going to Newcastle, was likely to continue at least a twelvemonth.
|
||
"Oh! my dear Lydia," she cried, "when shall we meet again?"
|
||
"Oh, lord! I don't know. Not these two or three years, perhaps."
|
||
"Write to me very often, my dear."
|
||
"As often as I can. But you know married women have never much time for writing. My sisters may write to ME. They will have nothing else to do."
|
||
Mr. Wickham's adieus were much more affectionate than his wife's. He smiled, looked handsome, and said many pretty things.
|
||
"He is as fine a fellow," said Mr. Bennet, as soon as they were out of the house, "as ever I saw. He simpers, and smirks, and makes love to us all. I am prodigiously proud of him. I defy even Sir William Lucas himself to produce a more valuable son-in-law."
|
||
The loss of her daughter made Mrs. Bennet very dull for several days.
|
||
"I often think," said she, "that there is nothing so bad as parting with one's friends. One seems so forlorn without them."
|
||
"This is the consequence, you see, Madam, of marrying a daughter," said Elizabeth. "It must make you better satisfied that your other four are single."
|
||
"It is no such thing. Lydia does not leave me because she is married, but only because her husband's regiment happens to be so far off. If that had been nearer, she would not have gone so soon."
|
||
But the spiritless condition which this event threw her into was shortly relieved, and her mind opened again to the agitation of hope, by an article of news which then began to be in circulation. The housekeeper at Netherfield had received orders to prepare for the arrival of her master, who was coming down in a day or two, to shoot there for several weeks. Mrs. Bennet was quite in the fidgets. She looked at Jane, and smiled and shook her head by turns.
|
||
"Well, well, and so Mr. Bingley is coming down, sister," (for Mrs. Phillips first brought her the news). "Well, so much the better. Not that I care about it, though. He is nothing to us, you know, and I am sure I never want to see him again. But, however, he is very welcome to come to Netherfield, if he likes it. And who knows what MAY happen? But that is nothing to us. You know, sister, we agreed long ago never to mention a word about it. And so, is it quite certain he is coming?"
|
||
"You may depend on it," replied the other, "for Mrs. Nicholls was in Meryton last night; I saw her passing by, and went out myself on purpose to know the truth of it; and she told me that it was certain true. He comes down on Thursday at the latest, very likely on Wednesday. She was going to the butcher's, she told me, on purpose to order in some meat on Wednesday, and she has got three couple of ducks just fit to be killed."
|
||
Miss Bennet had not been able to hear of his coming without changing colour. It was many months since she had mentioned his name to Elizabeth; but now, as soon as they were alone together, she said:
|
||
"I saw you look at me to-day, Lizzy, when my aunt told us of the present report; and I know I appeared distressed. But don't imagine it was from any silly cause. I was only confused for the moment, because I felt that I SHOULD be looked at. I do assure you that the news does not affect me either with pleasure or pain. I am glad of one thing, that he comes alone; because we shall see the less of him. Not that I am afraid of MYSELF, but I dread other people's remarks."
|
||
Elizabeth did not know what to make of it. Had she not seen him in Derbyshire, she might have supposed him capable of coming there with no other view than what was acknowledged; but she still thought him partial to Jane, and she wavered as to the greater probability of his coming there WITH his friend's permission, or being bold enough to come without it.
|
||
"Yet it is hard," she sometimes thought, "that this poor man cannot come to a house which he has legally hired, without raising all this speculation! I WILL leave him to himself."
|
||
In spite of what her sister declared, and really believed to be her feelings in the expectation of his arrival, Elizabeth could easily perceive that her spirits were affected by it. They were more disturbed, more unequal, than she had often seen them.
|
||
The subject which had been so warmly canvassed between their parents, about a twelvemonth ago, was now brought forward again.
|
||
"As soon as ever Mr. Bingley comes, my dear," said Mrs. Bennet, "you will wait on him of course."
|
||
"No, no. You forced me into visiting him last year, and promised, if I went to see him, he should marry one of my daughters. But it ended in nothing, and I will not be sent on a fool's errand again."
|
||
His wife represented to him how absolutely necessary such an attention would be from all the neighbouring gentlemen, on his returning to Netherfield.
|
||
"'Tis an etiquette I despise," said he. "If he wants our society, let him seek it. He knows where we live. I will not spend my hours in running after my neighbours every time they go away and come back again."
|
||
"Well, all I know is, that it will be abominably rude if you do not wait on him. But, however, that shan't prevent my asking him to dine here, I am determined. We must have Mrs. Long and the Gouldings soon. That will make thirteen with ourselves, so there will be just room at table for him."
|
||
Consoled by this resolution, she was the better able to bear her husband's incivility; though it was very mortifying to know that her neighbours might all see Mr. Bingley, in consequence of it, before THEY did. As the day of his arrival drew near:
|
||
"I begin to be sorry that he comes at all," said Jane to her sister. "It would be nothing; I could see him with perfect indifference, but I can hardly bear to hear it thus perpetually talked of. My mother means well; but she does not know, no one can know, how much I suffer from what she says. Happy shall I be, when his stay at Netherfield is over!"
|
||
"I wish I could say any thing to comfort you," replied Elizabeth; "but it is wholly out of my power. You must feel it; and the usual satisfaction of preaching patience to a sufferer is denied me, because you have always so much."
|
||
Mr. Bingley arrived. Mrs. Bennet, through the assistance of servants, contrived to have the earliest tidings of it, that the period of anxiety and fretfulness on her side might be as long as it could. She counted the days that must intervene before their invitation could be sent; hopeless of seeing him before. But on the third morning after his arrival in Hertfordshire, she saw him, from her dressing-room window, enter the paddock and ride towards the house.
|
||
Her daughters were eagerly called to partake of her joy. Jane resolutely kept her place at the table; but Elizabeth, to satisfy her mother, went to the window—she looked,—she saw Mr. Darcy with him, and sat down again by her sister.
|
||
"There is a gentleman with him, mamma," said Kitty; "who can it be?"
|
||
"Some acquaintance or other, my dear, I suppose; I am sure I do not know."
|
||
"La!" replied Kitty, "it looks just like that man that used to be with him before. Mr. what's-his-name. That tall, proud man."
|
||
"Good gracious! Mr. Darcy!—and so it does, I vow. Well, any friend of Mr. Bingley's will always be welcome here, to be sure; but else I must say that I hate the very sight of him."
|
||
Jane looked at Elizabeth with surprise and concern. She knew but little of their meeting in Derbyshire, and therefore felt for the awkwardness which must attend her sister, in seeing him almost for the first time after receiving his explanatory letter. Both sisters were uncomfortable enough. Each felt for the other, and of course for themselves; and their mother talked on, of her dislike of Mr. Darcy, and her resolution to be civil to him only as Mr. Bingley's friend, without being heard by either of them. But Elizabeth had sources of uneasiness which could not be suspected by Jane, to whom she had never yet had courage to shew Mrs. Gardiner's letter, or to relate her own change of sentiment towards him. To Jane, he could be only a man whose proposals she had refused, and whose merit she had undervalued; but to her own more extensive information, he was the person to whom the whole family were indebted for the first of benefits, and whom she regarded herself with an interest, if not quite so tender, at least as reasonable and just as what Jane felt for Bingley. Her astonishment at his coming—at his coming to Netherfield, to Longbourn, and voluntarily seeking her again, was almost equal to what she had known on first witnessing his altered behaviour in Derbyshire.
|
||
The colour which had been driven from her face, returned for half a minute with an additional glow, and a smile of delight added lustre to her eyes, as she thought for that space of time that his affection and wishes must still be unshaken. But she would not be secure.
|
||
"Let me first see how he behaves," said she; "it will then be early enough for expectation."
|
||
She sat intently at work, striving to be composed, and without daring to lift up her eyes, till anxious curiosity carried them to the face of her sister as the servant was approaching the door. Jane looked a little paler than usual, but more sedate than Elizabeth had expected. On the gentlemen's appearing, her colour increased; yet she received them with tolerable ease, and with a propriety of behaviour equally free from any symptom of resentment or any unnecessary complaisance.
|
||
Elizabeth said as little to either as civility would allow, and sat down again to her work, with an eagerness which it did not often command. She had ventured only one glance at Darcy. He looked serious, as usual; and, she thought, more as he had been used to look in Hertfordshire, than as she had seen him at Pemberley. But, perhaps he could not in her mother's presence be what he was before her uncle and aunt. It was a painful, but not an improbable, conjecture.
|
||
Bingley, she had likewise seen for an instant, and in that short period saw him looking both pleased and embarrassed. He was received by Mrs. Bennet with a degree of civility which made her two daughters ashamed, especially when contrasted with the cold and ceremonious politeness of her curtsey and address to his friend.
|
||
Elizabeth, particularly, who knew that her mother owed to the latter the preservation of her favourite daughter from irremediable infamy, was hurt and distressed to a most painful degree by a distinction so ill applied.
|
||
Darcy, after inquiring of her how Mr. and Mrs. Gardiner did, a question which she could not answer without confusion, said scarcely any thing. He was not seated by her; perhaps that was the reason of his silence; but it had not been so in Derbyshire. There he had talked to her friends, when he could not to herself. But now several minutes elapsed without bringing the sound of his voice; and when occasionally, unable to resist the impulse of curiosity, she raised he eyes to his face, she as often found him looking at Jane as at herself, and frequently on no object but the ground. More thoughtfulness and less anxiety to please, than when they last met, were plainly expressed. She was disappointed, and angry with herself for being so.
|
||
"Could I expect it to be otherwise!" said she. "Yet why did he come?"
|
||
She was in no humour for conversation with anyone but himself; and to him she had hardly courage to speak.
|
||
She inquired after his sister, but could do no more.
|
||
"It is a long time, Mr. Bingley, since you went away," said Mrs. Bennet.
|
||
He readily agreed to it.
|
||
"I began to be afraid you would never come back again. People DID say you meant to quit the place entirely at Michaelmas; but, however, I hope it is not true. A great many changes have happened in the neighbourhood, since you went away. Miss Lucas is married and settled. And one of my own daughters. I suppose you have heard of it; indeed, you must have seen it in the papers. It was in The Times and The Courier, I know; though it was not put in as it ought to be. It was only said, 'Lately, George Wickham, Esq. to Miss Lydia Bennet,' without there being a syllable said of her father, or the place where she lived, or any thing. It was my brother Gardiner's drawing up too, and I wonder how he came to make such an awkward business of it. Did you see it?"
|
||
Bingley replied that he did, and made his congratulations. Elizabeth dared not lift up her eyes. How Mr. Darcy looked, therefore, she could not tell.
|
||
"It is a delightful thing, to be sure, to have a daughter well married," continued her mother, "but at the same time, Mr. Bingley, it is very hard to have her taken such a way from me. They are gone down to Newcastle, a place quite northward, it seems, and there they are to stay I do not know how long. His regiment is there; for I suppose you have heard of his leaving the ——shire, and of his being gone into the regulars. Thank Heaven! he has SOME friends, though perhaps not so many as he deserves."
|
||
Elizabeth, who knew this to be levelled at Mr. Darcy, was in such misery of shame, that she could hardly keep her seat. It drew from her, however, the exertion of speaking, which nothing else had so effectually done before; and she asked Bingley whether he meant to make any stay in the country at present. A few weeks, he believed.
|
||
"When you have killed all your own birds, Mr. Bingley," said her mother, "I beg you will come here, and shoot as many as you please on Mr. Bennet's manor. I am sure he will be vastly happy to oblige you, and will save all the best of the covies for you."
|
||
Elizabeth's misery increased, at such unnecessary, such officious attention! Were the same fair prospect to arise at present as had flattered them a year ago, every thing, she was persuaded, would be hastening to the same vexatious conclusion. At that instant, she felt that years of happiness could not make Jane or herself amends for moments of such painful confusion.
|
||
"The first wish of my heart," said she to herself, "is never more to be in company with either of them. Their society can afford no pleasure that will atone for such wretchedness as this! Let me never see either one or the other again!"
|
||
Yet the misery, for which years of happiness were to offer no compensation, received soon afterwards material relief, from observing how much the beauty of her sister re-kindled the admiration of her former lover. When first he came in, he had spoken to her but little; but every five minutes seemed to be giving her more of his attention. He found her as handsome as she had been last year; as good natured, and as unaffected, though not quite so chatty. Jane was anxious that no difference should be perceived in her at all, and was really persuaded that she talked as much as ever. But her mind was so busily engaged, that she did not always know when she was silent.
|
||
When the gentlemen rose to go away, Mrs. Bennet was mindful of her intended civility, and they were invited and engaged to dine at Longbourn in a few days time.
|
||
"You are quite a visit in my debt, Mr. Bingley," she added, "for when you went to town last winter, you promised to take a family dinner with us, as soon as you returned. I have not forgot, you see; and I assure you, I was very much disappointed that you did not come back and keep your engagement."
|
||
Bingley looked a little silly at this reflection, and said something of his concern at having been prevented by business. They then went away.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet had been strongly inclined to ask them to stay and dine there that day; but, though she always kept a very good table, she did not think any thing less than two courses could be good enough for a man on whom she had such anxious designs, or satisfy the appetite and pride of one who had ten thousand a year.
|
||
Chapter 54
|
||
As soon as they were gone, Elizabeth walked out to recover her spirits; or in other words, to dwell without interruption on those subjects that must deaden them more. Mr. Darcy's behaviour astonished and vexed her.
|
||
"Why, if he came only to be silent, grave, and indifferent," said she, "did he come at all?"
|
||
She could settle it in no way that gave her pleasure.
|
||
"He could be still amiable, still pleasing, to my uncle and aunt, when he was in town; and why not to me? If he fears me, why come hither? If he no longer cares for me, why silent? Teasing, teasing, man! I will think no more about him."
|
||
Her resolution was for a short time involuntarily kept by the approach of her sister, who joined her with a cheerful look, which showed her better satisfied with their visitors, than Elizabeth.
|
||
"Now," said she, "that this first meeting is over, I feel perfectly easy. I know my own strength, and I shall never be embarrassed again by his coming. I am glad he dines here on Tuesday. It will then be publicly seen that, on both sides, we meet only as common and indifferent acquaintance."
|
||
"Yes, very indifferent indeed," said Elizabeth, laughingly. "Oh, Jane, take care."
|
||
"My dear Lizzy, you cannot think me so weak, as to be in danger now?"
|
||
"I think you are in very great danger of making him as much in love with you as ever."
|
||
* * * * *
|
||
They did not see the gentlemen again till Tuesday; and Mrs. Bennet, in the meanwhile, was giving way to all the happy schemes, which the good humour and common politeness of Bingley, in half an hour's visit, had revived.
|
||
On Tuesday there was a large party assembled at Longbourn; and the two who were most anxiously expected, to the credit of their punctuality as sportsmen, were in very good time. When they repaired to the dining-room, Elizabeth eagerly watched to see whether Bingley would take the place, which, in all their former parties, had belonged to him, by her sister. Her prudent mother, occupied by the same ideas, forbore to invite him to sit by herself. On entering the room, he seemed to hesitate; but Jane happened to look round, and happened to smile: it was decided. He placed himself by her.
|
||
Elizabeth, with a triumphant sensation, looked towards his friend. He bore it with noble indifference, and she would have imagined that Bingley had received his sanction to be happy, had she not seen his eyes likewise turned towards Mr. Darcy, with an expression of half-laughing alarm.
|
||
His behaviour to her sister was such, during dinner time, as showed an admiration of her, which, though more guarded than formerly, persuaded Elizabeth, that if left wholly to himself, Jane's happiness, and his own, would be speedily secured. Though she dared not depend upon the consequence, she yet received pleasure from observing his behaviour. It gave her all the animation that her spirits could boast; for she was in no cheerful humour. Mr. Darcy was almost as far from her as the table could divide them. He was on one side of her mother. She knew how little such a situation would give pleasure to either, or make either appear to advantage. She was not near enough to hear any of their discourse, but she could see how seldom they spoke to each other, and how formal and cold was their manner whenever they did. Her mother's ungraciousness, made the sense of what they owed him more painful to Elizabeth's mind; and she would, at times, have given any thing to be privileged to tell him that his kindness was neither unknown nor unfelt by the whole of the family.
|
||
She was in hopes that the evening would afford some opportunity of bringing them together; that the whole of the visit would not pass away without enabling them to enter into something more of conversation than the mere ceremonious salutation attending his entrance. Anxious and uneasy, the period which passed in the drawing-room, before the gentlemen came, was wearisome and dull to a degree that almost made her uncivil. She looked forward to their entrance as the point on which all her chance of pleasure for the evening must depend.
|
||
"If he does not come to me, THEN," said she, "I shall give him up for ever."
|
||
The gentlemen came; and she thought he looked as if he would have answered her hopes; but, alas! the ladies had crowded round the table, where Miss Bennet was making tea, and Elizabeth pouring out the coffee, in so close a confederacy that there was not a single vacancy near her which would admit of a chair. And on the gentlemen's approaching, one of the girls moved closer to her than ever, and said, in a whisper:
|
||
"The men shan't come and part us, I am determined. We want none of them; do we?"
|
||
Darcy had walked away to another part of the room. She followed him with her eyes, envied everyone to whom he spoke, had scarcely patience enough to help anybody to coffee; and then was enraged against herself for being so silly!
|
||
"A man who has once been refused! How could I ever be foolish enough to expect a renewal of his love? Is there one among the sex, who would not protest against such a weakness as a second proposal to the same woman? There is no indignity so abhorrent to their feelings!"
|
||
She was a little revived, however, by his bringing back his coffee cup himself; and she seized the opportunity of saying:
|
||
"Is your sister at Pemberley still?"
|
||
"Yes, she will remain there till Christmas."
|
||
"And quite alone? Have all her friends left her?"
|
||
"Mrs. Annesley is with her. The others have been gone on to Scarborough, these three weeks."
|
||
She could think of nothing more to say; but if he wished to converse with her, he might have better success. He stood by her, however, for some minutes, in silence; and, at last, on the young lady's whispering to Elizabeth again, he walked away.
|
||
When the tea-things were removed, and the card-tables placed, the ladies all rose, and Elizabeth was then hoping to be soon joined by him, when all her views were overthrown by seeing him fall a victim to her mother's rapacity for whist players, and in a few moments after seated with the rest of the party. She now lost every expectation of pleasure. They were confined for the evening at different tables, and she had nothing to hope, but that his eyes were so often turned towards her side of the room, as to make him play as unsuccessfully as herself.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet had designed to keep the two Netherfield gentlemen to supper; but their carriage was unluckily ordered before any of the others, and she had no opportunity of detaining them.
|
||
"Well girls," said she, as soon as they were left to themselves, "What say you to the day? I think every thing has passed off uncommonly well, I assure you. The dinner was as well dressed as any I ever saw. The venison was roasted to a turn—and everybody said they never saw so fat a haunch. The soup was fifty times better than what we had at the Lucases' last week; and even Mr. Darcy acknowledged, that the partridges were remarkably well done; and I suppose he has two or three French cooks at least. And, my dear Jane, I never saw you look in greater beauty. Mrs. Long said so too, for I asked her whether you did not. And what do you think she said besides? 'Ah! Mrs. Bennet, we shall have her at Netherfield at last.' She did indeed. I do think Mrs. Long is as good a creature as ever lived—and her nieces are very pretty behaved girls, and not at all handsome: I like them prodigiously."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet, in short, was in very great spirits; she had seen enough of Bingley's behaviour to Jane, to be convinced that she would get him at last; and her expectations of advantage to her family, when in a happy humour, were so far beyond reason, that she was quite disappointed at not seeing him there again the next day, to make his proposals.
|
||
"It has been a very agreeable day," said Miss Bennet to Elizabeth. "The party seemed so well selected, so suitable one with the other. I hope we may often meet again."
|
||
Elizabeth smiled.
|
||
"Lizzy, you must not do so. You must not suspect me. It mortifies me. I assure you that I have now learnt to enjoy his conversation as an agreeable and sensible young man, without having a wish beyond it. I am perfectly satisfied, from what his manners now are, that he never had any design of engaging my affection. It is only that he is blessed with greater sweetness of address, and a stronger desire of generally pleasing, than any other man."
|
||
"You are very cruel," said her sister, "you will not let me smile, and are provoking me to it every moment."
|
||
"How hard it is in some cases to be believed!"
|
||
"And how impossible in others!"
|
||
"But why should you wish to persuade me that I feel more than I acknowledge?"
|
||
"That is a question which I hardly know how to answer. We all love to instruct, though we can teach only what is not worth knowing. Forgive me; and if you persist in indifference, do not make me your confidante."
|
||
Chapter 55
|
||
A few days after this visit, Mr. Bingley called again, and alone. His friend had left him that morning for London, but was to return home in ten days time. He sat with them above an hour, and was in remarkably good spirits. Mrs. Bennet invited him to dine with them; but, with many expressions of concern, he confessed himself engaged elsewhere.
|
||
"Next time you call," said she, "I hope we shall be more lucky."
|
||
He should be particularly happy at any time, etc. etc.; and if she would give him leave, would take an early opportunity of waiting on them.
|
||
"Can you come to-morrow?"
|
||
Yes, he had no engagement at all for to-morrow; and her invitation was accepted with alacrity.
|
||
He came, and in such very good time that the ladies were none of them dressed. In ran Mrs. Bennet to her daughter's room, in her dressing gown, and with her hair half finished, crying out:
|
||
"My dear Jane, make haste and hurry down. He is come—Mr. Bingley is come. He is, indeed. Make haste, make haste. Here, Sarah, come to Miss Bennet this moment, and help her on with her gown. Never mind Miss Lizzy's hair."
|
||
"We will be down as soon as we can," said Jane; "but I dare say Kitty is forwarder than either of us, for she went up stairs half an hour ago."
|
||
"Oh! hang Kitty! what has she to do with it? Come be quick, be quick! Where is your sash, my dear?"
|
||
But when her mother was gone, Jane would not be prevailed on to go down without one of her sisters.
|
||
The same anxiety to get them by themselves was visible again in the evening. After tea, Mr. Bennet retired to the library, as was his custom, and Mary went up stairs to her instrument. Two obstacles of the five being thus removed, Mrs. Bennet sat looking and winking at Elizabeth and Catherine for a considerable time, without making any impression on them. Elizabeth would not observe her; and when at last Kitty did, she very innocently said, "What is the matter mamma? What do you keep winking at me for? What am I to do?"
|
||
"Nothing child, nothing. I did not wink at you." She then sat still five minutes longer; but unable to waste such a precious occasion, she suddenly got up, and saying to Kitty, "Come here, my love, I want to speak to you," took her out of the room. Jane instantly gave a look at Elizabeth which spoke her distress at such premeditation, and her entreaty that SHE would not give in to it. In a few minutes, Mrs. Bennet half-opened the door and called out:
|
||
"Lizzy, my dear, I want to speak with you."
|
||
Elizabeth was forced to go.
|
||
"We may as well leave them by themselves you know;" said her mother, as soon as she was in the hall. "Kitty and I are going upstairs to sit in my dressing-room."
|
||
Elizabeth made no attempt to reason with her mother, but remained quietly in the hall, till she and Kitty were out of sight, then returned into the drawing-room.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet's schemes for this day were ineffectual. Bingley was every thing that was charming, except the professed lover of her daughter. His ease and cheerfulness rendered him a most agreeable addition to their evening party; and he bore with the ill-judged officiousness of the mother, and heard all her silly remarks with a forbearance and command of countenance particularly grateful to the daughter.
|
||
He scarcely needed an invitation to stay supper; and before he went away, an engagement was formed, chiefly through his own and Mrs. Bennet's means, for his coming next morning to shoot with her husband.
|
||
After this day, Jane said no more of her indifference. Not a word passed between the sisters concerning Bingley; but Elizabeth went to bed in the happy belief that all must speedily be concluded, unless Mr. Darcy returned within the stated time. Seriously, however, she felt tolerably persuaded that all this must have taken place with that gentleman's concurrence.
|
||
Bingley was punctual to his appointment; and he and Mr. Bennet spent the morning together, as had been agreed on. The latter was much more agreeable than his companion expected. There was nothing of presumption or folly in Bingley that could provoke his ridicule, or disgust him into silence; and he was more communicative, and less eccentric, than the other had ever seen him. Bingley of course returned with him to dinner; and in the evening Mrs. Bennet's invention was again at work to get every body away from him and her daughter. Elizabeth, who had a letter to write, went into the breakfast room for that purpose soon after tea; for as the others were all going to sit down to cards, she could not be wanted to counteract her mother's schemes.
|
||
But on returning to the drawing-room, when her letter was finished, she saw, to her infinite surprise, there was reason to fear that her mother had been too ingenious for her. On opening the door, she perceived her sister and Bingley standing together over the hearth, as if engaged in earnest conversation; and had this led to no suspicion, the faces of both, as they hastily turned round and moved away from each other, would have told it all. Their situation was awkward enough; but HER'S she thought was still worse. Not a syllable was uttered by either; and Elizabeth was on the point of going away again, when Bingley, who as well as the other had sat down, suddenly rose, and whispering a few words to her sister, ran out of the room.
|
||
Jane could have no reserves from Elizabeth, where confidence would give pleasure; and instantly embracing her, acknowledged, with the liveliest emotion, that she was the happiest creature in the world.
|
||
"'Tis too much!" she added, "by far too much. I do not deserve it. Oh! why is not everybody as happy?"
|
||
Elizabeth's congratulations were given with a sincerity, a warmth, a delight, which words could but poorly express. Every sentence of kindness was a fresh source of happiness to Jane. But she would not allow herself to stay with her sister, or say half that remained to be said for the present.
|
||
"I must go instantly to my mother;" she cried. "I would not on any account trifle with her affectionate solicitude; or allow her to hear it from anyone but myself. He is gone to my father already. Oh! Lizzy, to know that what I have to relate will give such pleasure to all my dear family! how shall I bear so much happiness!"
|
||
She then hastened away to her mother, who had purposely broken up the card party, and was sitting up stairs with Kitty.
|
||
Elizabeth, who was left by herself, now smiled at the rapidity and ease with which an affair was finally settled, that had given them so many previous months of suspense and vexation.
|
||
"And this," said she, "is the end of all his friend's anxious circumspection! of all his sister's falsehood and contrivance! the happiest, wisest, most reasonable end!"
|
||
In a few minutes she was joined by Bingley, whose conference with her father had been short and to the purpose.
|
||
"Where is your sister?" said he hastily, as he opened the door.
|
||
"With my mother up stairs. She will be down in a moment, I dare say."
|
||
He then shut the door, and, coming up to her, claimed the good wishes and affection of a sister. Elizabeth honestly and heartily expressed her delight in the prospect of their relationship. They shook hands with great cordiality; and then, till her sister came down, she had to listen to all he had to say of his own happiness, and of Jane's perfections; and in spite of his being a lover, Elizabeth really believed all his expectations of felicity to be rationally founded, because they had for basis the excellent understanding, and super-excellent disposition of Jane, and a general similarity of feeling and taste between her and himself.
|
||
It was an evening of no common delight to them all; the satisfaction of Miss Bennet's mind gave a glow of such sweet animation to her face, as made her look handsomer than ever. Kitty simpered and smiled, and hoped her turn was coming soon. Mrs. Bennet could not give her consent or speak her approbation in terms warm enough to satisfy her feelings, though she talked to Bingley of nothing else for half an hour; and when Mr. Bennet joined them at supper, his voice and manner plainly showed how really happy he was.
|
||
Not a word, however, passed his lips in allusion to it, till their visitor took his leave for the night; but as soon as he was gone, he turned to his daughter, and said:
|
||
"Jane, I congratulate you. You will be a very happy woman."
|
||
Jane went to him instantly, kissed him, and thanked him for his goodness.
|
||
"You are a good girl;" he replied, "and I have great pleasure in thinking you will be so happily settled. I have not a doubt of your doing very well together. Your tempers are by no means unlike. You are each of you so complying, that nothing will ever be resolved on; so easy, that every servant will cheat you; and so generous, that you will always exceed your income."
|
||
"I hope not so. Imprudence or thoughtlessness in money matters would be unpardonable in me."
|
||
"Exceed their income! My dear Mr. Bennet," cried his wife, "what are you talking of? Why, he has four or five thousand a year, and very likely more." Then addressing her daughter, "Oh! my dear, dear Jane, I am so happy! I am sure I shan't get a wink of sleep all night. I knew how it would be. I always said it must be so, at last. I was sure you could not be so beautiful for nothing! I remember, as soon as ever I saw him, when he first came into Hertfordshire last year, I thought how likely it was that you should come together. Oh! he is the handsomest young man that ever was seen!"
|
||
Wickham, Lydia, were all forgotten. Jane was beyond competition her favourite child. At that moment, she cared for no other. Her younger sisters soon began to make interest with her for objects of happiness which she might in future be able to dispense.
|
||
Mary petitioned for the use of the library at Netherfield; and Kitty begged very hard for a few balls there every winter.
|
||
Bingley, from this time, was of course a daily visitor at Longbourn; coming frequently before breakfast, and always remaining till after supper; unless when some barbarous neighbour, who could not be enough detested, had given him an invitation to dinner which he thought himself obliged to accept.
|
||
Elizabeth had now but little time for conversation with her sister; for while he was present, Jane had no attention to bestow on anyone else; but she found herself considerably useful to both of them in those hours of separation that must sometimes occur. In the absence of Jane, he always attached himself to Elizabeth, for the pleasure of talking of her; and when Bingley was gone, Jane constantly sought the same means of relief.
|
||
"He has made me so happy," said she, one evening, "by telling me that he was totally ignorant of my being in town last spring! I had not believed it possible."
|
||
"I suspected as much," replied Elizabeth. "But how did he account for it?"
|
||
"It must have been his sister's doing. They were certainly no friends to his acquaintance with me, which I cannot wonder at, since he might have chosen so much more advantageously in many respects. But when they see, as I trust they will, that their brother is happy with me, they will learn to be contented, and we shall be on good terms again; though we can never be what we once were to each other."
|
||
"That is the most unforgiving speech," said Elizabeth, "that I ever heard you utter. Good girl! It would vex me, indeed, to see you again the dupe of Miss Bingley's pretended regard."
|
||
"Would you believe it, Lizzy, that when he went to town last November, he really loved me, and nothing but a persuasion of MY being indifferent would have prevented his coming down again!"
|
||
"He made a little mistake to be sure; but it is to the credit of his modesty."
|
||
This naturally introduced a panegyric from Jane on his diffidence, and the little value he put on his own good qualities. Elizabeth was pleased to find that he had not betrayed the interference of his friend; for, though Jane had the most generous and forgiving heart in the world, she knew it was a circumstance which must prejudice her against him.
|
||
"I am certainly the most fortunate creature that ever existed!" cried Jane. "Oh! Lizzy, why am I thus singled from my family, and blessed above them all! If I could but see YOU as happy! If there WERE but such another man for you!"
|
||
"If you were to give me forty such men, I never could be so happy as you. Till I have your disposition, your goodness, I never can have your happiness. No, no, let me shift for myself; and, perhaps, if I have very good luck, I may meet with another Mr. Collins in time."
|
||
The situation of affairs in the Longbourn family could not be long a secret. Mrs. Bennet was privileged to whisper it to Mrs. Phillips, and she ventured, without any permission, to do the same by all her neighbours in Meryton.
|
||
The Bennets were speedily pronounced to be the luckiest family in the world, though only a few weeks before, when Lydia had first run away, they had been generally proved to be marked out for misfortune.
|
||
Chapter 56
|
||
One morning, about a week after Bingley's engagement with Jane had been formed, as he and the females of the family were sitting together in the dining-room, their attention was suddenly drawn to the window, by the sound of a carriage; and they perceived a chaise and four driving up the lawn. It was too early in the morning for visitors, and besides, the equipage did not answer to that of any of their neighbours. The horses were post; and neither the carriage, nor the livery of the servant who preceded it, were familiar to them. As it was certain, however, that somebody was coming, Bingley instantly prevailed on Miss Bennet to avoid the confinement of such an intrusion, and walk away with him into the shrubbery. They both set off, and the conjectures of the remaining three continued, though with little satisfaction, till the door was thrown open and their visitor entered. It was Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
|
||
They were of course all intending to be surprised; but their astonishment was beyond their expectation; and on the part of Mrs. Bennet and Kitty, though she was perfectly unknown to them, even inferior to what Elizabeth felt.
|
||
She entered the room with an air more than usually ungracious, made no other reply to Elizabeth's salutation than a slight inclination of the head, and sat down without saying a word. Elizabeth had mentioned her name to her mother on her ladyship's entrance, though no request of introduction had been made.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet, all amazement, though flattered by having a guest of such high importance, received her with the utmost politeness. After sitting for a moment in silence, she said very stiffly to Elizabeth,
|
||
"I hope you are well, Miss Bennet. That lady, I suppose, is your mother."
|
||
Elizabeth replied very concisely that she was.
|
||
"And THAT I suppose is one of your sisters."
|
||
"Yes, madam," said Mrs. Bennet, delighted to speak to a Lady Catherine. "She is my youngest girl but one. My youngest of all is lately married, and my eldest is somewhere about the grounds, walking with a young man who, I believe, will soon become a part of the family."
|
||
"You have a very small park here," returned Lady Catherine after a short silence.
|
||
"It is nothing in comparison of Rosings, my lady, I dare say; but I assure you it is much larger than Sir William Lucas's."
|
||
"This must be a most inconvenient sitting room for the evening, in summer; the windows are full west."
|
||
Mrs. Bennet assured her that they never sat there after dinner, and then added:
|
||
"May I take the liberty of asking your ladyship whether you left Mr. and Mrs. Collins well."
|
||
"Yes, very well. I saw them the night before last."
|
||
Elizabeth now expected that she would produce a letter for her from Charlotte, as it seemed the only probable motive for her calling. But no letter appeared, and she was completely puzzled.
|
||
Mrs. Bennet, with great civility, begged her ladyship to take some refreshment; but Lady Catherine very resolutely, and not very politely, declined eating any thing; and then, rising up, said to Elizabeth,
|
||
"Miss Bennet, there seemed to be a prettyish kind of a little wilderness on one side of your lawn. I should be glad to take a turn in it, if you will favour me with your company."
|
||
"Go, my dear," cried her mother, "and show her ladyship about the different walks. I think she will be pleased with the hermitage."
|
||
Elizabeth obeyed, and running into her own room for her parasol, attended her noble guest down stairs. As they passed through the hall, Lady Catherine opened the doors into the dining-parlour and drawing-room, and pronouncing them, after a short survey, to be decent looking rooms, walked on.
|
||
Her carriage remained at the door, and Elizabeth saw that her waiting-woman was in it. They proceeded in silence along the gravel walk that led to the copse; Elizabeth was determined to make no effort for conversation with a woman who was now more than usually insolent and disagreeable.
|
||
"How could I ever think her like her nephew?" said she, as she looked in her face.
|
||
As soon as they entered the copse, Lady Catherine began in the following manner:—
|
||
"You can be at no loss, Miss Bennet, to understand the reason of my journey hither. Your own heart, your own conscience, must tell you why I come."
|
||
Elizabeth looked with unaffected astonishment.
|
||
"Indeed, you are mistaken, Madam. I have not been at all able to account for the honour of seeing you here."
|
||
"Miss Bennet," replied her ladyship, in an angry tone, "you ought to know, that I am not to be trifled with. But however insincere YOU may choose to be, you shall not find ME so. My character has ever been celebrated for its sincerity and frankness, and in a cause of such moment as this, I shall certainly not depart from it. A report of a most alarming nature reached me two days ago. I was told that not only your sister was on the point of being most advantageously married, but that you, that Miss Elizabeth Bennet, would, in all likelihood, be soon afterwards united to my nephew, my own nephew, Mr. Darcy. Though I KNOW it must be a scandalous falsehood, though I would not injure him so much as to suppose the truth of it possible, I instantly resolved on setting off for this place, that I might make my sentiments known to you."
|
||
"If you believed it impossible to be true," said Elizabeth, colouring with astonishment and disdain, "I wonder you took the trouble of coming so far. What could your ladyship propose by it?"
|
||
"At once to insist upon having such a report universally contradicted."
|
||
"Your coming to Longbourn, to see me and my family," said Elizabeth coolly, "will be rather a confirmation of it; if, indeed, such a report is in existence."
|
||
"If! Do you then pretend to be ignorant of it? Has it not been industriously circulated by yourselves? Do you not know that such a report is spread abroad?"
|
||
"I never heard that it was."
|
||
"And can you likewise declare, that there is no foundation for it?"
|
||
"I do not pretend to possess equal frankness with your ladyship. You may ask questions which I shall not choose to answer."
|
||
"This is not to be borne. Miss Bennet, I insist on being satisfied. Has he, has my nephew, made you an offer of marriage?"
|
||
"Your ladyship has declared it to be impossible."
|
||
"It ought to be so; it must be so, while he retains the use of his reason. But your arts and allurements may, in a moment of infatuation, have made him forget what he owes to himself and to all his family. You may have drawn him in."
|
||
"If I have, I shall be the last person to confess it."
|
||
"Miss Bennet, do you know who I am? I have not been accustomed to such language as this. I am almost the nearest relation he has in the world, and am entitled to know all his dearest concerns."
|
||
"But you are not entitled to know mine; nor will such behaviour as this, ever induce me to be explicit."
|
||
"Let me be rightly understood. This match, to which you have the presumption to aspire, can never take place. No, never. Mr. Darcy is engaged to my daughter. Now what have you to say?"
|
||
"Only this; that if he is so, you can have no reason to suppose he will make an offer to me."
|
||
Lady Catherine hesitated for a moment, and then replied:
|
||
"The engagement between them is of a peculiar kind. From their infancy, they have been intended for each other. It was the favourite wish of HIS mother, as well as of her's. While in their cradles, we planned the union: and now, at the moment when the wishes of both sisters would be accomplished in their marriage, to be prevented by a young woman of inferior birth, of no importance in the world, and wholly unallied to the family! Do you pay no regard to the wishes of his friends? To his tacit engagement with Miss de Bourgh? Are you lost to every feeling of propriety and delicacy? Have you not heard me say that from his earliest hours he was destined for his cousin?"
|
||
"Yes, and I had heard it before. But what is that to me? If there is no other objection to my marrying your nephew, I shall certainly not be kept from it by knowing that his mother and aunt wished him to marry Miss de Bourgh. You both did as much as you could in planning the marriage. Its completion depended on others. If Mr. Darcy is neither by honour nor inclination confined to his cousin, why is not he to make another choice? And if I am that choice, why may not I accept him?"
|
||
"Because honour, decorum, prudence, nay, interest, forbid it. Yes, Miss Bennet, interest; for do not expect to be noticed by his family or friends, if you wilfully act against the inclinations of all. You will be censured, slighted, and despised, by everyone connected with him. Your alliance will be a disgrace; your name will never even be mentioned by any of us."
|
||
"These are heavy misfortunes," replied Elizabeth. "But the wife of Mr. Darcy must have such extraordinary sources of happiness necessarily attached to her situation, that she could, upon the whole, have no cause to repine."
|
||
"Obstinate, headstrong girl! I am ashamed of you! Is this your gratitude for my attentions to you last spring? Is nothing due to me on that score? Let us sit down. You are to understand, Miss Bennet, that I came here with the determined resolution of carrying my purpose; nor will I be dissuaded from it. I have not been used to submit to any person's whims. I have not been in the habit of brooking disappointment."
|
||
"THAT will make your ladyship's situation at present more pitiable; but it will have no effect on me."
|
||
"I will not be interrupted. Hear me in silence. My daughter and my nephew are formed for each other. They are descended, on the maternal side, from the same noble line; and, on the father's, from respectable, honourable, and ancient—though untitled—families. Their fortune on both sides is splendid. They are destined for each other by the voice of every member of their respective houses; and what is to divide them? The upstart pretensions of a young woman without family, connections, or fortune. Is this to be endured! But it must not, shall not be. If you were sensible of your own good, you would not wish to quit the sphere in which you have been brought up."
|
||
"In marrying your nephew, I should not consider myself as quitting that sphere. He is a gentleman; I am a gentleman's daughter; so far we are equal."
|
||
"True. You ARE a gentleman's daughter. But who was your mother? Who are your uncles and aunts? Do not imagine me ignorant of their condition."
|
||
"Whatever my connections may be," said Elizabeth, "if your nephew does not object to them, they can be nothing to YOU."
|
||
"Tell me once for all, are you engaged to him?"
|
||
Though Elizabeth would not, for the mere purpose of obliging Lady Catherine, have answered this question, she could not but say, after a moment's deliberation:
|
||
"I am not."
|
||
Lady Catherine seemed pleased.
|
||
"And will you promise me, never to enter into such an engagement?"
|
||
"I will make no promise of the kind."
|
||
"Miss Bennet I am shocked and astonished. I expected to find a more reasonable young woman. But do not deceive yourself into a belief that I will ever recede. I shall not go away till you have given me the assurance I require."
|
||
"And I certainly NEVER shall give it. I am not to be intimidated into anything so wholly unreasonable. Your ladyship wants Mr. Darcy to marry your daughter; but would my giving you the wished-for promise make their marriage at all more probable? Supposing him to be attached to me, would my refusing to accept his hand make him wish to bestow it on his cousin? Allow me to say, Lady Catherine, that the arguments with which you have supported this extraordinary application have been as frivolous as the application was ill-judged. You have widely mistaken my character, if you think I can be worked on by such persuasions as these. How far your nephew might approve of your interference in his affairs, I cannot tell; but you have certainly no right to concern yourself in mine. I must beg, therefore, to be importuned no farther on the subject."
|
||
"Not so hasty, if you please. I have by no means done. To all the objections I have already urged, I have still another to add. I am no stranger to the particulars of your youngest sister's infamous elopement. I know it all; that the young man's marrying her was a patched-up business, at the expence of your father and uncles. And is such a girl to be my nephew's sister? Is her husband, is the son of his late father's steward, to be his brother? Heaven and earth!—of what are you thinking? Are the shades of Pemberley to be thus polluted?"
|
||
"You can now have nothing farther to say," she resentfully answered. "You have insulted me in every possible method. I must beg to return to the house."
|
||
And she rose as she spoke. Lady Catherine rose also, and they turned back. Her ladyship was highly incensed.
|
||
"You have no regard, then, for the honour and credit of my nephew! Unfeeling, selfish girl! Do you not consider that a connection with you must disgrace him in the eyes of everybody?"
|
||
"Lady Catherine, I have nothing farther to say. You know my sentiments."
|
||
"You are then resolved to have him?"
|
||
"I have said no such thing. I am only resolved to act in that manner, which will, in my own opinion, constitute my happiness, without reference to YOU, or to any person so wholly unconnected with me."
|
||
"It is well. You refuse, then, to oblige me. You refuse to obey the claims of duty, honour, and gratitude. You are determined to ruin him in the opinion of all his friends, and make him the contempt of the world."
|
||
"Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude," replied Elizabeth, "have any possible claim on me, in the present instance. No principle of either would be violated by my marriage with Mr. Darcy. And with regard to the resentment of his family, or the indignation of the world, if the former WERE excited by his marrying me, it would not give me one moment's concern—and the world in general would have too much sense to join in the scorn."
|
||
"And this is your real opinion! This is your final resolve! Very well. I shall now know how to act. Do not imagine, Miss Bennet, that your ambition will ever be gratified. I came to try you. I hoped to find you reasonable; but, depend upon it, I will carry my point."
|
||
In this manner Lady Catherine talked on, till they were at the door of the carriage, when, turning hastily round, she added, "I take no leave of you, Miss Bennet. I send no compliments to your mother. You deserve no such attention. I am most seriously displeased."
|
||
Elizabeth made no answer; and without attempting to persuade her ladyship to return into the house, walked quietly into it herself. She heard the carriage drive away as she proceeded up stairs. Her mother impatiently met her at the door of the dressing-room, to ask why Lady Catherine would not come in again and rest herself.
|
||
"She did not choose it," said her daughter, "she would go."
|
||
"She is a very fine-looking woman! and her calling here was prodigiously civil! for she only came, I suppose, to tell us the Collinses were well. She is on her road somewhere, I dare say, and so, passing through Meryton, thought she might as well call on you. I suppose she had nothing particular to say to you, Lizzy?"
|
||
Elizabeth was forced to give into a little falsehood here; for to acknowledge the substance of their conversation was impossible.
|
||
Chapter 57
|
||
The discomposure of spirits which this extraordinary visit threw Elizabeth into, could not be easily overcome; nor could she, for many hours, learn to think of it less than incessantly. Lady Catherine, it appeared, had actually taken the trouble of this journey from Rosings, for the sole purpose of breaking off her supposed engagement with Mr. Darcy. It was a rational scheme, to be sure! but from what the report of their engagement could originate, Elizabeth was at a loss to imagine; till she recollected that HIS being the intimate friend of Bingley, and HER being the sister of Jane, was enough, at a time when the expectation of one wedding made everybody eager for another, to supply the idea. She had not herself forgotten to feel that the marriage of her sister must bring them more frequently together. And her neighbours at Lucas lodge, therefore (for through their communication with the Collinses, the report, she concluded, had reached lady Catherine), had only set that down as almost certain and immediate, which she had looked forward to as possible at some future time.
|
||
In revolving Lady Catherine's expressions, however, she could not help feeling some uneasiness as to the possible consequence of her persisting in this interference. From what she had said of her resolution to prevent their marriage, it occurred to Elizabeth that she must meditate an application to her nephew; and how HE might take a similar representation of the evils attached to a connection with her, she dared not pronounce. She knew not the exact degree of his affection for his aunt, or his dependence on her judgment, but it was natural to suppose that he thought much higher of her ladyship than SHE could do; and it was certain that, in enumerating the miseries of a marriage with ONE, whose immediate connections were so unequal to his own, his aunt would address him on his weakest side. With his notions of dignity, he would probably feel that the arguments, which to Elizabeth had appeared weak and ridiculous, contained much good sense and solid reasoning.
|
||
If he had been wavering before as to what he should do, which had often seemed likely, the advice and entreaty of so near a relation might settle every doubt, and determine him at once to be as happy as dignity unblemished could make him. In that case he would return no more. Lady Catherine might see him in her way through town; and his engagement to Bingley of coming again to Netherfield must give way.
|
||
"If, therefore, an excuse for not keeping his promise should come to his friend within a few days," she added, "I shall know how to understand it. I shall then give over every expectation, every wish of his constancy. If he is satisfied with only regretting me, when he might have obtained my affections and hand, I shall soon cease to regret him at all."
|
||
* * * * *
|
||
The surprise of the rest of the family, on hearing who their visitor had been, was very great; but they obligingly satisfied it, with the same kind of supposition which had appeased Mrs. Bennet's curiosity; and Elizabeth was spared from much teasing on the subject.
|
||
The next morning, as she was going down stairs, she was met by her father, who came out of his library with a letter in his hand.
|
||
"Lizzy," said he, "I was going to look for you; come into my room."
|
||
She followed him thither; and her curiosity to know what he had to tell her was heightened by the supposition of its being in some manner connected with the letter he held. It suddenly struck her that it might be from Lady Catherine; and she anticipated with dismay all the consequent explanations.
|
||
She followed her father to the fire place, and they both sat down. He then said,
|
||
"I have received a letter this morning that has astonished me exceedingly. As it principally concerns yourself, you ought to know its contents. I did not know before, that I had two daughters on the brink of matrimony. Let me congratulate you on a very important conquest."
|
||
The colour now rushed into Elizabeth's cheeks in the instantaneous conviction of its being a letter from the nephew, instead of the aunt; and she was undetermined whether most to be pleased that he explained himself at all, or offended that his letter was not rather addressed to herself; when her father continued:
|
||
"You look conscious. Young ladies have great penetration in such matters as these; but I think I may defy even YOUR sagacity, to discover the name of your admirer. This letter is from Mr. Collins."
|
||
"From Mr. Collins! and what can HE have to say?"
|
||
"Something very much to the purpose of course. He begins with congratulations on the approaching nuptials of my eldest daughter, of which, it seems, he has been told by some of the good-natured, gossiping Lucases. I shall not sport with your impatience, by reading what he says on that point. What relates to yourself, is as follows." "Having thus offered you the sincere congratulations of Mrs. Collins and myself on this happy event, let me now add a short hint on the subject of another; of which we have been advertised by the same authority. Your daughter Elizabeth, it is presumed, will not long bear the name of Bennet, after her elder sister has resigned it, and the chosen partner of her fate may be reasonably looked up to as one of the most illustrious personages in this land."
|
||
"Can you possibly guess, Lizzy, who is meant by this?" "This young gentleman is blessed, in a peculiar way, with every thing the heart of mortal can most desire,—splendid property, noble kindred, and extensive patronage. Yet in spite of all these temptations, let me warn my cousin Elizabeth, and yourself, of what evils you may incur by a precipitate closure with this gentleman's proposals, which, of course, you will be inclined to take immediate advantage of."
|
||
"Have you any idea, Lizzy, who this gentleman is? But now it comes out."
|
||
"My motive for cautioning you is as follows. We have reason to imagine that his aunt, Lady Catherine de Bourgh, does not look on the match with a friendly eye."
|
||
"MR. DARCY, you see, is the man! Now, Lizzy, I think I HAVE surprised you. Could he, or the Lucases, have pitched on any man within the circle of our acquaintance, whose name would have given the lie more effectually to what they related? Mr. Darcy, who never looks at any woman but to see a blemish, and who probably never looked at you in his life! It is admirable!"
|
||
Elizabeth tried to join in her father's pleasantry, but could only force one most reluctant smile. Never had his wit been directed in a manner so little agreeable to her.
|
||
"Are you not diverted?"
|
||
"Oh! yes. Pray read on."
|
||
"After mentioning the likelihood of this marriage to her ladyship last night, she immediately, with her usual condescension, expressed what she felt on the occasion; when it become apparent, that on the score of some family objections on the part of my cousin, she would never give her consent to what she termed so disgraceful a match. I thought it my duty to give the speediest intelligence of this to my cousin, that she and her noble admirer may be aware of what they are about, and not run hastily into a marriage which has not been properly sanctioned." "Mr. Collins moreover adds," "I am truly rejoiced that my cousin Lydia's sad business has been so well hushed up, and am only concerned that their living together before the marriage took place should be so generally known. I must not, however, neglect the duties of my station, or refrain from declaring my amazement at hearing that you received the young couple into your house as soon as they were married. It was an encouragement of vice; and had I been the rector of Longbourn, I should very strenuously have opposed it. You ought certainly to forgive them as a christian, but never to admit them in your sight, or allow their names to be mentioned in your hearing." "That is his notion of christian forgiveness! The rest of his letter is only about his dear Charlotte's situation, and his expectation of a young olive-branch. But, Lizzy, you look as if you did not enjoy it. You are not going to be Missish, I hope, and pretend to be affronted at an idle report. For what do we live, but to make sport for our neighbours, and laugh at them in our turn?"
|
||
"Oh!" cried Elizabeth, "I am excessively diverted. But it is so strange!"
|
||
"Yes—THAT is what makes it amusing. Had they fixed on any other man it would have been nothing; but HIS perfect indifference, and YOUR pointed dislike, make it so delightfully absurd! Much as I abominate writing, I would not give up Mr. Collins's correspondence for any consideration. Nay, when I read a letter of his, I cannot help giving him the preference even over Wickham, much as I value the impudence and hypocrisy of my son-in-law. And pray, Lizzy, what said Lady Catherine about this report? Did she call to refuse her consent?"
|
||
To this question his daughter replied only with a laugh; and as it had been asked without the least suspicion, she was not distressed by his repeating it. Elizabeth had never been more at a loss to make her feelings appear what they were not. It was necessary to laugh, when she would rather have cried. Her father had most cruelly mortified her, by what he said of Mr. Darcy's indifference, and she could do nothing but wonder at such a want of penetration, or fear that perhaps, instead of his seeing too little, she might have fancied too much.
|
||
Chapter 58
|
||
Instead of receiving any such letter of excuse from his friend, as Elizabeth half expected Mr. Bingley to do, he was able to bring Darcy with him to Longbourn before many days had passed after Lady Catherine's visit. The gentlemen arrived early; and, before Mrs. Bennet had time to tell him of their having seen his aunt, of which her daughter sat in momentary dread, Bingley, who wanted to be alone with Jane, proposed their all walking out. It was agreed to. Mrs. Bennet was not in the habit of walking; Mary could never spare time; but the remaining five set off together. Bingley and Jane, however, soon allowed the others to outstrip them. They lagged behind, while Elizabeth, Kitty, and Darcy were to entertain each other. Very little was said by either; Kitty was too much afraid of him to talk; Elizabeth was secretly forming a desperate resolution; and perhaps he might be doing the same.
|
||
They walked towards the Lucases, because Kitty wished to call upon Maria; and as Elizabeth saw no occasion for making it a general concern, when Kitty left them she went boldly on with him alone. Now was the moment for her resolution to be executed, and, while her courage was high, she immediately said:
|
||
"Mr. Darcy, I am a very selfish creature; and, for the sake of giving relief to my own feelings, care not how much I may be wounding your's. I can no longer help thanking you for your unexampled kindness to my poor sister. Ever since I have known it, I have been most anxious to acknowledge to you how gratefully I feel it. Were it known to the rest of my family, I should not have merely my own gratitude to express."
|
||
"I am sorry, exceedingly sorry," replied Darcy, in a tone of surprise and emotion, "that you have ever been informed of what may, in a mistaken light, have given you uneasiness. I did not think Mrs. Gardiner was so little to be trusted."
|
||
"You must not blame my aunt. Lydia's thoughtlessness first betrayed to me that you had been concerned in the matter; and, of course, I could not rest till I knew the particulars. Let me thank you again and again, in the name of all my family, for that generous compassion which induced you to take so much trouble, and bear so many mortifications, for the sake of discovering them."
|
||
"If you WILL thank me," he replied, "let it be for yourself alone. That the wish of giving happiness to you might add force to the other inducements which led me on, I shall not attempt to deny. But your FAMILY owe me nothing. Much as I respect them, I believe I thought only of YOU."
|
||
Elizabeth was too much embarrassed to say a word. After a short pause, her companion added, "You are too generous to trifle with me. If your feelings are still what they were last April, tell me so at once. MY affections and wishes are unchanged, but one word from you will silence me on this subject for ever."
|
||
Elizabeth, feeling all the more than common awkwardness and anxiety of his situation, now forced herself to speak; and immediately, though not very fluently, gave him to understand that her sentiments had undergone so material a change, since the period to which he alluded, as to make her receive with gratitude and pleasure his present assurances. The happiness which this reply produced, was such as he had probably never felt before; and he expressed himself on the occasion as sensibly and as warmly as a man violently in love can be supposed to do. Had Elizabeth been able to encounter his eye, she might have seen how well the expression of heartfelt delight, diffused over his face, became him; but, though she could not look, she could listen, and he told her of feelings, which, in proving of what importance she was to him, made his affection every moment more valuable.
|
||
They walked on, without knowing in what direction. There was too much to be thought, and felt, and said, for attention to any other objects. She soon learnt that they were indebted for their present good understanding to the efforts of his aunt, who did call on him in her return through London, and there relate her journey to Longbourn, its motive, and the substance of her conversation with Elizabeth; dwelling emphatically on every expression of the latter which, in her ladyship's apprehension, peculiarly denoted her perverseness and assurance; in the belief that such a relation must assist her endeavours to obtain that promise from her nephew which she had refused to give. But, unluckily for her ladyship, its effect had been exactly contrariwise.
|
||
"It taught me to hope," said he, "as I had scarcely ever allowed myself to hope before. I knew enough of your disposition to be certain that, had you been absolutely, irrevocably decided against me, you would have acknowledged it to Lady Catherine, frankly and openly."
|
||
Elizabeth coloured and laughed as she replied, "Yes, you know enough of my frankness to believe me capable of THAT. After abusing you so abominably to your face, I could have no scruple in abusing you to all your relations."
|
||
"What did you say of me, that I did not deserve? For, though your accusations were ill-founded, formed on mistaken premises, my behaviour to you at the time had merited the severest reproof. It was unpardonable. I cannot think of it without abhorrence."
|
||
"We will not quarrel for the greater share of blame annexed to that evening," said Elizabeth. "The conduct of neither, if strictly examined, will be irreproachable; but since then, we have both, I hope, improved in civility."
|
||
"I cannot be so easily reconciled to myself. The recollection of what I then said, of my conduct, my manners, my expressions during the whole of it, is now, and has been many months, inexpressibly painful to me. Your reproof, so well applied, I shall never forget: 'had you behaved in a more gentlemanlike manner.' Those were your words. You know not, you can scarcely conceive, how they have tortured me;—though it was some time, I confess, before I was reasonable enough to allow their justice."
|
||
"I was certainly very far from expecting them to make so strong an impression. I had not the smallest idea of their being ever felt in such a way."
|
||
"I can easily believe it. You thought me then devoid of every proper feeling, I am sure you did. The turn of your countenance I shall never forget, as you said that I could not have addressed you in any possible way that would induce you to accept me."
|
||
"Oh! do not repeat what I then said. These recollections will not do at all. I assure you that I have long been most heartily ashamed of it."
|
||
Darcy mentioned his letter. "Did it," said he, "did it soon make you think better of me? Did you, on reading it, give any credit to its contents?"
|
||
She explained what its effect on her had been, and how gradually all her former prejudices had been removed.
|
||
"I knew," said he, "that what I wrote must give you pain, but it was necessary. I hope you have destroyed the letter. There was one part especially, the opening of it, which I should dread your having the power of reading again. I can remember some expressions which might justly make you hate me."
|
||
"The letter shall certainly be burnt, if you believe it essential to the preservation of my regard; but, though we have both reason to think my opinions not entirely unalterable, they are not, I hope, quite so easily changed as that implies."
|
||
"When I wrote that letter," replied Darcy, "I believed myself perfectly calm and cool, but I am since convinced that it was written in a dreadful bitterness of spirit."
|
||
"The letter, perhaps, began in bitterness, but it did not end so. The adieu is charity itself. But think no more of the letter. The feelings of the person who wrote, and the person who received it, are now so widely different from what they were then, that every unpleasant circumstance attending it ought to be forgotten. You must learn some of my philosophy. Think only of the past as its remembrance gives you pleasure."
|
||
"I cannot give you credit for any philosophy of the kind. Your retrospections must be so totally void of reproach, that the contentment arising from them is not of philosophy, but, what is much better, of innocence. But with me, it is not so. Painful recollections will intrude which cannot, which ought not, to be repelled. I have been a selfish being all my life, in practice, though not in principle. As a child I was taught what was right, but I was not taught to correct my temper. I was given good principles, but left to follow them in pride and conceit. Unfortunately an only son (for many years an only child), I was spoilt by my parents, who, though good themselves (my father, particularly, all that was benevolent and amiable), allowed, encouraged, almost taught me to be selfish and overbearing; to care for none beyond my own family circle; to think meanly of all the rest of the world; to wish at least to think meanly of their sense and worth compared with my own. Such I was, from eight to eight and twenty; and such I might still have been but for you, dearest, loveliest Elizabeth! What do I not owe you! You taught me a lesson, hard indeed at first, but most advantageous. By you, I was properly humbled. I came to you without a doubt of my reception. You showed me how insufficient were all my pretensions to please a woman worthy of being pleased."
|
||
"Had you then persuaded yourself that I should?"
|
||
"Indeed I had. What will you think of my vanity? I believed you to be wishing, expecting my addresses."
|
||
"My manners must have been in fault, but not intentionally, I assure you. I never meant to deceive you, but my spirits might often lead me wrong. How you must have hated me after THAT evening?"
|
||
"Hate you! I was angry perhaps at first, but my anger soon began to take a proper direction."
|
||
"I am almost afraid of asking what you thought of me, when we met at Pemberley. You blamed me for coming?"
|
||
"No indeed; I felt nothing but surprise."
|
||
"Your surprise could not be greater than MINE in being noticed by you. My conscience told me that I deserved no extraordinary politeness, and I confess that I did not expect to receive MORE than my due."
|
||
"My object then," replied Darcy, "was to show you, by every civility in my power, that I was not so mean as to resent the past; and I hoped to obtain your forgiveness, to lessen your ill opinion, by letting you see that your reproofs had been attended to. How soon any other wishes introduced themselves I can hardly tell, but I believe in about half an hour after I had seen you."
|
||
He then told her of Georgiana's delight in her acquaintance, and of her disappointment at its sudden interruption; which naturally leading to the cause of that interruption, she soon learnt that his resolution of following her from Derbyshire in quest of her sister had been formed before he quitted the inn, and that his gravity and thoughtfulness there had arisen from no other struggles than what such a purpose must comprehend.
|
||
She expressed her gratitude again, but it was too painful a subject to each, to be dwelt on farther.
|
||
After walking several miles in a leisurely manner, and too busy to know any thing about it, they found at last, on examining their watches, that it was time to be at home.
|
||
"What could become of Mr. Bingley and Jane!" was a wonder which introduced the discussion of their affairs. Darcy was delighted with their engagement; his friend had given him the earliest information of it.
|
||
"I must ask whether you were surprised?" said Elizabeth.
|
||
"Not at all. When I went away, I felt that it would soon happen."
|
||
"That is to say, you had given your permission. I guessed as much." And though he exclaimed at the term, she found that it had been pretty much the case.
|
||
"On the evening before my going to London," said he, "I made a confession to him, which I believe I ought to have made long ago. I told him of all that had occurred to make my former interference in his affairs absurd and impertinent. His surprise was great. He had never had the slightest suspicion. I told him, moreover, that I believed myself mistaken in supposing, as I had done, that your sister was indifferent to him; and as I could easily perceive that his attachment to her was unabated, I felt no doubt of their happiness together."
|
||
Elizabeth could not help smiling at his easy manner of directing his friend.
|
||
"Did you speak from your own observation," said she, "when you told him that my sister loved him, or merely from my information last spring?"
|
||
"From the former. I had narrowly observed her during the two visits which I had lately made here; and I was convinced of her affection."
|
||
"And your assurance of it, I suppose, carried immediate conviction to him."
|
||
"It did. Bingley is most unaffectedly modest. His diffidence had prevented his depending on his own judgment in so anxious a case, but his reliance on mine made every thing easy. I was obliged to confess one thing, which for a time, and not unjustly, offended him. I could not allow myself to conceal that your sister had been in town three months last winter, that I had known it, and purposely kept it from him. He was angry. But his anger, I am persuaded, lasted no longer than he remained in any doubt of your sister's sentiments. He has heartily forgiven me now."
|
||
Elizabeth longed to observe that Mr. Bingley had been a most delightful friend; so easily guided that his worth was invaluable; but she checked herself. She remembered that he had yet to learn to be laughed at, and it was rather too early to begin. In anticipating the happiness of Bingley, which of course was to be inferior only to his own, he continued the conversation till they reached the house. In the hall they parted.
|
||
CHAPTER 59
|
||
"My dear Lizzy, where can you have been walking to?" was a question which Elizabeth received from Jane as soon as she entered their room, and from all the others when they sat down to table. She had only to say in reply, that they had wandered about, till she was beyond her own knowledge. She coloured as she spoke; but neither that, nor any thing else, awakened a suspicion of the truth.
|
||
The evening passed quietly, unmarked by any thing extraordinary. The acknowledged lovers talked and laughed, the unacknowledged were silent. Darcy was not of a disposition in which happiness overflows in mirth; and Elizabeth, agitated and confused, rather KNEW that she was happy than FELT herself to be so; for, besides the immediate embarrassment, there were other evils before her. She anticipated what would be felt in the family when her situation became known; she was aware that no one liked him but Jane; and even feared that with the others it was a dislike which not all his fortune and consequence might do away.
|
||
At night she opened her heart to Jane. Though suspicion was very far from Miss Bennet's general habits, she was absolutely incredulous here.
|
||
"You are joking, Lizzy. This cannot be!—engaged to Mr. Darcy! No, no, you shall not deceive me. I know it to be impossible."
|
||
"This is a wretched beginning indeed! My sole dependence was on you; and I am sure nobody else will believe me, if you do not. Yet, indeed, I am in earnest. I speak nothing but the truth. He still loves me, and we are engaged."
|
||
Jane looked at her doubtingly. "Oh, Lizzy! it cannot be. I know how much you dislike him."
|
||
"You know nothing of the matter. THAT is all to be forgot. Perhaps I did not always love him so well as I do now. But in such cases as these, a good memory is unpardonable. This is the last time I shall ever remember it myself."
|
||
Miss Bennet still looked all amazement. Elizabeth again, and more seriously assured her of its truth.
|
||
"Good Heaven! can it be really so! Yet now I must believe you," cried Jane. "My dear, dear Lizzy, I would—I do congratulate you—but are you certain? forgive the question —are you quite certain that you can be happy with him?"
|
||
"There can be no doubt of that. It is settled between us already, that we are to be the happiest couple in the world. But are you pleased, Jane? Shall you like to have such a brother?"
|
||
"Very, very much. Nothing could give either Bingley or myself more delight. But we considered it, we talked of it as impossible. And do you really love him quite well enough? Oh, Lizzy! do any thing rather than marry without affection. Are you quite sure that you feel what you ought to do?"
|
||
"Oh, yes! You will only think I feel MORE than I ought to do, when I tell you all."
|
||
"What do you mean?"
|
||
"Why, I must confess that I love him better than I do Bingley. I am afraid you will be angry."
|
||
"My dearest sister, now BE serious. I want to talk very seriously. Let me know every thing that I am to know, without delay. Will you tell me how long you have loved him?"
|
||
"It has been coming on so gradually, that I hardly know when it began. But I believe I must date it from my first seeing his beautiful grounds at Pemberley."
|
||
Another entreaty that she would be serious, however, produced the desired effect; and she soon satisfied Jane by her solemn assurances of attachment. When convinced on that article, Miss Bennet had nothing farther to wish.
|
||
"Now I am quite happy," said she, "for you will be as happy as myself. I always had a value for him. Were it for nothing but his love of you, I must always have esteemed him; but now, as Bingley's friend and your husband, there can be only Bingley and yourself more dear to me. But Lizzy, you have been very sly, very reserved with me. How little did you tell me of what passed at Pemberley and Lambton! I owe all that I know of it to another, not to you."
|
||
Elizabeth told her the motives of her secrecy. She had been unwilling to mention Bingley; and the unsettled state of her own feelings had made her equally avoid the name of his friend. But now she would no longer conceal from her his share in Lydia's marriage. All was acknowledged, and half the night spent in conversation.
|
||
* * * * *
|
||
"Good gracious!" cried Mrs. Bennet, as she stood at a window the next morning, "if that disagreeable Mr. Darcy is not coming here again with our dear Bingley! What can he mean by being so tiresome as to be always coming here? I had no notion but he would go a-shooting, or something or other, and not disturb us with his company. What shall we do with him? Lizzy, you must walk out with him again, that he may not be in Bingley's way."
|
||
Elizabeth could hardly help laughing at so convenient a proposal; yet was really vexed that her mother should be always giving him such an epithet.
|
||
As soon as they entered, Bingley looked at her so expressively, and shook hands with such warmth, as left no doubt of his good information; and he soon afterwards said aloud, "Mrs. Bennet, have you no more lanes hereabouts in which Lizzy may lose her way again to-day?"
|
||
"I advise Mr. Darcy, and Lizzy, and Kitty," said Mrs. Bennet, "to walk to Oakham Mount this morning. It is a nice long walk, and Mr. Darcy has never seen the view."
|
||
"It may do very well for the others," replied Mr. Bingley; "but I am sure it will be too much for Kitty. Won't it, Kitty?" Kitty owned that she had rather stay at home. Darcy professed a great curiosity to see the view from the Mount, and Elizabeth silently consented. As she went up stairs to get ready, Mrs. Bennet followed her, saying:
|
||
"I am quite sorry, Lizzy, that you should be forced to have that disagreeable man all to yourself. But I hope you will not mind it: it is all for Jane's sake, you know; and there is no occasion for talking to him, except just now and then. So, do not put yourself to inconvenience."
|
||
During their walk, it was resolved that Mr. Bennet's consent should be asked in the course of the evening. Elizabeth reserved to herself the application for her mother's. She could not determine how her mother would take it; sometimes doubting whether all his wealth and grandeur would be enough to overcome her abhorrence of the man. But whether she were violently set against the match, or violently delighted with it, it was certain that her manner would be equally ill adapted to do credit to her sense; and she could no more bear that Mr. Darcy should hear the first raptures of her joy, than the first vehemence of her disapprobation.
|
||
* * * * *
|
||
In the evening, soon after Mr. Bennet withdrew to the library, she saw Mr. Darcy rise also and follow him, and her agitation on seeing it was extreme. She did not fear her father's opposition, but he was going to be made unhappy; and that it should be through her means—that SHE, his favourite child, should be distressing him by her choice, should be filling him with fears and regrets in disposing of her—was a wretched reflection, and she sat in misery till Mr. Darcy appeared again, when, looking at him, she was a little relieved by his smile. In a few minutes he approached the table where she was sitting with Kitty; and, while pretending to admire her work said in a whisper, "Go to your father, he wants you in the library." She was gone directly.
|
||
Her father was walking about the room, looking grave and anxious. "Lizzy," said he, "what are you doing? Are you out of your senses, to be accepting this man? Have not you always hated him?"
|
||
How earnestly did she then wish that her former opinions had been more reasonable, her expressions more moderate! It would have spared her from explanations and professions which it was exceedingly awkward to give; but they were now necessary, and she assured him, with some confusion, of her attachment to Mr. Darcy.
|
||
"Or, in other words, you are determined to have him. He is rich, to be sure, and you may have more fine clothes and fine carriages than Jane. But will they make you happy?"
|
||
"Have you any other objection," said Elizabeth, "than your belief of my indifference?"
|
||
"None at all. We all know him to be a proud, unpleasant sort of man; but this would be nothing if you really liked him."
|
||
"I do, I do like him," she replied, with tears in her eyes, "I love him. Indeed he has no improper pride. He is perfectly amiable. You do not know what he really is; then pray do not pain me by speaking of him in such terms."
|
||
"Lizzy," said her father, "I have given him my consent. He is the kind of man, indeed, to whom I should never dare refuse any thing, which he condescended to ask. I now give it to YOU, if you are resolved on having him. But let me advise you to think better of it. I know your disposition, Lizzy. I know that you could be neither happy nor respectable, unless you truly esteemed your husband; unless you looked up to him as a superior. Your lively talents would place you in the greatest danger in an unequal marriage. You could scarcely escape discredit and misery. My child, let me not have the grief of seeing YOU unable to respect your partner in life. You know not what you are about."
|
||
Elizabeth, still more affected, was earnest and solemn in her reply; and at length, by repeated assurances that Mr. Darcy was really the object of her choice, by explaining the gradual change which her estimation of him had undergone, relating her absolute certainty that his affection was not the work of a day, but had stood the test of many months suspense, and enumerating with energy all his good qualities, she did conquer her father's incredulity, and reconcile him to the match.
|
||
"Well, my dear," said he, when she ceased speaking, "I have no more to say. If this be the case, he deserves you. I could not have parted with you, my Lizzy, to anyone less worthy."
|
||
To complete the favourable impression, she then told him what Mr. Darcy had voluntarily done for Lydia. He heard her with astonishment.
|
||
"This is an evening of wonders, indeed! And so, Darcy did every thing; made up the match, gave the money, paid the fellow's debts, and got him his commission! So much the better. It will save me a world of trouble and economy. Had it been your uncle's doing, I must and WOULD have paid him; but these violent young lovers carry every thing their own way. I shall offer to pay him to-morrow; he will rant and storm about his love for you, and there will be an end of the matter."
|
||
He then recollected her embarrassment a few days before, on his reading Mr. Collins's letter; and after laughing at her some time, allowed her at last to go—saying, as she quitted the room, "If any young men come for Mary or Kitty, send them in, for I am quite at leisure."
|
||
Elizabeth's mind was now relieved from a very heavy weight; and, after half an hour's quiet reflection in her own room, she was able to join the others with tolerable composure. Every thing was too recent for gaiety, but the evening passed tranquilly away; there was no longer any thing material to be dreaded, and the comfort of ease and familiarity would come in time.
|
||
When her mother went up to her dressing-room at night, she followed her, and made the important communication. Its effect was most extraordinary; for on first hearing it, Mrs. Bennet sat quite still, and unable to utter a syllable. Nor was it under many, many minutes that she could comprehend what she heard; though not in general backward to credit what was for the advantage of her family, or that came in the shape of a lover to any of them. She began at length to recover, to fidget about in her chair, get up, sit down again, wonder, and bless herself.
|
||
"Good gracious! Lord bless me! only think! dear me! Mr. Darcy! Who would have thought it! And is it really true? Oh! my sweetest Lizzy! how rich and how great you will be! What pin-money, what jewels, what carriages you will have! Jane's is nothing to it—nothing at all. I am so pleased—so happy. Such a charming man!—so handsome! so tall!—Oh, my dear Lizzy! pray apologise for my having disliked him so much before. I hope he will overlook it. Dear, dear Lizzy. A house in town! Every thing that is charming! Three daughters married! Ten thousand a year! Oh, Lord! What will become of me. I shall go distracted."
|
||
This was enough to prove that her approbation need not be doubted: and Elizabeth, rejoicing that such an effusion was heard only by herself, soon went away. But before she had been three minutes in her own room, her mother followed her.
|
||
"My dearest child," she cried, "I can think of nothing else! Ten thousand a year, and very likely more! 'Tis as good as a Lord! And a special licence. You must and shall be married by a special licence. But my dearest love, tell me what dish Mr. Darcy is particularly fond of, that I may have it to-morrow."
|
||
This was a sad omen of what her mother's behaviour to the gentleman himself might be; and Elizabeth found that, though in the certain possession of his warmest affection, and secure of her relations' consent, there was still something to be wished for. But the morrow passed off much better than she expected; for Mrs. Bennet luckily stood in such awe of her intended son-in-law that she ventured not to speak to him, unless it was in her power to offer him any attention, or mark her deference for his opinion.
|
||
Elizabeth had the satisfaction of seeing her father taking pains to get acquainted with him; and Mr. Bennet soon assured her that he was rising every hour in his esteem.
|
||
"I admire all my three sons-in-law highly," said he. "Wickham, perhaps, is my favourite; but I think I shall like YOUR husband quite as well as Jane's."
|
||
Chapter 60
|
||
Elizabeth's spirits soon rising to playfulness again, she wanted Mr. Darcy to account for his having ever fallen in love with her. "How could you begin?" said she. "I can comprehend your going on charmingly, when you had once made a beginning; but what could set you off in the first place?"
|
||
"I cannot fix on the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words, which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I HAD begun."
|
||
"My beauty you had early withstood, and as for my manners—my behaviour to YOU was at least always bordering on the uncivil, and I never spoke to you without rather wishing to give you pain than not. Now be sincere; did you admire me for my impertinence?"
|
||
"For the liveliness of your mind, I did."
|
||
"You may as well call it impertinence at once. It was very little less. The fact is, that you were sick of civility, of deference, of officious attention. You were disgusted with the women who were always speaking, and looking, and thinking for YOUR approbation alone. I roused, and interested you, because I was so unlike THEM. Had you not been really amiable, you would have hated me for it; but in spite of the pains you took to disguise yourself, your feelings were always noble and just; and in your heart, you thoroughly despised the persons who so assiduously courted you. There—I have saved you the trouble of accounting for it; and really, all things considered, I begin to think it perfectly reasonable. To be sure, you knew no actual good of me—but nobody thinks of THAT when they fall in love."
|
||
"Was there no good in your affectionate behaviour to Jane while she was ill at Netherfield?"
|
||
"Dearest Jane! who could have done less for her? But make a virtue of it by all means. My good qualities are under your protection, and you are to exaggerate them as much as possible; and, in return, it belongs to me to find occasions for teasing and quarrelling with you as often as may be; and I shall begin directly by asking you what made you so unwilling to come to the point at last. What made you so shy of me, when you first called, and afterwards dined here? Why, especially, when you called, did you look as if you did not care about me?"
|
||
"Because you were grave and silent, and gave me no encouragement."
|
||
"But I was embarrassed."
|
||
"And so was I."
|
||
"You might have talked to me more when you came to dinner."
|
||
"A man who had felt less, might."
|
||
"How unlucky that you should have a reasonable answer to give, and that I should be so reasonable as to admit it! But I wonder how long you WOULD have gone on, if you had been left to yourself. I wonder when you WOULD have spoken, if I had not asked you! My resolution of thanking you for your kindness to Lydia had certainly great effect. TOO MUCH, I am afraid; for what becomes of the moral, if our comfort springs from a breach of promise? for I ought not to have mentioned the subject. This will never do."
|
||
"You need not distress yourself. The moral will be perfectly fair. Lady Catherine's unjustifiable endeavours to separate us were the means of removing all my doubts. I am not indebted for my present happiness to your eager desire of expressing your gratitude. I was not in a humour to wait for any opening of your's. My aunt's intelligence had given me hope, and I was determined at once to know every thing."
|
||
"Lady Catherine has been of infinite use, which ought to make her happy, for she loves to be of use. But tell me, what did you come down to Netherfield for? Was it merely to ride to Longbourn and be embarrassed? or had you intended any more serious consequence?"
|
||
"My real purpose was to see YOU, and to judge, if I could, whether I might ever hope to make you love me. My avowed one, or what I avowed to myself, was to see whether your sister were still partial to Bingley, and if she were, to make the confession to him which I have since made."
|
||
"Shall you ever have courage to announce to Lady Catherine what is to befall her?"
|
||
"I am more likely to want more time than courage, Elizabeth. But it ought to done, and if you will give me a sheet of paper, it shall be done directly."
|
||
"And if I had not a letter to write myself, I might sit by you and admire the evenness of your writing, as another young lady once did. But I have an aunt, too, who must not be longer neglected."
|
||
From an unwillingness to confess how much her intimacy with Mr. Darcy had been over-rated, Elizabeth had never yet answered Mrs. Gardiner's long letter; but now, having THAT to communicate which she knew would be most welcome, she was almost ashamed to find that her uncle and aunt had already lost three days of happiness, and immediately wrote as follows:
|
||
"I would have thanked you before, my dear aunt, as I ought to have done, for your long, kind, satisfactory, detail of particulars; but to say the truth, I was too cross to write. You supposed more than really existed. But NOW suppose as much as you choose; give a loose to your fancy, indulge your imagination in every possible flight which the subject will afford, and unless you believe me actually married, you cannot greatly err. You must write again very soon, and praise him a great deal more than you did in your last. I thank you, again and again, for not going to the Lakes. How could I be so silly as to wish it! Your idea of the ponies is delightful. We will go round the Park every day. I am the happiest creature in the world. Perhaps other people have said so before, but not one with such justice. I am happier even than Jane; she only smiles, I laugh. Mr. Darcy sends you all the love in the world that he can spare from me. You are all to come to Pemberley at Christmas. Yours, etc."
|
||
Mr. Darcy's letter to Lady Catherine was in a different style; and still different from either was what Mr. Bennet sent to Mr. Collins, in reply to his last.
|
||
"DEAR SIR,
|
||
"I must trouble you once more for congratulations. Elizabeth will soon be the wife of Mr. Darcy. Console Lady Catherine as well as you can. But, if I were you, I would stand by the nephew. He has more to give.
|
||
"Yours sincerely, etc."
|
||
Miss Bingley's congratulations to her brother, on his approaching marriage, were all that was affectionate and insincere. She wrote even to Jane on the occasion, to express her delight, and repeat all her former professions of regard. Jane was not deceived, but she was affected; and though feeling no reliance on her, could not help writing her a much kinder answer than she knew was deserved.
|
||
The joy which Miss Darcy expressed on receiving similar information, was as sincere as her brother's in sending it. Four sides of paper were insufficient to contain all her delight, and all her earnest desire of being loved by her sister.
|
||
Before any answer could arrive from Mr. Collins, or any congratulations to Elizabeth from his wife, the Longbourn family heard that the Collinses were come themselves to Lucas lodge. The reason of this sudden removal was soon evident. Lady Catherine had been rendered so exceedingly angry by the contents of her nephew's letter, that Charlotte, really rejoicing in the match, was anxious to get away till the storm was blown over. At such a moment, the arrival of her friend was a sincere pleasure to Elizabeth, though in the course of their meetings she must sometimes think the pleasure dearly bought, when she saw Mr. Darcy exposed to all the parading and obsequious civility of her husband. He bore it, however, with admirable calmness. He could even listen to Sir William Lucas, when he complimented him on carrying away the brightest jewel of the country, and expressed his hopes of their all meeting frequently at St. James's, with very decent composure. If he did shrug his shoulders, it was not till Sir William was out of sight.
|
||
Mrs. Phillips's vulgarity was another, and perhaps a greater, tax on his forbearance; and though Mrs. Phillips, as well as her sister, stood in too much awe of him to speak with the familiarity which Bingley's good humour encouraged, yet, whenever she DID speak, she must be vulgar. Nor was her respect for him, though it made her more quiet, at all likely to make her more elegant. Elizabeth did all she could to shield him from the frequent notice of either, and was ever anxious to keep him to herself, and to those of her family with whom he might converse without mortification; and though the uncomfortable feelings arising from all this took from the season of courtship much of its pleasure, it added to the hope of the future; and she looked forward with delight to the time when they should be removed from society so little pleasing to either, to all the comfort and elegance of their family party at Pemberley.
|
||
Chapter 61
|
||
Happy for all her maternal feelings was the day on which Mrs. Bennet got rid of her two most deserving daughters. With what delighted pride she afterwards visited Mrs. Bingley, and talked of Mrs. Darcy, may be guessed. I wish I could say, for the sake of her family, that the accomplishment of her earnest desire in the establishment of so many of her children produced so happy an effect as to make her a sensible, amiable, well-informed woman for the rest of her life; though perhaps it was lucky for her husband, who might not have relished domestic felicity in so unusual a form, that she still was occasionally nervous and invariably silly.
|
||
Mr. Bennet missed his second daughter exceedingly; his affection for her drew him oftener from home than any thing else could do. He delighted in going to Pemberley, especially when he was least expected.
|
||
Mr. Bingley and Jane remained at Netherfield only a twelvemonth. So near a vicinity to her mother and Meryton relations was not desirable even to HIS easy temper, or HER affectionate heart. The darling wish of his sisters was then gratified; he bought an estate in a neighbouring county to Derbyshire, and Jane and Elizabeth, in addition to every other source of happiness, were within thirty miles of each other.
|
||
Kitty, to her very material advantage, spent the chief of her time with her two elder sisters. In society so superior to what she had generally known, her improvement was great. She was not of so ungovernable a temper as Lydia; and, removed from the influence of Lydia's example, she became, by proper attention and management, less irritable, less ignorant, and less insipid. From the farther disadvantage of Lydia's society she was of course carefully kept, and though Mrs. Wickham frequently invited her to come and stay with her, with the promise of balls and young men, her father would never consent to her going.
|
||
Mary was the only daughter who remained at home; and she was necessarily drawn from the pursuit of accomplishments by Mrs. Bennet's being quite unable to sit alone. Mary was obliged to mix more with the world, but she could still moralize over every morning visit; and as she was no longer mortified by comparisons between her sisters' beauty and her own, it was suspected by her father that she submitted to the change without much reluctance.
|
||
As for Wickham and Lydia, their characters suffered no revolution from the marriage of her sisters. He bore with philosophy the conviction that Elizabeth must now become acquainted with whatever of his ingratitude and falsehood had before been unknown to her; and in spite of every thing, was not wholly without hope that Darcy might yet be prevailed on to make his fortune. The congratulatory letter which Elizabeth received from Lydia on her marriage, explained to her that, by his wife at least, if not by himself, such a hope was cherished. The letter was to this effect:
|
||
"MY DEAR LIZZY,
|
||
"I wish you joy. If you love Mr. Darcy half as well as I do my dear Wickham, you must be very happy. It is a great comfort to have you so rich, and when you have nothing else to do, I hope you will think of us. I am sure Wickham would like a place at court very much, and I do not think we shall have quite money enough to live upon without some help. Any place would do, of about three or four hundred a year; but however, do not speak to Mr. Darcy about it, if you had rather not.
|
||
"Yours, etc."
|
||
As it happened that Elizabeth had MUCH rather not, she endeavoured in her answer to put an end to every entreaty and expectation of the kind. Such relief, however, as it was in her power to afford, by the practice of what might be called economy in her own private expences, she frequently sent them. It had always been evident to her that such an income as theirs, under the direction of two persons so extravagant in their wants, and heedless of the future, must be very insufficient to their support; and whenever they changed their quarters, either Jane or herself were sure of being applied to for some little assistance towards discharging their bills. Their manner of living, even when the restoration of peace dismissed them to a home, was unsettled in the extreme. They were always moving from place to place in quest of a cheap situation, and always spending more than they ought. His affection for her soon sunk into indifference; her's lasted a little longer; and in spite of her youth and her manners, she retained all the claims to reputation which her marriage had given her.
|
||
Though Darcy could never receive HIM at Pemberley, yet, for Elizabeth's sake, he assisted him farther in his profession. Lydia was occasionally a visitor there, when her husband was gone to enjoy himself in London or Bath; and with the Bingleys they both of them frequently staid so long, that even Bingley's good humour was overcome, and he proceeded so far as to talk of giving them a hint to be gone.
|
||
Miss Bingley was very deeply mortified by Darcy's marriage; but as she thought it advisable to retain the right of visiting at Pemberley, she dropt all her resentment; was fonder than ever of Georgiana, almost as attentive to Darcy as heretofore, and paid off every arrear of civility to Elizabeth.
|
||
Pemberley was now Georgiana's home; and the attachment of the sisters was exactly what Darcy had hoped to see. They were able to love each other even as well as they intended. Georgiana had the highest opinion in the world of Elizabeth; though at first she often listened with an astonishment bordering on alarm at her lively, sportive, manner of talking to her brother. He, who had always inspired in herself a respect which almost overcame her affection, she now saw the object of open pleasantry. Her mind received knowledge which had never before fallen in her way. By Elizabeth's instructions, she began to comprehend that a woman may take liberties with her husband which a brother will not always allow in a sister more than ten years younger than himself.
|
||
Lady Catherine was extremely indignant on the marriage of her nephew; and as she gave way to all the genuine frankness of her character in her reply to the letter which announced its arrangement, she sent him language so very abusive, especially of Elizabeth, that for some time all intercourse was at an end. But at length, by Elizabeth's persuasion, he was prevailed on to overlook the offence, and seek a reconciliation; and, after a little farther resistance on the part of his aunt, her resentment gave way, either to her affection for him, or her curiosity to see how his wife conducted herself; and she condescended to wait on them at Pemberley, in spite of that pollution which its woods had received, not merely from the presence of such a mistress, but the visits of her uncle and aunt from the city.
|
||
With the Gardiners, they were always on the most intimate terms. Darcy, as well as Elizabeth, really loved them; and they were both ever sensible of the warmest gratitude towards the persons who, by bringing her into Derbyshire, had been the means of uniting them.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy
|
||
Douglas Adams
|
||
For Jonny Brock and Clare Gorst and all other Arlingtonians for tea, sympathy, and a sofa
|
||
1
|
||
1.1 Introduction
|
||
Far out in the uncharted backwaters of the unfashionable end of the western spiral arm of the Galaxy lies a small unregarded yellow sun.
|
||
Orbiting this at a distance of roughly ninety-two million miles is an utterly insignificant little blue green planet whose undescended life forms are so amazingly primitive that they still think digital watches are a pretty neat idea.
|
||
This planet has — or rather had — a problem, which was this: most of the people on it were unhappy for pretty much of the time. Many solutions were suggested for this problem, but most of these were largely concerned with the movements of small green pieces of paper, which is odd because on the whole it wasn't the small green pieces of paper that were unhappy.
|
||
And so the problem remained; lots of the people were mean, and most of them were miserable, even the ones with digital watches.
|
||
Many were increasingly of the opinion that they'd all made a big mistake in coming down from the trees in the first place. And some said that even the trees had been a bad move, and that no one should ever have left the oceans.
|
||
And then, one Thursday, nearly two thousand years after one man had been nailed to a tree for saying how great it would be to be nice to people for a change, one girl sitting on her own in a small cafe in Rickmansworth suddenly realized what it was that had been going wrong all this time, and she finally knew how the world could be made a good and happy place. This time it was right, it would work, and no one would have to get nailed to anything.
|
||
Sadly, however, before she could get to a phone to tell anyoneabout it, a terribly stupid catastrophe occurred, and the idea was lost forever.
|
||
This is not her story.
|
||
But it is the story of that terrible stupid catastrophe and some of its consequences.
|
||
It is also the story of a book, a book called The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy — not an Earth book, never published on Earth, and until the terrible catastrophe occurred, never seen or heard of by any Earthman.
|
||
Nevertheless, a wholly remarkable book.
|
||
in fact it was probably the most remarkable book ever to come out of the great publishing houses of Ursa Minor — of which no Earthman had ever heard either.
|
||
Not only is it a wholly remarkable book, it is also a highly successful one — more popular than the Celestial Home Care Omnibus, better selling than Fifty More Things to do in Zero Gravity, and more controversial than Oolon Colluphid's trilogy of philosophical blockbusters Where God Went Wrong, Some More of God's Greatest Mistakes and Who is this God Person Anyway?
|
||
In many of the more relaxed civilizations on the Outer Eastern Rim of the Galaxy, the Hitch Hiker's Guide has already supplanted the great Encyclopedia Galactica as the standard repository of all knowledge and wisdom, for though it has many omissions and contains much that is apocryphal, or at least wildly inaccurate, it scores over the older, more pedestrian work in two important respects.
|
||
First, it is slightly cheaper; and secondly it has the words Don't Panic inscribed in large friendly letters on its cover.
|
||
But the story of this terrible, stupid Thursday, the story of its extraordinary consequences, and the story of how these consequences are inextricably intertwined with this remarkable book begins very simply.
|
||
It begins with a house. 2
|
||
The house stood on a slight rise just on the edge of the village. It stood on its own and looked over a broad spread of West Country farmland.
|
||
Not a remarkable house by any means — it was about thirty years old, squattish, squarish, made of brick, and had four windows set in the front of a size and proportion which more or less exactly failed to please the eye.
|
||
The only person for whom the house was in any way special was Arthur Dent, and that was only because it happened to be the one he lived in. He had lived in it for about three years, ever since he had moved out of London because it made him nervous and irritable. He was about thirty as well, dark haired and neverquite at ease with himself. The thing that used to worry him most was the fact that people always used to ask him what he was looking so worried about. He worked in local radio which he always used to tell his friends was a lot more interesting than they probably thought. It was, too — most of his friends worked in advertising.
|
||
It hadn't properly registered with Arthur that the council wanted to knock down his house and build an bypass instead.
|
||
At eight o'clock on Thursday morning Arthur didn't feel very good. He woke up blearily, got up, wandered blearily round his room, opened a window, saw a bulldozer, found his slippers, and stomped off to the bathroom to wash.
|
||
Toothpaste on the brush — so. Scrub.
|
||
Shaving mirror — pointing at the ceiling. He adjusted it. For a moment it reflected a second bulldozer through the bathroom window. Properly adjusted, it reflected Arthur Dent's bristles. He shaved them off, washed, dried, and stomped off to the kitchen to find something pleasant to put in his mouth.
|
||
Kettle, plug, fridge, milk, coffee. Yawn.
|
||
The word bulldozer wandered through his mind for a moment in search of something to connect with.
|
||
The bulldozer outside the kitchen window was quite a big one.
|
||
He stared at it.
|
||
“Yellow,” he thought and stomped off back to his bedroom to get dressed.
|
||
Passing the bathroom he stopped to drink a large glass of water, and another. He began to suspect that he was hung over. Why was he hung over? Had he been drinking the night before? He supposed that he must have been. He caught a glint in the shaving mirror. “Yellow,” he thought and stomped on to the bedroom.
|
||
He stood and thought. The pub, he thought. Oh dear, the pub. He vaguely remembered being angry, angry about something that seemed important. He'd been telling people about it, telling people about it at great length, he rather suspected: his clearest visual recollection was of glazed looks on other people's faces. Something about a new bypass he had just found out about. It had been in the pipeline for months only no one seemed to have known about it. Ridiculous. He took a swig of water. It would sort itself out, he'd decided, no one wanted a bypass, the council didn't have a leg to stand on. It would sort itself out.
|
||
God what a terrible hangover it had earned him though. He looked at himself in the wardrobe mirror. He stuck out his tongue. “Yellow,” he thought. The word yellow wandered through his mind in search of something to connect with.
|
||
Fifteen seconds later he was out of the house and lying in front of a big yellow bulldozer that was advancing up his garden path. Mr L Prosser was, as they say, only human. In other words he was a carbon-based life form descended from an ape. More specifically he was forty, fat and shabby and worked for the local council. Curiously enough, though he didn't know it, he was also a direct male-line descendant of Genghis Khan, though intervening generations and racial mixing had so juggled his genes that he had no discernible Mongoloid characteristics, and the only vestiges left in Mr L Prosser of his mighty ancestry were a pronounced stoutness about the tum and a predilection for little fur hats.
|
||
He was by no means a great warrior: in fact he was a nervous worried man. Today he was particularly nervous and worried because something had gone seriously wrong with his job — which was to see that Arthur Dent's house got cleared out of the way before the day was out.
|
||
“Come off it, Mr Dent,”, he said, “you can't win you know. You can't lie in front of the bulldozer indefinitely.” He tried to make his eyes blaze fiercely but they just wouldn't do it.
|
||
Arthur lay in the mud and squelched at him.
|
||
“I'm game,” he said, “we'll see who rusts first.”
|
||
“I'm afraid you're going to have to accept it,” said Mr Prosser gripping his fur hat and rolling it round the top of his head, “this bypass has got to be built and it's going to be built!”
|
||
“First I've heard of it,” said Arthur, “why's it going to be built?”
|
||
Mr Prosser shook his finger at him for a bit, then stopped and put it away again.
|
||
“What do you mean, why's it got to be built?” he said. “It's a bypass.
|
||
You've got to build bypasses.”
|
||
Bypasses are devices which allow some people to drive from point A to point B very fast whilst other people dash from point B to point A very fast. People living at point C, being a point directly in between, are often given to wonder what's so great about point A that so many people of point B are so keen to get there, and what's so great about point B that so many people of point A are so keen to get there. They often wish that people would just once and for all work out where the hell they wanted to be.
|
||
Mr Prosser wanted to be at point D. Point D wasn't anywhere in particular, it was just any convenient point a very long way from points A, B and C. He would have a nice little cottage at point D, with axes over the door, and spend a pleasant amount of time at point E, which would be the nearest pub to point D. His wife of course wanted climbing roses, but he wanted axes. He didn't know why — he just liked axes. He flushed hotly under the derisive grins of the bulldozer drivers.
|
||
He shifted his weight from foot to foot, but it was equally uncomfortable on each. Obviously somebody had been appallingly incompetent and he hoped to God it wasn't him.
|
||
Mr Prosser said: “You were quite entitled to make any suggestions or protests at the appropriate time you know.”
|
||
“Appropriate time?” hooted Arthur. “Appropriate time? The first I knew about it was when a workman arrived at my home yesterday. I asked him if he'd come to clean the windows and he said no he'd come to demolish the house. He didn't tell me straight away of course. Oh no.
|
||
First he wiped a couple of windows and charged me a fiver. Then he told me.”
|
||
“But Mr Dent, the plans have been available in the local planning office for the last nine month.”
|
||
“Oh yes, well as soon as I heard I went straight round to see them, yesterday afternoon. You hadn't exactly gone out of your way to call attention to them had you? I mean like actually telling anybody or anything.”
|
||
“But the plans were on display...”
|
||
“On display? I eventually had to go down to the cellar to find them.”
|
||
“That's the display department.”
|
||
“With a torch.”
|
||
“Ah, well the lights had probably gone.”
|
||
“So had the stairs.”
|
||
“But look, you found the notice didn't you?”
|
||
“Yes,” said Arthur, “yes I did. It was on display in the bottom of a locked filing cabinet stuck in a disused lavatory with a sign on the door saying Beware of the Leopard.”
|
||
A cloud passed overhead. It cast a shadow over Arthur Dent as he lay propped up on his elbow in the cold mud. It cast a shadow over Arthur Dent's house. Mr Prosser frowned at it.
|
||
“It's not as if it's a particularly nice house,” he said.
|
||
“I'm sorry, but I happen to like it.”
|
||
“You'll like the bypass.”
|
||
“Oh shut up,” said Arthur Dent. “Shut up and go away, and take your bloody bypass with you. You haven't got a leg to stand on and you know it.”
|
||
Mr Prosser's mouth opened and closed a couple of times while his mind was for a moment filled with inexplicable but terribly attractive visions of Arthur Dent's house being consumed with fire and Arthur himself running screaming from the blazing ruin with at least three hefty spears protruding from his back. Mr Prosser was often bothered with visions like these and they made him feel very nervous. He stuttered for a moment and then pulled himself together.
|
||
“Mr Dent,” he said.
|
||
“Hello? Yes?” said Arthur.
|
||
“Some factual information for you. Have you any idea how much damage that bulldozer would suffer if I just let it roll straight over you?”
|
||
“How much?” said Arthur.
|
||
“None at all,” said Mr Prosser, and stormed nervously off wondering why his brain was filled with a thousand hairy horsemen all shouting at him.
|
||
By a curious coincidence, None at all is exactly how much suspicion the ape-descendant Arthur Dent had that one of his closest friends was not descended from an ape, but was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse and not from Guildford as he usually claimed.
|
||
Arthur Dent had never, ever suspected this.
|
||
This friend of his had first arrived on the planet some fifteen Earth years previously, and he had worked hard to blend himself into Earth society — with, it must be said, some success. For instance he had spent those fifteen years pretending to be an out of work actor, which was plausible enough.
|
||
He had made one careless blunder though, because he had skimped a bit on his preparatory research. The information he had gathered had led him to choose the name “Ford Prefect” as being nicely inconspicuous.
|
||
He was not conspicuously tall, his features were striking but not conspicuously handsome. His hair was wiry and gingerish and brushed backwards from the temples. His skin seemed to be pulled backwards from the nose. There was something very slightly odd about him, but it was difficult to say what it was. Perhaps it was that his eyes didn't blink often enough and when you talked to him for any length of time your eyes began involuntarily to water on his behalf. Perhaps it was that he smiled slightly too broadly and gave people the unnerving impression that he was about to go for their neck.
|
||
He struck most of the friends he had made on Earth as an eccentric, but a harmless one — an unruly boozer with some oddish habits. For instance he would often gatecrash university parties, get badly drunk and start making fun of any astrophysicist he could find till he got thrown out.
|
||
Sometimes he would get seized with oddly distracted moods and stare into the sky as if hypnotized until someone asked him what he was doing. Then he would start guiltily for a moment, relax and grin. “Oh, just looking for flying saucers,” he would joke and everyone would laugh and ask him what sort of flying saucers he was looking for.
|
||
“Green ones!” he would reply with a wicked grin, laugh wildly for a moment and then suddenly lunge for the nearest bar and buy an enormous round of drinks.
|
||
Evenings like this usually ended badly. Ford would get out of his skull on whisky, huddle into a corner with some girl and explain to her in slurred phrases that honestly the colour of the flying saucers didn't matter that much really.
|
||
Thereafter, staggering semi-paralytic down the night streets he would often ask passing policemen if they knew the way to Betelgeuse. The policemen would usually say something like, “Don't you think it's about time you went off home sir?”
|
||
“I'm trying to baby, I'm trying to,” is what Ford invariably replied on these occasions.
|
||
In fact what he was really looking out for when he stared distractedly into the night sky was any kind of flying saucer at all. The reason he said green was that green was the traditional space livery of the Betelgeuse trading scouts.
|
||
Ford Prefect was desperate that any flying saucer at all would arrive soon because fifteen years was a long time to get stranded anywhere, particularly somewhere as mindboggingly dull as the Earth.
|
||
Ford wished that a flying saucer would arrive soon because he knew how to flag flying saucers down and get lifts from them. He knew how to see the Marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairan dollars a day.
|
||
In fact, Ford Prefect was a roving researcher for that wholly remarkable book The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
|
||
Human beings are great adaptors, and by lunchtime life in the environs of Arthur's house had settled into a steady routine. It was Arthur's accepted role to lie squelching in the mud making occasional demands to see his lawyer, his mother or a good book; it was Mr Prosser's accepted role to tackle Arthur with the occasional new ploy such as the For the Public Good talk, the March of Progress talk, the They Knocked My House Down Once You Know, Never Looked Back talk and various other cajoleries and threats; and it was the bulldozer drivers' accepted role to sit around drinking coffee and experimenting with union regulations to see how they could turn the situation to their financial advantage.
|
||
The Earth moved slowly in its diurnal course.
|
||
The sun was beginning to dry out the mud Arthur lay in.
|
||
A shadow moved across him again.
|
||
“Hello Arthur,” said the shadow. Arthur looked up and squinting into the sun was startled to see Ford Prefect standing above him.
|
||
“Ford! Hello, how are you?”
|
||
“Fine,” said Ford, “look, are you busy?”
|
||
“Am I busy?” exclaimed Arthur. “Well, I've just got all these bulldozers and things to lie in front of because they'll knock my house down if I don't, but other than that... well, no not especially, why?”
|
||
They don't have sarcasm on Betelgeuse, and Ford Prefect often failed to notice it unless he was concentrating. He said, “Good, is there anywhere we can talk?”
|
||
“What?” said Arthur Dent.
|
||
For a few seconds Ford seemed to ignore him, and stared fixedly into the sky like a rabbit trying to get run over by a car. Then suddenly he squatted down beside Arthur.
|
||
“We've got to talk,” he said urgently.
|
||
“Fine,” said Arthur, “talk.”
|
||
“And drink,” said Ford. “It's vitally important that we talk and drink.
|
||
Now. We'll go to the pub in the village.”
|
||
He looked into the sky again, nervous, expectant.
|
||
“Look, don't you understand?” shouted Arthur. He pointed at Prosser.
|
||
“That man wants to knock my house down!”
|
||
Ford glanced at him, puzzled.
|
||
“Well he can do it while you're away can't he?” he asked.
|
||
“But I don't want him to!”
|
||
“Ah.”
|
||
“Look, what's the matter with you Ford?” said Arthur.
|
||
“Nothing. Nothing's the matter. Listen to me — I've got to tell you the most important thing you've ever heard. I've got to tell you now, and I've got to tell you in the saloon bar of the Horse and Groom.”
|
||
“But why?”
|
||
“Because you are going to need a very stiff drink.”
|
||
Ford stared at Arthur, and Arthur was astonished to find that his will was beginning to weaken. He didn't realize that this was because of an old drinking game that Ford learned to play in the hyperspace ports that served the madranite mining belts in the star system of Orion Beta. The game was not unlike the Earth game called Indian Wrestling, and was played like this:
|
||
Two contestants would sit either side of a table, with a glass in front of each of them.
|
||
Between them would be placed a bottle of Janx Spirit (as immortalized in that ancient Orion mining song “Oh don't give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit/ No, don't you give me none more of that Old Janx Spirit/ For my head will fly, my tongue will lie, my eyes will fry and I may die/ Won't you pour me one more of that sinful Old Janx Spirit”).
|
||
Each of the two contestants would then concentrate their will on the bottle and attempt to tip it and pour spirit into the glass of his opponent — who would then have to drink it.
|
||
The bottle would then be refilled. The game would be played again. And again.
|
||
Once you started to lose you would probably keep losing, because one of the effects of Janx spirit is to depress telepsychic power.
|
||
As soon as a predetermined quantity had been consumed, the final loser would have to perform a forfeit, which was usually obscenely biological.
|
||
Ford Prefect usually played to lose.
|
||
Ford stared at Arthur, who began to think that perhaps he did want to go to the Horse and Groom after all.
|
||
“But what about my house...?” he asked plaintively.
|
||
Ford looked across to Mr Prosser, and suddenly a wicked thought struck him.
|
||
“He wants to knock your house down?”
|
||
“Yes, he wants to build...”
|
||
“And he can't because you're lying in front of the bulldozers?”
|
||
“Yes, and...”
|
||
“I'm sure we can come to some arrangement,” said Ford. “Excuse me!” he shouted.
|
||
Mr Prosser (who was arguing with a spokesman for the bulldozer drivers about whether or not Arthur Dent constituted a mental health hazard, and how much they should get paid if he did) looked around. He was surprised and slightly alarmed to find that Arthur had company.
|
||
“Yes? Hello?” he called. “Has Mr Dent come to his senses yet?”
|
||
“Can we for the moment,” called Ford, “assume that he hasn't?”
|
||
“Well?” sighed Mr Prosser.
|
||
“And can we also assume,” said Ford, “that he's going to be staying here all day?”
|
||
“So?”
|
||
“So all your men are going to be standing around all day doing nothing?”
|
||
“Could be, could be...”
|
||
“Well, if you're resigned to doing that anyway, you don't actually need him to lie here all the time do you?”
|
||
“What?”
|
||
“You don't,” said Ford patiently, “actually need him here.”
|
||
Mr Prosser thought about this.
|
||
“Well no, not as such...”, he said, “not exactly need...” Prosser was worried. He thought that one of them wasn't making a lot of sense.
|
||
Ford said, “So if you would just like to take it as read that he's actually here, then he and I could slip off down to the pub for half an hour. How does that sound?”
|
||
Mr Prosser thought it sounded perfectly potty.
|
||
“That sounds perfectly reasonable,” he said in a reassuring tone of voice, wondering who he was trying to reassure.
|
||
“And if you want to pop off for a quick one yourself later on,” said Ford, “we can always cover up for you in return.”
|
||
“Thank you very much,” said Mr Prosser who no longer knew how to play this at all, “thank you very much, yes, that's very kind...” He frowned, then smiled, then tried to do both at once, failed, grasped hold of his fur hat and rolled it fitfully round the top of his head. He could only assume that he had just won.
|
||
“So,” continued Ford Prefect, “if you would just like to come over here and lie down...”
|
||
“What?” said Mr Prosser.
|
||
“Ah, I'm sorry,” said Ford, “perhaps I hadn't made myself fully clear.
|
||
Somebody's got to lie in front of the bulldozers haven't they? Or there won't be anything to stop them driving into Mr Dent's house will there?”
|
||
“What?” said Mr Prosser again.
|
||
“It's very simple,” said Ford, “my client, Mr Dent, says that he will stop lying here in the mud on the sole condition that you come and take over from him.”
|
||
“What are you talking about?” said Arthur, but Ford nudged him with his shoe to be quiet.
|
||
“You want me,” said Mr Prosser, spelling out this new thought to himself, “to come and lie there...”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“In front of the bulldozer?”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“Instead of Mr Dent.”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“In the mud.”
|
||
“In, as you say it, the mud.”
|
||
As soon as Mr Prosser realized that he was substantially the loser after all, it was as if a weight lifted itself off his shoulders: this was more like the world as he knew it. He sighed.
|
||
“In return for which you will take Mr Dent with you down to the pub?”
|
||
“That's it,” said Ford. “That's it exactly.”
|
||
Mr Prosser took a few nervous steps forward and stopped.
|
||
“Promise?”
|
||
“Promise,” said Ford. He turned to Arthur.
|
||
“Come on,” he said to him, “get up and let the man lie down.”
|
||
Arthur stood up, feeling as if he was in a dream.
|
||
Ford beckoned to Prosser who sadly, awkwardly, sat down in the mud.
|
||
He felt that his whole life was some kind of dream and he sometimes wondered whose it was and whether they were enjoying it. The mud folded itself round his bottom and his arms and oozed into his shoes.
|
||
Ford looked at him severely.
|
||
“And no sneaky knocking down Mr Dent's house whilst he's away, alright?” he said.
|
||
“The mere thought,” growled Mr Prosser, “hadn't even begun to speculate,” he continued, settling himself back, “about the merest possibility of crossing my mind.”
|
||
He saw the bulldozer driver's union representative approaching and let his head sink back and closed his eyes. He was trying to marshal his arguments for proving that he did not now constitute a mental health hazard himself. He was far from certain about this — his mind seemed to be full of noise, horses, smoke, and the stench of blood. This always happened when he felt miserable and put upon, and he had never been able to explain it to himself. In a high dimension of which we know nothing the mighty Khan bellowed with rage, but Mr Prosser only trembled slightly and whimpered. He began to fell little pricks of water behind the eyelids. Bureaucratic cock-ups, angry men lying in the mud, indecipherable strangers handing out inexplicable humiliations and an unidentified army of horsemen laughing at him in his head — what a day.
|
||
What a day. Ford Prefect knew that it didn't matter a pair of dingo's kidneys whether Arthur's house got knocked down or not now.
|
||
Arthur remained very worried.
|
||
“But can we trust him?” he said.
|
||
“Myself I'd trust him to the end of the Earth,” said Ford.
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Arthur, “and how far's that?”
|
||
“About twelve minutes away,” said Ford, “come on, I need a drink." 3
|
||
Here's what the Encyclopedia Galactica has to say about alcohol. It says that alcohol is a colourless volatile liquid formed by the fermentation of sugars and also notes its intoxicating effect on certain carbon-based life forms.
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy also mentions alcohol. It says that the best drink in existence is the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster.
|
||
It says that the effect of a Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster is like having your brains smashed out by a slice of lemon wrapped round a large gold brick.
|
||
The Guide also tells you on which planets the best Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters are mixed, how much you can expect to pay for one and what voluntary organizations exist to help you rehabilitate afterwards.
|
||
The Guide even tells you how you can mix one yourself.
|
||
Take the juice from one bottle of that Ol' Janx Spirit, it says.
|
||
Pour into it one measure of water from the seas of Santraginus V — Oh that Santraginean sea water, it says. Oh those Santraginean fish!!!
|
||
Allow three cubes of Arcturan Mega-gin to melt into the mixture (it must be properly iced or the benzine is lost).
|
||
Allow four litres of Fallian marsh gas to bubble through it, in memory of all those happy Hikers who have died of pleasure in the Marshes of Fallia.
|
||
Over the back of a silver spoon float a measure of Qualactin Hypermint extract, redolent of all the heady odours of the dark Qualactin Zones, subtle sweet and mystic.
|
||
Drop in the tooth of an Algolian Suntiger. Watch it dissolve, spreading the fires of the Algolian Suns deep into the heart of the drink.
|
||
Sprinkle Zamphuor.
|
||
Add an olive.
|
||
Drink... but... very carefully...
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy sells rather better than the Encyclopedia Galactica.
|
||
“Six pints of bitter,” said Ford Prefect to the barman of the Horse and Groom. “And quickly please, the world's about to end.”
|
||
The barman of the Horse and Groom didn't deserve this sort of treatment, he was a dignified old man. He pushed his glasses up his nose and blinked at Ford Prefect. Ford ignored him and stared out of the window, so the barman looked instead at Arthur who shrugged helplessly and said nothing.
|
||
So the barman said, “Oh yes sir? Nice weather for it,” and started pulling pints.
|
||
He tried again.
|
||
“Going to watch the match this afternoon then?”
|
||
Ford glanced round at him.
|
||
“No, no point,” he said, and looked back out of the window.
|
||
“What's that, foregone conclusion then you reckon sir?” said the barman. “Arsenal without a chance?”
|
||
“No, no,” said Ford, “it's just that the world's about to end.”
|
||
“Oh yes sir, so you said,” said the barman, looking over his glasses this time at Arthur. “Lucky escape for Arsenal if it did.”
|
||
Ford looked back at him, genuinely surprised.
|
||
“No, not really,” he said. He frowned.
|
||
The barman breathed in heavily. “There you are sir, six pints,” he said.
|
||
Arthur smiled at him wanly and shrugged again. He turned and smiled wanly at the rest of the pub just in case any of them had heard what was going on. None of them had, and none of them could understand what he was smiling at them for.
|
||
A man sitting next to Ford at the bar looked at the two men, looked at the six pints, did a swift burst of mental arithmetic, arrived at an answer he liked and grinned a stupid hopeful grin at them.
|
||
“Get off,” said Ford, “They're ours,” giving him a look that would have an Algolian Suntiger get on with what it was doing.
|
||
Ford slapped a five-pound note on the bar. He said, “Keep the change.”
|
||
“What, from a fiver? Thank you sir.”
|
||
“You've got ten minutes left to spend it.”
|
||
The barman simply decided to walk away for a bit.
|
||
“Ford,” said Arthur, “would you please tell me what the hell is going on?”
|
||
“Drink up,” said Ford, “you've got three pints to get through.”
|
||
“Three pints?” said Arthur. “At lunchtime?”
|
||
The man next to ford grinned and nodded happily. Ford ignored him.
|
||
He said, “Time is an illusion. Lunchtime doubly so.”
|
||
“Very deep,” said Arthur, “you should send that in to the Reader's Digest. They've got a page for people like you.”
|
||
“Drink up.”
|
||
“Why three pints all of a sudden?”
|
||
“Muscle relaxant, you'll need it.”
|
||
“Muscle relaxant?”
|
||
“Muscle relaxant.”
|
||
Arthur stared into his beer.
|
||
“Did I do anything wrong today,” he said, “or has the world always been like this and I've been too wrapped up in myself to notice?”
|
||
“Alright,” said Ford, “I'll try to explain. How long have we known each other?”
|
||
“How long?” Arthur thought. “Er, about five years, maybe six,” he said.
|
||
“Most of it seemed to make some sense at the time.”
|
||
“Alright,” said Ford. “How would you react if I said that I'm not from Guildford after all, but from a small planet somewhere in the vicinity of Betelgeuse?” Arthur shrugged in a so-so sort of way.
|
||
“I don't know,” he said, taking a pull of beer. “Why — do you think it's the sort of thing you're likely to say?”
|
||
Ford gave up. It really wasn't worth bothering at the moment, what with the world being about to end. He just said:
|
||
“Drink up.”
|
||
He added, perfectly factually:
|
||
“The world's about to end.”
|
||
Arthur gave the rest of the pub another wan smile. The rest of the pub frowned at him. A man waved at him to stop smiling at them and mind his own business.
|
||
“This must be Thursday,” said Arthur musing to himself, sinking low over his beer, “I never could get the hang of Thursdays." 4
|
||
On this particular Thursday, something was moving quietly through the ionosphere many miles above the surface of the planet; several somethings in fact, several dozen huge yellow chunky slablike somethings, huge as office buildings, silent as birds. They soared with ease, basking in electromagnetic rays from the star Sol, biding their time, grouping, preparing.
|
||
The planet beneath them was almost perfectly oblivious of their presence, which was just how they wanted it for the moment. The huge yellow somethings went unnoticed at Goonhilly, they passed over Cape Canaveral without a blip, Woomera and Jodrell Bank looked straight through them — which was a pity because it was exactly the sort of thing they'd been looking for all these years.
|
||
The only place they registered at all was on a small black device called a Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic which winked away quietly to itself. It nestled in the darkness inside a leather satchel which Ford Prefect wore habitually round his neck. The contents of Ford Prefect's satchel were quite interesting in fact and would have made any Earth physicist's eyes pop out of his head, which is why he always concealed them by keeping a couple of dog-eared scripts for plays he pretended he was auditioning for stuffed in the top. Besides the Sub-Etha Sens-O-Matic and the scripts he had an Electronic Thumb — a short squat black rod, smooth and matt with a couple of flat switches and dials at one end; he also had a device which looked rather like a largish electronic calculator. This had about a hundred tiny flat press buttons and a screen about four inches square on which any one of a million “pages” could be summoned at a moment's notice. It looked insanely complicated, and this was one of the reasons why the snug plastic cover it fitted into had the words Don't Panic printed on it in large friendly letters. The other reason was that this device was in fact that most remarkable of all books ever to come out of the great publishing corporations of Ursa Minor — The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy. The reason why it was published in the form of a micro sub meson electronic component is that if it were printed in normal book form, an interstellar hitch hiker would require several inconveniently large buildings to carry it around in.
|
||
Beneath that in Ford Prefect's satchel were a few biros, a notepad, and a largish bath towel from Marks and Spencer.
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy has a few things to say on the subject of towels.
|
||
A towel, it says, is about the most massively useful thing an interstellar hitch hiker can have. Partly it has great practical value — you can wrap it around you for warmth as you bound across the cold moons of Jaglan Beta; you can lie on it on the brilliant marble-sanded beaches of Santraginus V, inhaling the heady sea vapours; you can sleep under it beneath the stars which shine so redly on the desert world of Kakrafoon; use it to sail a mini raft down the slow heavy river Moth; wet it for use in hand-tohand-combat; wrap it round your head to ward off noxious fumes or to avoid the gaze of the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal (a mindboggingly stupid animal, it assumes that if you can't see it, it can't see you — daft as a bush, but very ravenous); you can wave your towel in emergencies as a distress signal, and of course dry yourself off with it if it still seems to be clean enough.
|
||
More importantly, a towel has immense psychological value. For some reason, if a strag (strag: non-hitch hiker) discovers that a hitch hiker has his towel with him, he will automatically assume that he is also in possession of a toothbrush, face flannel, soap, tin of biscuits, flask, compass, map, ball of string, gnat spray, wet weather gear, space suit etc., etc. Furthermore, the strag will then happily lend the hitch hiker any of these or a dozen other items that the hitch hiker might accidentally have “lost”. What the strag will think is that any man who can hitch the length and breadth of the galaxy, rough it, slum it, struggle against terrible odds, win through, and still knows where his towel is is clearly a man to be reckoned with.
|
||
Hence a phrase which has passed into hitch hiking slang, as in “Hey, you sass that hoopy Ford Prefect? There's a frood who really knows where his towel is.” (Sass: know, be aware of, meet, have sex with; hoopy: really together guy; frood: really amazingly together guy.)
|
||
Nestling quietly on top of the towel in Ford Prefect's satchel, the SubEtha Sens-O-Matic began to wink more quickly. Miles above the surface of the planet the huge yellow somethings began to fan out. At Jodrell Bank, someone decided it was time for a nice relaxing cup of tea.
|
||
“You got a towel with you?” said Ford Prefect suddenly to Arthur.
|
||
Arthur, struggling through his third pint, looked round at him.
|
||
“Why? What, no... should I have?” He had given up being surprised, there didn't seem to be any point any longer.
|
||
Ford clicked his tongue in irritation.
|
||
“Drink up,” he urged.
|
||
At that moment the dull sound of a rumbling crash from outside filtered through the low murmur of the pub, through the sound of the jukebox, through the sound of the man next to Ford hiccupping over the whisky Ford had eventually bought him.
|
||
Arthur choked on his beer, leapt to his feet.
|
||
“What's that?” he yelped.
|
||
“Don't worry,” said Ford, “they haven't started yet.”
|
||
“Thank God for that,” said Arthur and relaxed.
|
||
“It's probably just your house being knocked down,” said Ford, drowning his last pint.
|
||
“What?” shouted Arthur. Suddenly Ford's spell was broken. Arthur looked wildly around him and ran to the window.
|
||
“My God they are! They're knocking my house down. What the hell am I doing in the pub, Ford?”
|
||
“It hardly makes any difference at this stage,” said Ford, “let them have their fun.”
|
||
“Fun?” yelped Arthur. “Fun!” He quickly checked out of the window again that they were talking about the same thing.
|
||
“Damn their fun!” he hooted and ran out of the pub furiously waving a nearly empty beer glass. He made no friends at all in the pub that lunchtime.
|
||
“Stop, you vandals! You home wreckers!” bawled Arthur. “You half crazed Visigoths, stop will you!”
|
||
Ford would have to go after him. Turning quickly to the barman he asked for four packets of peanuts.
|
||
“There you are sir,” said the barman, slapping the packets on the bar, “twenty-eight pence if you'd be so kind.”
|
||
Ford was very kind — he gave the barman another five-pound note and told him to keep the change. The barman looked at it and then looked at Ford. He suddenly shivered: he experienced a momentary sensation that he didn't understand because no one on Earth had ever experienced it before. In moments of great stress, every life form that exists gives out a tiny sublimal signal. This signal simply communicates an exact and almost pathetic sense of how far that being is from the place of his birth. On Earth it is never possible to be further than sixteen thousand miles from your birthplace, which really isn't very far, so such signals are too minute to be noticed. Ford Prefect was at this moment under great stress, and he was born 600 light years away in the near vicinity of Betelgeuse.
|
||
The barman reeled for a moment, hit by a shocking, incomprehensible sense of distance. He didn't know what it meant, but he looked at Ford Prefect with a new sense of respect, almost awe.
|
||
“Are you serious, sir?” he said in a small whisper which had the effect of silencing the pub. “You think the world's going to end?”
|
||
“Yes,” said Ford.
|
||
“But, this afternoon?”
|
||
Ford had recovered himself. He was at his flippest.
|
||
“Yes,” he said gaily, “in less than two minutes I would estimate.”
|
||
The barman couldn't believe the conversation he was having, but he couldn't believe the sensation he had just had either.
|
||
“Isn't there anything we can do about it then?” he said.
|
||
“No, nothing,” said Ford, stuffing the peanuts into his pockets.
|
||
Someone in the hushed bar suddenly laughed raucously at how stupid everyone had become.
|
||
The man sitting next to Ford was a bit sozzled by now. His eyes waved their way up to Ford.
|
||
“I thought,” he said, “that if the world was going to end we were meant to lie down or put a paper bag over our head or something.”
|
||
“If you like, yes,” said Ford.
|
||
“That's what they told us in the army,” said the man, and his eyes began the long trek back down to his whisky.
|
||
“Will that help?” asked the barman.
|
||
“No,” said Ford and gave him a friendly smile. “Excuse me,” he said, “I've got to go.” With a wave, he left.
|
||
The pub was silent for a moment longer, and then, embarrassingly enough, the man with the raucous laugh did it again. The girl he had dragged along to the pub with him had grown to loathe him dearly over the last hour or so, and it would probably have been a great satisfaction to her to know that in a minute and a half or so he would suddenly evaporate into a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide. However, when the moment came she would be too busy evaporating herself to notice it.
|
||
The barman cleared his throat. He heard himself say:
|
||
“Last orders, please.” The huge yellow machines began to sink downward and to move faster.
|
||
Ford knew they were there. This wasn't the way he had wanted it.
|
||
Running up the lane, Arthur had nearly reached his house. He didn't notice how cold it had suddenly become, he didn't notice the wind, he didn't notice the sudden irrational squall of rain. He didn't notice anything but the caterpillar bulldozers crawling over the rubble that had been his home.
|
||
“You barbarians!” he yelled. “I'll sue the council for every penny it's got! I'll have you hung, drawn and quartered! And whipped! And boiled... until... until... until you've had enough.”
|
||
Ford was running after him very fast. Very very fast.
|
||
“And then I'll do it again!” yelled Arthur. “And when I've finished I will take all the little bits, and I will jump on them!”
|
||
Arthur didn't notice that the men were running from the bulldozers; he didn't notice that Mr Prosser was staring hectically into the sky. What Mr Prosser had noticed was that huge yellow somethings were screaming through the clouds. Impossibly huge yellow somethings.
|
||
“And I will carry on jumping on them,” yelled Arthur, still running, “until I get blisters, or I can think of anything even more unpleasant to do, and then...”
|
||
Arthur tripped, and fell headlong, rolled and landed flat on his back. At last he noticed that something was going on. His finger shot upwards.
|
||
“What the hell's that?” he shrieked.
|
||
Whatever it was raced across the sky in monstrous yellowness, tore the sky apart with mind-buggering noise and leapt off into the distance leaving the gaping air to shut behind it with a bang that drove your ears six feet into your skull.
|
||
Another one followed and did the same thing only louder.
|
||
It's difficult to say exactly what the people on the surface of the planet were doing now, because they didn't really know what they were doing themselves. None of it made a lot of sense — running into houses, running out of houses, howling noiselessly at the noise. All around the world city streets exploded with people, cars slewed into each other as the noise fell on them and then rolled off like a tidal wave over hills and valleys, deserts and oceans, seeming to flatten everything it hit.
|
||
Only one man stood and watched the sky, stood with terrible sadness in his eyes and rubber bungs in his ears. He knew exactly what was happening and had known ever since his Sub-Etha Sens-OMatic had started winking in the dead of night beside his pillar and woken him with a start. It was what he had waited for all these years, but when he had deciphered the signal pattern sitting alone in his small dark room a coldness had gripped him and squeezed his heart. Of all the races in all of the Galaxy who could have come and said a big hello to planet Earth, he thought, didn't it just have to be the Vogons.
|
||
Still he knew what he had to do. As the Vogon craft screamed through the air high above him he opened his satchel. He threw away a copy of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, he threw away a copy of Godspell: He wouldn't need them where he was going. Everything was ready, everything was prepared.
|
||
He knew where his towel was.
|
||
A sudden silence hit the Earth. If anything it was worse than the noise.
|
||
For a while nothing happened.
|
||
The great ships hung motionless in the air, over every nation on Earth.
|
||
Motionless they hung, huge, heavy, steady in the sky, a blasphemy against nature. Many people went straight into shock as their minds tried to encompass what they were looking at. The ships hung in the sky in much the same way that bricks don't.
|
||
And still nothing happened.
|
||
Then there was a slight whisper, a sudden spacious whisper of open ambient sound. Every hi fi set in the world, every radio, every television, every cassette recorder, every woofer, every tweeter, every mid-range driver in the world quietly turned itself on.
|
||
Every tin can, every dust bin, every window, every car, every wine glass, every sheet of rusty metal became activated as an acoustically perfect sounding board.
|
||
Before the Earth passed away it was going to be treated to the very ultimate in sound reproduction, the greatest public address system ever built. But there was no concert, no music, no fanfare, just a simple message.
|
||
“People of Earth, your attention please,” a voice said, and it was wonderful. Wonderful perfect quadrophonic sound with distortion levels so low as to make a brave man weep.
|
||
“This is Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz of the Galactic Hyperspace Planning Council,” the voice continued. “As you will no doubt be aware, the plans for development of the outlying regions of the Galaxy require the building of a hyperspatial express route through your star system, and regrettably your planet is one of those scheduled for demolition. The process will take slightly less that two of your Earth minutes. Thank you.”
|
||
The PA died away.
|
||
Uncomprehending terror settled on the watching people of Earth. The terror moved slowly through the gathered crowds as if they were iron fillings on a sheet of board and a magnet was moving beneath them.
|
||
Panic sprouted again, desperate fleeing panic, but there was nowhere to flee to. Observing this, the Vogons turned on their PA again. It said:
|
||
“There's no point in acting all surprised about it. All the planning charts and demolition orders have been on display in your local planning department on Alpha Centauri for fifty of your Earth years, so you've had plenty of time to lodge any formal complaint and it's far too late to start making a fuss about it now.”
|
||
The PA fell silent again and its echo drifted off across the land. The huge ships turned slowly in the sky with easy power. On the underside of each a hatchway opened, an empty black space.
|
||
By this time somebody somewhere must have manned a radio transmitter, located a wavelength and broadcasted a message back to the Vogon ships, to plead on behalf of the planet. Nobody ever heard what they said, they only heard the reply. The PA slammed back into life again.
|
||
The voice was annoyed. It said:
|
||
“What do you mean you've never been to Alpha Centauri? For heaven's sake mankind, it's only four light years away you know. I'm sorry, but if you can't be bothered to take an interest in local affairs that's your own lookout.
|
||
“Energize the demolition beams.”
|
||
Light poured out into the hatchways.
|
||
“I don't know,” said the voice on the PA, “apathetic bloody planet, I've no sympathy at all.” It cut off.
|
||
There was a terrible ghastly silence.
|
||
There was a terrible ghastly noise.
|
||
There was a terrible ghastly silence.
|
||
The Vogon Constructor fleet coasted away into the inky starry void. 5
|
||
Far away on the opposite spiral arm of the Galaxy, five hundred thousand light years from the star Sol, Zaphod Beeblebrox, President of the Imperial Galactic Government, sped across the seas of Damogran, his ion drive delta boat winking and flashing in the Damogran sun.
|
||
Damogran the hot; Damogran the remote; Damogran the almost totally unheard of. Damogran, secret home of the Heart of Gold.
|
||
The boat sped on across the water. It would be some time before it reached its destination because Damogran is such an inconveniently arranged planet. It consists of nothing but middling to large desert islands separated by very pretty but annoyingly wide stretches of ocean.
|
||
The boat sped on.
|
||
Because of this topological awkwardness Damogran has always remained a deserted planet. This is why the Imperial Galactic Government chose Damogran for the Heart of Gold project, because it was so deserted and the Heart of Gold was so secret.
|
||
The boat zipped and skipped across the sea, the sea that lay between the main islands of the only archipelago of any useful size on the whole planet. Zaphod Beeblebrox was on his way from the tiny spaceport on Easter Island (the name was an entirely meaningless coincidence — in Galacticspeke, easter means small flat and light brown) to the Heart of Gold island, which by another meaningless coincidence was called France.
|
||
One of the side effects of work on the Heart of Gold was a whole string of pretty meaningless coincidences.
|
||
But it was not in any way a coincidence that today, the day of culmination of the project, the great day of unveiling, the day that the Heart of Gold was finally to be introduced to a marvelling Galaxy, was also a great day of culmination for Zaphod Beeblebrox. It was for the sake of this day that he had first decided to run for the Presidency, a decision which had sent waves of astonishment throughout the Imperial Galaxy — Zaphod Beeblebrox? President? Not the Zaphod Beeblebrox?
|
||
Not the President? Many had seen it as a clinching proof that the whole of known creation had finally gone bananas.
|
||
Zaphod grinned and gave the boat an extra kick of speed.
|
||
Zaphod Beeblebrox, adventurer, ex-hippy, good timer, (crook? quite possibly), manic self-publicist, terribly bad at personal relationships, often thought to be completely out to lunch.
|
||
President?
|
||
No one had gone bananas, not in that way at least.
|
||
Only six people in the entire Galaxy understood the principle on which the Galaxy was governed, and they knew that once Zaphod Beeblebrox had announced his intention to run as President it was more or less a fait accompli: he was the ideal Presidency fodder.
|
||
What they completely failed to understand was why Zaphod was doing it.
|
||
He banked sharply, shooting a wild wall of water at the sun.
|
||
Today was the day; today was the day when they would realize what Zaphod had been up to. Today was what Zaphod Beeblebrox's Presidency was all about. Today was also his two hundredth birthday, but that was just another meaningless coincidence.
|
||
As he skipped his boat across the seas of Damogran he smiled quietly to himself about what a wonderful exciting day it was going to be. He relaxed and spread his two arms lazily across the seat back. He steered with an extra arm he'd recently fitted just beneath his right one to help improve his ski-boxing.
|
||
“Hey,” he cooed to himself, “you're a real cool boy you.” But his nerves sang a song shriller than a dog whistle.
|
||
The island of France was about twenty miles long, five miles across the middle, sandy and crescent shaped. In fact it seemed to exist not so much as an island in its own right as simply a means of defining the sweep and curve of a huge bay. This impression was heightened by the fact that the inner coastline of the crescent consisted almost entirely of steep cliffs. From the top of the cliff the land sloped slowly down five miles to the opposite shore.
|
||
On top of the cliffs stood a reception committee.
|
||
It consisted in large part of the engineers and researchers who had built the Heart of Gold — mostly humanoid, but here and there were a few reptiloid atomineers, two or three green slyph-like maximegalacticans, an octopoid physucturalist or two and a Hooloovoo (a Hooloovoo is a super-intelligent shade of the color blue). All except the Hooloovoo were resplendent in their multicolored ceremonial lab coats; the Hooloovoo had been temporarily refracted into a free standing prism for the occasion.
|
||
There was a mood of immense excitement thrilling through all of them.
|
||
Together and between them they had gone to and beyond the furthest limits of physical laws, restructured the fundamental fabric of matter, strained, twisted and broken the laws of possibility and impossibility, but still the greatest excitement of all seemed to be to meet a man with an orange sash round his neck. (An orange sash was what the President of the Galaxy traditionally wore.) It might not even have made much difference to them if they'd known exactly how much power the President of the Galaxy actually wielded: none at all. Only six people in the Galaxy knew that the job of the Galactic President was not to wield power but to attract attention away from it.
|
||
Zaphod Beeblebrox was amazingly good at his job.
|
||
The crowd gasped, dazzled by sun and seemanship, as the Presidential speedboat zipped round the headland into the bay. It flashed and shone as it came skating over the sea in wide skidding turns.
|
||
In fact it didn't need to touch the water at all, because it was supported on a hazy cushion of ionized atoms — but just for effect it was fitted with thin finblades which could be lowered into the water. They slashed sheets of water hissing into the air, carved deep gashes into the sea which swayed crazily and sank back foaming into the boat's wake as it careered across the bay.
|
||
Zaphod loved effect: it was what he was best at.
|
||
He twisted the wheel sharply, the boat slewed round in a wild scything skid beneath the cliff face and dropped to rest lightly on the rocking waves.
|
||
Within seconds he ran out onto the deck and waved and grinned at over three billion people. The three billion people weren't actually there, but they watched his every gesture through the eyes of a small robot tri-D camera which hovered obsequiously in the air nearby. The antics of the President always made amazingly popular tri-D; that's what they were for.
|
||
He grinned again. Three billion and six people didn't know it, but today would be a bigger antic than anyone had bargained for.
|
||
The robot camera homed in for a close up on the more popular of his two heads and he waved again. He was roughly humanoid in appearance except for the extra head and third arm. His fair tousled hair stuck out in random directions, his blue eyes glinted with something completely unidentifiable, and his chins were almost always unshaven.
|
||
A twenty-foot-high transparent globe floated next to his boat, rolling and bobbing, glistening in the brilliant sun. Inside it floated a wide semi-circular sofa upholstered in glorious red leather: the more the globe bobbed and rolled, the more the sofa stayed perfectly still, steady as an upholstered rock. Again, all done for effect as much as anything.
|
||
Zaphod stepped through the wall of the globe and relaxed on the sofa.
|
||
He spread his two arms lazily along the back and with the third brushed some dust off his knee. His heads looked about, smiling; he put his feet up. At any moment, he thought, he might scream.
|
||
Water boiled up beneath the bubble, it seethed and spouted. The bubble surged into the air, bobbing and rolling on the water spout. Up, up it climbed, throwing stilts of light at the cliff. Up it surged on the jet, the water falling from beneath it, crashing back into the sea hundreds of feet below.
|
||
Zaphod smiled, picturing himself.
|
||
A thoroughly ridiculous form of transport, but a thoroughly beautiful one.
|
||
At the top of the cliff the globe wavered for a moment, tipped on to a railed ramp, rolled down it to a small concave platform and riddled to a halt.
|
||
To tremendous applause Zaphod Beeblebrox stepped out of the bubble, his orange sash blazing in the light.
|
||
The President of the Galaxy had arrived.
|
||
He waited for the applause to die down, then raised his hands in greeting.
|
||
“Hi,” he said.
|
||
A government spider sidled up to him and attempted to press a copy of his prepared speech into his hands. Pages three to seven of the original version were at the moment floating soggily on the Damogran sea some five miles out from the bay. Pages one and two had been salvaged by a Damogran Frond Crested Eagle and had already become incorporated into an extraordinary new form of nest which the eagle had invented. It was constructed largely of papier m@ch@ and it was virtually impossible for a newly hatched baby eagle to break out of it. The Damogran Frond Crested Eagle had heard of the notion of survival of the species but wanted no truck with it.
|
||
Zaphod Beeblebrox would not be needing his set speech and he gently deflected the one being offered him by the spider.
|
||
“Hi,” he said again.
|
||
Everyone beamed at him, or, at least, nearly everyone. He singled out Trillian from the crowd. Trillian was a gird that Zaphod had picked up recently whilst visiting a planet, just for fun, incognito. She was slim, darkish, humanoid, with long waves of black hair, a full mouth, an odd little nob of a nose and ridiculously brown eyes. With her red head scarf knotted in that particular way and her long flowing silky brown dress she looked vaguely Arabic. Not that anyone there had ever heard of an Arab of course. The Arabs had very recently ceased to exist, and even when they had existed they were five hundred thousand light years from Damogran. Trillian wasn't anybody in particular, or so Zaphod claimed. She just went around with him rather a lot and told him what she thought of him.
|
||
“Hi honey,” he said to her.
|
||
She flashed him a quick tight smile and looked away. Then she looked back for a moment and smiled more warmly — but by this time he was looking at something else.
|
||
“Hi,” he said to a small knot of creatures from the press who were standing nearby wishing that he would stop saying Hi and get on with the quotes. He grinned at them particularly because he knew that in a few moments he would be giving them one hell of a quote.
|
||
The next thing he said though was not a lot of use to them. One of the officials of the party had irritably decided that the President was clearly not in a mood to read the deliciously turned speech that had been written for him, and had flipped the switch on the remote control device in his pocket. Away in front of them a huge white dome that bulged against the sky cracked down in the middle, split, and slowly folded itself down into the ground. Everyone gasped although they had known perfectly well it was going to do that because they had built it that way.
|
||
Beneath it lay uncovered a huge starship, one hundred and fifty metres long, shaped like a sleek running shoe, perfectly white and mindboggingly beautiful. At the heart of it, unseen, lay a small gold box which carried within it the most brain-wretching device ever conceived, a device which made this starship unique in the history of the galaxy, a device after which the ship had been named — The Heart of Gold. “Wow”, said Zaphod Beeblebrox to the Heart of Gold. There wasn't much else he could say.
|
||
He said it again because he knew it would annoy the press.
|
||
“Wow.”
|
||
The crowd turned their faces back towards him expectantly. He winked at Trillian who raised her eyebrows and widened her eyes at him. She knew what he was about to say and thought him a terrible showoff.
|
||
“That is really amazing,” he said. “That really is truly amazing. That is so amazingly amazing I think I'd like to steal it.”
|
||
A marvellous Presidential quote, absolutely true to form. The crowd laughed appreciatively, the newsmen gleefully punched buttons on their Sub-Etha News-Matics and the President grinned.
|
||
As he grinned his heart screamed unbearably and he fingered the small Paralyso-Matic bomb that nestled quietly in his pocket.
|
||
Finally he could bear it no more. He lifted his heads up to the sky, let out a wild whoop in major thirds, threw the bomb to the ground and ran forward through the sea of suddenly frozen smiles. 6
|
||
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was not a pleasant sight, even for other Vogons.
|
||
His highly domed nose rose high above a small piggy forehead. His dark green rubbery skin was thick enough for him to play the game of Vogon Civil Service politics, and play it well, and waterproof enough for him to survive indefinitely at sea depths of up to a thousand feet with no ill effects.
|
||
Not that he ever went swimming of course. His busy schedule would not allow it. He was the way he was because billions of years ago when the Vogons had first crawled out of the sluggish primeval seas of Vogsphere, and had lain panting and heaving on the planet's virgin shores... when the first rays of the bright young Vogsol sun had shone across them that morning, it was as if the forces of evolution ad simply given up on them there and then, had turned aside in disgust and written them off as an ugly and unfortunate mistake. They never evolved again; they should never have survived.
|
||
The fact that they did is some kind of tribute to the thickwilled slugbrained stubbornness of these creatures. Evolution? they said to themselves, Who needs it?, and what nature refused to do for them they simply did without until such time as they were able to rectify the grosser anatomical inconveniences with surgery.
|
||
Meanwhile, the natural forces on the planet Vogsphere had been working overtime to make up for their earlier blunder. They brought forth scintillating jewelled scuttling crabs, which the Vogons ate, smashing their shells with iron mallets; tall aspiring trees with breathtaking slenderness and colour which the Vogons cut down and burned the crab meat with; elegant gazellelike creatures with silken coats and dewy eyes which the Vogons would catch and sit on. They were no use as transport because their backs would snap instantly, but the Vogons sat on them anyway.
|
||
Thus the planet Vogsphere whiled away the unhappy millennia until the Vogons suddenly discovered the principles of interstellar travel. Within a few short Vog years every last Vogon had migrated to the Megabrantis cluster, the political hub of the Galaxy and now formed the immensely powerful backbone of the Galactic Civil Service. They have attempted to acquire learning, they have attempted to acquire style and social grace, but in most respects the modern Vogon is little different from his primitive forebears. Every year they import twenty-seven thousand scintillating jewelled scuttling crabs from their native planet and while away a happy drunken night smashing them to bits with iron mallets.
|
||
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was a fairly typical Vogon in that he was thoroughly vile. Also, he did not like hitch hikers.
|
||
Somewhere in a small dark cabin buried deep in the intestines of Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz's flagship, a small match flared nervously. The owner of the match was not a Vogon, but he knew all about them and was right to be nervous. His name was Ford Prefect.
|
||
He looked about the cabin but could see very little; strange monstrous shadows loomed and leaped with the tiny flickering flame, but all was quiet. He breathed a silent thank you to the Dentrassis. The Dentrassis are an unruly tribe of gourmands, a wild but pleasant bunch whom the Vogons had recently taken to employing as catering staff on their long haul fleets, on the strict understanding that they keep themselves very much to themselves.
|
||
This suited the Dentrassis fine, because they loved Vogon money, which is one of the hardest currencies in space, but loathed the Vogons themselves. The only sort of Vogon a Dentrassi liked to see was an annoyed Vogon.
|
||
It was because of this tiny piece of information that Ford Prefect was not now a whiff of hydrogen, ozone and carbon monoxide.
|
||
He heard a slight groan. By the light of the match he saw a heavy shape moving slightly on the floor. Quickly he shook the match out, reached in his pocket, found what he was looking for and took it out. He crouched on the floor. The shape moved again.
|
||
Ford Prefect said: “I bought some peanuts.”
|
||
Arthur Dent moved, and groaned again, muttering incoherently.
|
||
“Here, have some,” urged Ford, shaking the packet again, “if you've never been through a matter transference beam before you've probably lost some salt and protein. The beer you had should have cushioned your system a bit.”
|
||
“Whhhrrrr...” said Arthur Dent. He opened his eyes.
|
||
“It's dark,” he said.
|
||
“Yes,” said Ford Prefect, “it's dark.”
|
||
“No light,” said Arthur Dent. “Dark, no light.”
|
||
One of the things Ford Prefect had always found hardest to understand about human beings was their habit of continually stating and repeating the obvious, as in It's a nice day, or You're very tall, or Oh dear you seem to have fallen down a thirty-foot well, are you alright? At first Ford had formed a theory to account for this strange behaviour. If human beings don't keep exercising their lips, he thought, their mouths probably seize up. After a few months' consideration and observation he abandoned this theory in favour of a new one. If they don't keep on exercising their lips, he thought, their brains start working. After a while he abandoned this one as well as being obstructively cynical and decided he quite liked human beings after all, but he always remained desperately worried about the terrible number of things they didn't know about.
|
||
“Yes,” he agreed with Arthur, “no light.” He helped Arthur to some peanuts. “How do you feel?” he asked.
|
||
“Like a military academy,” said Arthur, “bits of me keep on passing out.”
|
||
Ford stared at him blankly in the darkness.
|
||
“If I asked you where the hell we were,” said Arthur weakly, “would I regret it?”
|
||
Ford stood up. “We're safe,” he said.
|
||
“Oh good,” said Arthur.
|
||
“We're in a small galley cabin,” said Ford, “in one of the spaceships of the Vogon Constructor Fleet.”
|
||
“Ah,” said Arthur, “this is obviously some strange usage of the word safe that I wasn't previously aware of.”
|
||
Ford struck another match to help him search for a light switch. Monstrous shadows leaped and loomed again. Arthur struggled to his feet and hugged himself apprehensively. Hideous alien shapes seemed to throng about him, the air was thick with musty smells which sidled into his lungs without identifying themselves, and a low irritating hum kept his brain from focusing.
|
||
“How did we get here?” he asked, shivering slightly.
|
||
“We hitched a lift,” said Ford.
|
||
“Excuse me?” said Arthur. “Are you trying to tell me that we just stuck out our thumbs and some green bug-eyed monster stuck his head out and said, Hi fellas, hop right in. I can take you as far as the Basingstoke roundabout?”
|
||
“Well,” said Ford, “the Thumb's an electronic sub-etha signalling device, the roundabout's at Barnard's Star six light years away, but otherwise, that's more or less right.”
|
||
“And the bug-eyed monster?”
|
||
“Is green, yes.”
|
||
“Fine,” said Arthur, “when can I get home?”
|
||
“You can't,” said Ford Prefect, and found the light switch.
|
||
“Shade your eyes...” he said, and turned it on.
|
||
Even Ford was surprised.
|
||
“Good grief,” said Arthur, “is this really the interior of a flying saucer?”
|
||
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz heaved his unpleasant green body round the control bridge. He always felt vaguely irritable after demolishing populated planets. He wished that someone would come and tell him that it was all wrong so that he could shout at them and feel better. He flopped as heavily as he could on to his control seat in the hope that it would break and give him something to be genuinely angry about, but it only gave a complaining sort of creak.
|
||
“Go away!” he shouted at a young Vogon guard who entered the bridge at that moment. The guard vanished immediately, feeling rather relieved.
|
||
He was glad it wouldn't now be him who delivered the report they'd just received. The report was an official release which said that a wonderful new form of spaceship drive was at this moment being unveiled at a government research base on Damogran which would henceforth make all hyperspatial express routes unnecessary.
|
||
Another door slid open, but this time the Vogon captain didn't shout because it was the door from the galley quarters where the Dentrassis prepared his meals. A meal would be most welcome.
|
||
A huge furry creature bounded through the door with his lunch tray. It was grinning like a maniac.
|
||
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz was delighted. He knew that when a Dentrassi looked that pleased with itself there was something going on somewhere on the ship that he could get very angry indeed about.
|
||
Ford and Arthur stared about them.
|
||
“Well, what do you think?” said Ford.
|
||
“It's a bit squalid, isn't it?”
|
||
Ford frowned at the grubby mattress, unwashed cups and unidentifiable bits of smelly alien underwear that lay around the cramped cabin.
|
||
“Well, this is a working ship, you see,” said Ford. “These are the Dentrassi sleeping quarters.”
|
||
“I thought you said they were called Vogons or something.”
|
||
“Yes,” said Ford, “the Vogons run the ship, the Dentrassis are the cooks, they let us on board.”
|
||
“I'm confused,” said Arthur.
|
||
“Here, have a look at this,” said Ford. He sat down on one of the mattresses and rummaged about in his satchel. Arthur prodded the mattress nervously and then sat on it himself: in fact he had very little to be nervous about, because all mattresses grown in the swamps of Squornshellous Zeta are very thoroughly killed and dried before being put to service. Very few have ever come to life again.
|
||
Ford handed the book to Arthur.
|
||
“What is it?” asked Arthur.
|
||
“The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy. It's a sort of electronic book. It tells you everything you need to know about anything. That's its job.”
|
||
Arthur turned it over nervously in his hands.
|
||
“I like the cover,” he said. “Don't Panic. It's the first helpful or intelligible thing anybody's said to me all day.”
|
||
“I'll show you how it works,” said Ford. He snatched it from Arthur who was still holding it as if it was a two-week-dead lark and pulled it out of its cover.
|
||
“You press this button here you see and the screen lights up giving you the index.”
|
||
A screen, about three inches by four, lit up and characters began to flicker across the surface.
|
||
“You want to know about Vogons, so I enter that name so.” His fingers tapped some more keys. “And there we are.”
|
||
The words Vogon Constructor Fleets flared in green across the screen.
|
||
Ford pressed a large red button at the bottom of the screen and words began to undulate across it. At the same time, the book began to speak the entry as well in a still quiet measured voice. This is what the book said.
|
||
“Vogon Constructor Fleets. Here is what to do if you want to get a lift from a Vogon: forget it. They are one of the most unpleasant races in the Galaxy — not actually evil, but bad tempered, bureaucratic, officious and callous. They wouldn't even lift a finger to save their own grandmothers from the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal without orders signed in triplicate, sent in, sent back, queried, lost, found, subjected to public inquiry, lost again, and finally buried in soft peat and recycled as firelighters.
|
||
“The best way to get a drink out of a Vogon is to stick your finger down his throat, and the best way to irritate him is to feed his grandmother to the Ravenous Bugblatter Beast of Traal.
|
||
“On no account allow a Vogon to read poetry at you.”
|
||
Arthur blinked at it.
|
||
“What a strange book. How did we get a lift then?”
|
||
“That's the point, it's out of date now,” said Ford, sliding the book back into its cover. “I'm doing the field research for the New Revised Edition, and one of the things I'll have to include is a bit about how the Vogons now employ Dentrassi cooks which gives us a rather useful little loophole.”
|
||
A pained expression crossed Arthur's face. “But who are the Dentrassi?” he said.
|
||
“Great guys,” said Ford. “They're the best cooks and the best drink mixers and they don't give a wet slap about anything else. And they'll always help hitch hikers aboard, partly because they like the company, but mostly because it annoys the Vogons. Which is exactly the sort of thing you need to know if you're an impoverished hitch hiker trying to see the marvels of the Universe for less than thirty Altairan Dollars a day. And that's my job. Fun, isn't it?”
|
||
Arthur looked lost.
|
||
“It's amazing,” he said and frowned at one of the other mattresses.
|
||
“Unfortunately I got stuck on the Earth for rather longer than I intended,” said Ford. “I came for a week and got stuck for fifteen years.”
|
||
“But how did you get there in the first place then?”
|
||
“Easy, I got a lift with a teaser.”
|
||
“A teaser?”
|
||
“Yeah.”
|
||
“Er, what is...”
|
||
“A teaser? Teasers are usually rich kids with nothing to do. They cruise around looking for planets which haven't made interstellar contact yet and buzz them.”
|
||
“Buzz them?” Arthur began to feel that Ford was enjoying making life difficult for him. “Yeah”, said Ford, “they buzz them. They find some isolated spot with very few people around, then land right by some poor soul whom no one's ever going to believe and then strut up and down in front of him wearing silly antennae on their heads and making beep beep noises. Rather childish really.” Ford leant back on the mattress with his hands behind his head and looked infuriatingly pleased with himself.
|
||
“Ford,” insisted Arthur, “I don't know if this sounds like a silly question, but what am I doing here?”
|
||
“Well you know that,” said Ford. “I rescued you from the Earth.”
|
||
“And what's happened to the Earth?”
|
||
“Ah. It's been demolished.”
|
||
“Has it,” said Arthur levelly.
|
||
“Yes. It just boiled away into space.”
|
||
“Look,” said Arthur, “I'm a bit upset about that.”
|
||
Ford frowned to himself and seemed to roll the thought around his mind.
|
||
“Yes, I can understand that,” he said at last.
|
||
“Understand that!” shouted Arthur. “Understand that!”
|
||
Ford sprang up.
|
||
“Keep looking at the book!” he hissed urgently.
|
||
“What?”
|
||
“Don't Panic.”
|
||
“I'm not panicking!”
|
||
“Yes you are.”
|
||
“Alright so I'm panicking, what else is there to do?”
|
||
“You just come along with me and have a good time. The Galaxy's a fun place. You'll need to have this fish in your ear.”
|
||
“I beg your pardon?” asked Arthur, rather politely he thought.
|
||
Ford was holding up a small glass jar which quite clearly had a small yellow fish wriggling around in it. Arthur blinked at him. He wished there was something simple and recognizable he could grasp hold of. He would have felt safe if alongside the Dentrassi underwear, the piles of Squornshellous mattresses and the man from Betelgeuse holding up a small yellow fish and offering to put it in his ear he had been able to see just a small packet of corn flakes. He couldn't, and he didn't feel safe.
|
||
Suddenly a violent noise leapt at them from no source that he could identify. He gasped in terror at what sounded like a man trying to gargle whilst fighting off a pack of wolves.
|
||
“Shush!” said Ford. “Listen, it might be important.”
|
||
“Im... important?”
|
||
“It's the Vogon captain making an announcement on the T'annoy.”
|
||
“You mean that's how the Vogons talk?”
|
||
“Listen!”
|
||
“But I can't speak Vogon!”
|
||
“You don't need to. Just put that fish in your ear.”
|
||
Ford, with a lightning movement, clapped his hand to Arthur's ear, and he had the sudden sickening sensation of the fish slithering deep into his aural tract. Gasping with horror he scrabbled at his ear for a second or so, but then slowly turned goggle-eyed with wonder. He was experiencing the aural equivalent of looking at a picture of two black silhouetted faces and suddenly seeing it as a picture of a white candlestick. Or of looking at a lot of coloured dots on a piece of paper which suddenly resolve themselves into the figure six and mean that your optician is going to charge you a lot of money for a new pair of glasses.
|
||
He was still listening to the howling gargles, he knew that, only now it had taken on the semblance of perfectly straightforward English.
|
||
This is what he heard... 7
|
||
“Howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl howl gargle howl gargle howl howl gargle gargle howl gargle gargle gargle howl slurrp uuuurgh should have a good time. Message repeats. This is your captain speaking, so stop whatever you're doing and pay attention. First of all I see from our instruments that we have a couple of hitchhikers aboard. Hello wherever you are. I just want to make it totally clear that you are not at all welcome. I worked hard to get where I am today, and I didn't become captain of a Vogon constructor ship simply so I could turn it into a taxi service for a load of degenerate freeloaders. I have sent out a search party, and as soon that they find you I will put you off the ship. If you're very lucky I might read you some of my poetry first.
|
||
“Secondly, we are about to jump into hyperspace for the journey to Barnard's Star. On arrival we will stay in dock for a seventy-two hour refit, and no one's to leave the ship during that time. I repeat, all planet leave is cancelled. I've just had an unhappy love affair, so I don't see why anybody else should have a good time. Message ends.” The noise stopped.
|
||
Arthur discovered to his embarrassment that he was lying curled up in a small ball on the floor with his arms wrapped round his head. He smiled weakly.
|
||
“Charming man,” he said. “I wish I had a daughter so I could forbid her to marry one...”
|
||
“You wouldn't need to,” said Ford. “They've got as much sex appeal as a road accident. No, don't move,” he added as Arthur began to uncurl himself, “you'd better be prepared for the jump into hyperspace. It's unpleasantly like being drunk.”
|
||
“What's so unpleasant about being drunk?”
|
||
“You ask a glass of water.”
|
||
Arthur thought about this.
|
||
“Ford,” he said.
|
||
“Yeah?”
|
||
“What's this fish doing in my ear?”
|
||
“It's translating for you. It's a Babel fish. Look it up in the book if you like.”
|
||
He tossed over The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy and then curled himself up into a foetal ball to prepare himself for the jump.
|
||
At that moment the bottom fell out of Arthur's mind.
|
||
His eyes turned inside out. His feet began to leak out of the top of his head.
|
||
The room folded flat about him, spun around, shifted out of existence and left him sliding into his own navel.
|
||
They were passing through hyperspace.
|
||
“The Babel fish,” said The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy quietly, “is small, yellow and leech-like, and probably the oddest thing in the Universe. It feeds on brainwave energy not from its carrier but from those around it. It absorbs all unconscious mental frequencies from this brainwave energy to nourish itself with. It then excretes into the mind of its carrier a telepathic matrix formed by combining the conscious thought frequencies with nerve signals picked up from the speech centres of the brain which has supplied them. The practical upshot of all this is that if you stick a Babel fish in your ear you can instantly understand anything said to you in any form of language. The speech patterns you actually hear decode the brainwave matrix which has been fed into your mind by your Babel fish.
|
||
“Now it is such a bizarrely improbable coincidence that anything so mindboggingly useful could have evolved purely by chance that some thinkers have chosen to see it as the final and clinching proof of the non-existence of God.
|
||
“The argument goes something like this: “I refuse to prove that I exist,"says God, “for proof denies faith, and without faith I am nothing.'
|
||
“But,"says Man, “The Babel fish is a dead giveaway, isn't it? It could not have evolved by chance. It proves you exist, and so therefore, by your own arguments, you don't. QED.'
|
||
“Oh dear,"says God, “I hadn't thought of that,"and promptly vanished in a puff of logic.
|
||
“Oh, that was easy,"says Man, and for an encore goes on to prove that black is white and gets himself killed on the next zebra crossing.
|
||
“Most leading theologians claim that this argument is a load of dingo's kidneys, but that didn't stop Oolon Colluphid making a small fortune when he used it as the central theme of his bestselling book Well That About Wraps It Up For God.
|
||
“Meanwhile, the poor Babel fish, by effectively removing all barriers to communication between different races and cultures, has caused more and bloddier wars than anything else in the history of creation.”
|
||
Arthur let out a low groan. He was horrified to discover that the kick through hyperspace hadn't killed him. He was now six light years from the place that the Earth would have been if it still existed.
|
||
The Earth.
|
||
Visions of it swam sickeningly through his nauseated mind. There was no way his imagination could feel the impact of the whole Earth having gone, it was too big. He prodded his feelings by thinking that his parents and his sister had gone. No reaction. He thought of all the people he had been close to. No reaction. Then he thought of a complete stranger he had been standing behind in the queue at the supermarket before and felt a sudden stab — the supermarket was gone, everything in it was gone.
|
||
Nelson's Column had gone! Nelson's Column had gone and there would be no outcry, because there was no one left to make an outcry. From now on Nelson's Column only existed in his mind. England only existed in his mind — his mind, stuck here in this dank smelly steel-lined spaceship.
|
||
A wave of claustrophobia closed in on him.
|
||
England no longer existed. He'd got that — somehow he'd got it. He tried again. America, he thought, has gone. He couldn't grasp it. He decided to start smaller again. New York has gone. No reaction. He'd never seriously believed it existed anyway. The dollar, he thought, had sunk for ever. Slight tremor there. Every Bogart movie has been wiped, he said to himself, and that gave him a nasty knock. McDonalds, he thought. There is no longer any such thing as a McDonald's hamburger.
|
||
He passed out. When he came round a second later he found he was sobbing for his mother.
|
||
He jerked himself violently to his feet.
|
||
“Ford!”
|
||
Ford looked up from where he was sitting in a corner humming to himself. He always found the actual travelling-through-space part of space travel rather trying.
|
||
“Yeah?” he said.
|
||
“If you're a researcher on this book thing and you were on Earth, you must have been gathering material on it.”
|
||
“Well, I was able to extend the original entry a bit, yes.”
|
||
“Let me see what it says in this edition then, I've got to see it.”
|
||
“Yeah OK.” He passed it over again.
|
||
Arthur grabbed hold of it and tried to stop his hands shaking. He pressed the entry for the relevant page. The screen flashed and swirled and resolved into a page of print. Arthur stared at it.
|
||
“It doesn't have an entry!” he burst out.
|
||
Ford looked over his shoulder.
|
||
“Yes it does,” he said, “down there, see at the bottom of the screen, just under Eccentrica Gallumbits, the triple-breasted whore of Eroticon 6.”
|
||
Arthur followed Ford's finger, and saw where it was pointing. For a moment it still didn't register, then his mind nearly blew up.
|
||
“What? Harmless? Is that all it's got to say? Harmless! One word!”
|
||
Ford shrugged.
|
||
“Well, there are a hundred billion stars in the Galaxy, and only a limited amount of space in the book's microprocessors,” he said, “and no one knew much about the Earth of course.”
|
||
“Well for God's sake I hope you managed to rectify that a bit.”
|
||
“Oh yes, well I managed to transmit a new entry off to the editor. He had to trim it a bit, but it's still an improvement.”
|
||
“And what does it say now?” asked Arthur.
|
||
“Mostly harmless,” admitted Ford with a slightly embarrassed cough.
|
||
“Mostly harmless!” shouted Arthur. “What was that noise?” hissed Ford.
|
||
“It was me shouting,” shouted Arthur.
|
||
“No! Shut up!” said Ford. I think we're in trouble.”
|
||
“You think we're in trouble!”
|
||
Outside the door were the sounds of marching feet.
|
||
“The Dentrassi?” whispered Arthur.
|
||
“No, those are steel tipped boots,” said Ford.
|
||
There was a sharp ringing rap on the door.
|
||
“Then who is it?” said Arthur.
|
||
“Well,” said Ford, “if we're lucky it's just the Vogons come to throw us in to space.”
|
||
“And if we're unlucky?”
|
||
“If we're unlucky,” said Ford grimly, “the captain might be serious in his threat that he's going to read us some of his poetry first..." 8
|
||
Vogon poetry is of course the third worst in the Universe.
|
||
The second worst is that of the Azagoths of Kria. During a recitation by their Poet Master Grunthos the Flatulent of his poem “Ode To A Small Lump of Green Putty I Found In My Armpit One Midsummer Morning” four of his audience died of internal haemorrhaging, and the President of the Mid-Galactic Arts Nobbling Council survived by gnawing one of his own legs off. Grunthos is reported to have been “disappointed” by the poem's reception, and was about to embark on a reading of his twelvebook epic entitled My Favourite Bathtime Gurgles when his own major intestine, in a desperate attempt to save life and civilization, leapt straight up through his neck and throttled his brain.
|
||
The very worst poetry of all perished along with its creator Paula Nancy Millstone Jennings of Greenbridge, Essex, England in the destruction of the planet Earth.
|
||
Prostetnic Vogon Jeltz smiled very slowly. This was done not so much for effect as because he was trying to remember the sequence of muscle movements. He had had a terribly therapeutic yell at his prisoners and was now feeling quite relaxed and ready for a little callousness.
|
||
The prisoners sat in Poetry Appreciation Chairs -strapped in. Vogons suffered no illusions as to the regard their works were generally held in.
|
||
Their early attempts at composition had been part of bludgeoning insistence that they be accepted as a properly evolved and cultured race, but now the only thing that kept them going was sheer bloodymindedness.
|
||
The sweat stood out cold on Ford Prefect's brow, and slid round the electrodes strapped to his temples. These were attached to a battery of electronic equipment — imagery intensifiers, rhythmic modulators, alliterative residulators and simile dumpers — all designed to heighten the experience of the poem and make sure that not a single nuance of the poet's thought was lost.
|
||
Arthur Dent sat and quivered. He had no idea what he was in for, but he knew that he hadn't liked anything that had happened so far and didn't think things were likely to change.
|
||
The Vogon began to read — a fetid little passage of his own devising.
|
||
“Oh frettled gruntbuggly...” he began. Spasms wracked Ford's body — this was worse than ever he'd been prepared for.
|
||
“... thy micturations are to me _ As plurdled gabbleblotchits on a lurgid bee.”
|
||
“Aaaaaaarggggghhhhhh!” went Ford Prefect, wrenching his head back as lumps of pain thumped through it. He could dimly see beside him Arthur lolling and rolling in his seat. He clenched his teeth.
|
||
“Groop I implore thee,” continued the merciless Vogon, “my foonting turlingdromes.”
|
||
His voice was rising to a horrible pitch of impassioned stridency. “And hooptiously drangle me with crinkly bindlewurdles,_ Or I will rend thee in the gobberwarts with my blurglecruncheon, see if I don't!”
|
||
“Nnnnnnnnnnyyyyyyyuuuuuuurrrrrrrggggggghhhhh!” cried Ford Prefect and threw one final spasm as the electronic enhancement of the last line caught him full blast across the temples. He went limp.
|
||
Arthur lolled.
|
||
“Now Earthlings...” whirred the Vogon (he didn't know that Ford Prefect was in fact from a small planet in the vicinity of Betelgeuse, and wouldn't have cared if he had) “I present you with a simple choice!
|
||
Either die in the vacuum of space, or...” he paused for melodramatic effect, “tell me how good you thought my poem was!”
|
||
He threw himself backwards into a huge leathery bat-shaped seat and watched them. He did the smile again.
|
||
Ford was rasping for breath. He rolled his dusty tongue round his parched mouth and moaned.
|
||
Arthur said brightly: “Actually I quite liked it.”
|
||
Ford turned and gaped. Here was an approach that had quite simply not occurred to him.
|
||
The Vogon raised a surprised eyebrow that effectively obscured his nose and was therefore no bad thing.
|
||
“Oh good...” he whirred, in considerable astonishment.
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Arthur, “I thought that some of the metaphysical imagery was really particularly effective.”
|
||
Ford continued to stare at him, slowly organizing his thoughts around this totally new concept. Were they really going to be able to bareface their way out of this?
|
||
“Yes, do continue...” invited the Vogon.
|
||
“Oh... and er... interesting rhythmic devices too,” continued Arthur, “which seemed to counterpoint the... er... er...” He floundered.
|
||
Ford leaped to his rescue, hazarding “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor of the... er...” He floundered too, but Arthur was ready again.
|
||
“... humanity of the...”
|
||
“Vogonity,” Ford hissed at him.
|
||
“Ah yes, Vogonity (sorry) of the poet's compassionate soul,” Arthur felt he was on a home stretch now, “which contrives through the medium of the verse structure to sublimate this, transcend that, and come to terms with the fundamental dichotomies of the other,” (he was reaching a triumphant crescendo...) “and one is left with a profound and vivid insight into... into... er...” (... which suddenly gave out on him.) Ford leaped in with the coup de gr@ce:
|
||
“Into whatever it was the poem was about!” he yelled. Out of the corner of his mouth: “Well done, Arthur, that was very good.”
|
||
The Vogon perused them. For a moment his embittered racial soul had been touched, but he thought no — too little too late. His voice took on the quality of a cat snagging brushed nylon.
|
||
“So what you're saying is that I write poetry because underneath my mean callous heartless exterior I really just want to be loved,” he said.
|
||
He paused. “Is that right?”
|
||
Ford laughed a nervous laugh. “Well I mean yes,” he said, “don't we all, deep down, you know... er...”
|
||
The Vogon stood up.
|
||
“No, well you're completely wrong,” he said, “I just write poetry to throw my mean callous heartless exterior into sharp relief. I'm going to throw you off the ship anyway. Guard! Take the prisoners to number three airlock and throw them out!”
|
||
“What?” shouted Ford. A huge young Vogon guard stepped forward and yanked them out of their straps with his huge blubbery arms.
|
||
“You can't throw us into space,” yelled Ford, “we're trying to write a book.”
|
||
“Resistance is useless!” shouted the Vogon guard back at him. It was the first phrase he'd learnt when he joined the Vogon Guard Corps.
|
||
The captain watched with detached amusement and then turned away.
|
||
Arthur stared round him wildly.
|
||
“I don't want to die now!” he yelled. “I've still got a headache! I don't want to go to heaven with a headache, I'd be all cross and wouldn't enjoy it!”
|
||
The guard grasped them both firmly round the neck, and bowing deferentially towards his captain's back, hoiked them both protesting out of the bridge. A steel door closed and the captain was on his own again.
|
||
He hummed quietly and mused to himself, lightly fingering his notebook of verses.
|
||
“Hmmmm,” he said, “counterpoint the surrealism of the underlying metaphor...” He considered this for a moment, and then closed the book with a grim smile.
|
||
“Death's too good for them,” he said.
|
||
The long steel-lined corridor echoed to the feeble struggles of the two humanoids clamped firmly under rubbery Vogon armpits.
|
||
“This is great,” spluttered Arthur, “this is really terrific. Let go of me you brute!”
|
||
The Vogon guard dragged them on.
|
||
“Don't you worry,” said Ford, “I'll think of something.” He didn't sound hopeful.
|
||
“Resistance is useless!” bellowed the guard.
|
||
“Just don't say things like that,” stammered Ford. “How can anyone maintain a positive mental attitude if you're saying things like that?”
|
||
“My God,” complained Arthur, “you're talking about a positive mental attitude and you haven't even had your planet demolished today. I woke up this morning and thought I'd have a nice relaxed day, do a bit of reading, brush the dog... It's now just after four in the afternoon and I'm already thrown out of an alien spaceship six light years from the smoking remains of the Earth!” He spluttered and gurgled as the Vogon tightened his grip.
|
||
“Alright,” said Ford, “just stop panicking.”
|
||
“Who said anything about panicking?” snapped Arthur. “This is still just the culture shock. You wait till I've settled down into the situation and found my bearings. Then I'll start panicking.”
|
||
“Arthur you're getting hysterical. Shut up!” Ford tried desperately to think, but was interrupted by the guard shouting again.
|
||
“Resistance is useless!”
|
||
“And you can shut up as well!” snapped Ford.
|
||
“Resistance is useless!”
|
||
“Oh give it a rest,” said Ford. He twisted his head till he was looking straight up into his captor's face. A thought struck him.
|
||
“Do you really enjoy this sort of thing?” he asked suddenly.
|
||
The Vogon stopped dead and a look of immense stupidity seeped slowly over his face.
|
||
“Enjoy?” he boomed. “What do you mean?”
|
||
“What I mean,” said Ford, “is does it give you a full satisfying life?
|
||
Stomping around, shouting, pushing people out of spaceships...”
|
||
The Vogon stared up at the low steel ceiling and his eyebrows almost rolled over each other. His mouth slacked. Finally he said, “Well the hours are good...”
|
||
“They'd have to be,” agreed Ford.
|
||
Arthur twisted his head to look at Ford.
|
||
“Ford, what are you doing?” he asked in an amazed whisper.
|
||
“Oh, just trying to take an interest in the world around me, OK?” he said. “So the hours are pretty good then?” he resumed.
|
||
The Vogon stared down at him as sluggish thoughts moiled around in the murky depths.
|
||
“Yeah,” he said, “but now you come to mention it, most of the actual minutes are pretty lousy. Except...” he thought again, which required looking at the ceiling — “except some of the shouting I quite like.” He filled his lungs and bellowed, “Resistance is...”
|
||
“Sure, yes,” interrupted Ford hurriedly, “you're good at that, I can tell.
|
||
But if it's mostly lousy,” he said, slowly giving the words time to reach their mark, “then why do you do it? What is it? The girls? The leather?
|
||
The machismo? Or do you just find that coming to terms with the mindless tedium of it all presents an interesting challenge?”
|
||
“Er...” said the guard, “er... er... I dunno. I think I just sort of...
|
||
do it really. My aunt said that spaceship guard was a good career for a young Vogon — you know, the uniform, the lowslung stun ray holster, the mindless tedium...”
|
||
“There you are Arthur,” said Ford with the air of someone reaching the conclusion of his argument, “you think you've got problems.”
|
||
Arthur rather thought he had. Apart from the unpleasant business with his home planet the Vogon guard had half-throttled him already and he didn't like the sound of being thrown into space very much.
|
||
“Try and understand his problem,” insisted Ford. “Here he is poor lad, his entire life's work is stamping around, throwing people off spaceships...”
|
||
“And shouting,” added the guard.
|
||
“And shouting, sure,” said Ford patting the blubbery arm clamped round his neck in friendly condescension, ”... and he doesn't even know why he's doing it!”
|
||
Arthur agreed this was very sad. He did this with a small feeble gesture, because he was too asphyxicated to speak.
|
||
Deep rumblings of bemusement came from the guard.
|
||
“Well. Now you put it like that I suppose...”
|
||
“Good lad!” encouraged Ford.
|
||
“But alright,” went on the rumblings, “so what's the alternative?”
|
||
“Well,” said Ford, brightly but slowly, “stop doing it of course! Tell them,” he went on, “you're not going to do it anymore.” He felt he had to add something to that, but for the moment the guard seemed to have his mind occupied pondering that much.
|
||
“Eerrrrrrmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmmm...” said the guard, “erm, well that doesn't sound that great to me.”
|
||
Ford suddenly felt the moment slipping away.
|
||
“Now wait a minute,” he said, “that's just the start you see, there's more to it than that you see...”
|
||
But at that moment the guard renewed his grip and continued his original purpose of lugging his prisoners to the airlock. He was obviously quite touched.
|
||
“No, I think if it's all the same to you,” he said, “I'd better get you both shoved into this airlock and then go and get on with some other bits of shouting I've got to do.”
|
||
It wasn't all the same to Ford Prefect after all.
|
||
“Come on now... but look!” he said, less slowly, less brightly. “Huhhhhgggggggnnnnnnn...” said Arthur without any clear inflection.
|
||
“But hang on,” pursued Ford, “there's music and art and things to tell you about yet! Arrrggghhh!”
|
||
“Resistance is useless,” bellowed the guard, and then added, “You see if I keep it up I can eventually get promoted to Senior Shouting Officer, and there aren't usually many vacancies for non-shouting and non-pushingpeople-about officers, so I think I'd better stick to what I know.”
|
||
They had now reached the airlock — a large circular steel hatchway of massive strength and weight let into the inner skin of the craft. The guard operated a control and the hatchway swung smoothly open.
|
||
“But thanks for taking an interest,” said the Vogon guard. “Bye now.” He flung Ford and Arthur through the hatchway into the small chamber within. Arthur lay panting for breath. Ford scrambled round and flung his shoulder uselessly against the reclosing hatchway.
|
||
“But listen,” he shouted to the guard, “there's a whole world you don't know anything about... here how about this?” Desperately he grabbed for the only bit of culture he knew offhand — he hummed the first bar of Beethoven's Fifth.
|
||
“Da da da dum! Doesn't that stir anything in you?”
|
||
“No,” said the guard, “not really. But I'll mention it to my aunt.”
|
||
If he said anything further after that it was lost. The hatchway sealed itself tight, and all sound was lost but the faint distant hum of the ship's engines.
|
||
They were in a brightly polished cylindrical chamber about six feet in diameter and ten feet long.
|
||
“Potentially bright lad I thought,” he said and slumped against the curved wall.
|
||
Arthur was still lying in the curve of the floor where he had fallen. He didn't look up. He just lay panting.
|
||
“We're trapped now aren't we?”
|
||
“Yes,” said Ford, “we're trapped.”
|
||
“Well didn't you think of anything? I thought you said you were going to think of something. Perhaps you thought of something and didn't notice.”
|
||
“Oh yes, I thought of something,” panted Ford. Arthur looked up expectantly.
|
||
“But unfortunately,” continued Ford, “it rather involved being on the other side of this airtight hatchway.” He kicked the hatch they'd just been through.
|
||
“But it was a good idea was it?”
|
||
“Oh yes, very neat.”
|
||
“What was it?”
|
||
“Well I hadn't worked out the details yet. Not much point now is there?”
|
||
“So... er, what happens next?”
|
||
“Oh, er, well the hatchway in front of us will open automatically in a few moments and we will shoot out into deep space I expect and asphyxicate. If you take a lungful of air with you you can last for up to thirty seconds of course...” said Ford. He stuck his hands behind his back, raised his eyebrows and started to hum an old Betelgeusian battle hymn. To Arthur's eyes he suddenly looked very alien.
|
||
“So this is it,” said Arthur, “we're going to die.”
|
||
“Yes,” said Ford, “except... no! Wait a minute!” he suddenly lunged across the chamber at something behind Arthur's line of vision. “What's this switch?” he cried.
|
||
“What? Where?” cried Arthur twisting round.
|
||
“No, I was only fooling,” said Ford, “we are going to die after all.”
|
||
He slumped against the wall again and carried on the tune from where he left off.
|
||
“You know,” said Arthur, “it's at times like this, when I'm trapped in a Vogon airlock with a man from Betelgeuse, and about to die of asphyxication in deep space that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young.”
|
||
“Why, what did she tell you?”
|
||
“I don't know, I didn't listen.”
|
||
“Oh.” Ford carried on humming.
|
||
“This is terrific,” Arthur thought to himself, “Nelson's Column has gone, McDonald's have gone, all that's left is me and the words Mostly Harmless. Any second now all that will be left is Mostly Harmless. And yesterday the planet seemed to be going so well.”
|
||
A motor whirred.
|
||
A slight hiss built into a deafening roar of rushing air as the outer hatchway opened on to an empty blackness studded with tiny impossibly bright points of light. Ford and Arthur popped into outer space like corks from a toy gun. 9
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a wholly remarkable book. It has been compiled and recompiled many times over many years and under many different editorships. It contains contributions from countless numbers of travellers and researchers.
|
||
The introduction begins like this:
|
||
“Space,” it says, “is big. Really big. You just won't believe how vastly hugely mindboggingly big it is. I mean you may think it's a long way down the road to the chemist, but that's just peanuts to space. Listen...” and so on.
|
||
(After a while the style settles down a bit and it begins to tell you things you really need to know, like the fact that the fabulously beautiful planet Bethselamin is now so worried about the cumulative erosion by ten billion visiting tourists a year that any net imbalance between the amount you eat and the amount you excrete whilst on the planet is surgically removed from your bodyweight when you leave: so every time you go to the lavatory it is vitally important to get a receipt.)
|
||
To be fair though, when confronted by the sheer enormity of distances between the stars, better minds than the one responsible for the Guide's introduction have faltered. Some invite you to consider for a moment a peanut in reading and a small walnut in Johannesburg, and other such dizzying concepts.
|
||
The simple truth is that interstellar distances will not fit into the human imagination.
|
||
Even light, which travels so fast that it takes most races thousands of years to realize that it travels at all, takes time to journey between the stars. It takes eight minutes from the star Sol to the place where the Earth used to be, and four years more to arrive at Sol's nearest stellar neighbour, Alpha Proxima.
|
||
For light to reach the other side of the Galaxy, for it to reach Damogran for instance, takes rather longer: five hundred thousand years.
|
||
The record for hitch hiking this distance is just under five years, but you don't get to see much on the way.
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy says that if you hold a lungful of air you can survive in the total vacuum of space for about thirty seconds. However it goes on to say that what with space being the mind boggling size it is the chances of getting picked up by another ship within those thirty seconds are two to the power of two hundred and sixty-seven thousand seven hundred and nine to one against.
|
||
By a totally staggering coincidence that is also the telephone number of an Islington flat where Arthur once went to a very good party and met a very nice girl whom he totally failed to get off with — she went off with a gatecrasher. Though the planet Earth, the Islington flat and the telephone have all now been demolished, it is comforting to reflect that they are all in some small way commemorated by the fact that twenty-nine seconds later Ford and Arthur were rescued. 10
|
||
A computer chatted to itself in alarm as it noticed an airlock open and close itself for no apparent reason.
|
||
This was because Reason was in fact out to lunch.
|
||
A hole had just appeared in the Galaxy. It was exactly a nothingth of a second long, a nothingth of an inch wide, and quite a lot of million light years from end to end.
|
||
As it closed up lots of paper hats and party balloons fell out of it and drifted off through the universe. A team of seven threefoot-high market analysts fell out of it and died, partly of asphyxication, partly of surprise.
|
||
Two hundred and thirty-nine thousand lightly fried eggs fell out of it too, materializing in a large woobly heap on the faminestruck land of Poghril in the Pansel system.
|
||
The whole Poghril tribe had died out from famine except for one last man who died of cholesterol poisoning some weeks later.
|
||
The nothingth of a second for which the hole existed reverberated backwards and forwards through time in a most improbable fashion. Somewhere in the deeply remote past it seriously traumatized a small random group of atoms drifting through the empty sterility of space and made them cling together in the most extraordinarily unlikely patterns. These patterns quickly learnt to copy themselves (this was part of what was so extraordinary of the patterns) and went on to cause massive trouble on every planet they drifted on to. That was how life began in the Universe.
|
||
Five wild Event Maelstroms swirled in vicious storms of unreason and spewed up a pavement.
|
||
On the pavement lay Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent gulping like halfspent fish.
|
||
“There you are,” gasped Ford, scrabbling for a fingerhold on the pavement as it raced through the Third Reach of the Unknown, “I told you I'd think of something.”
|
||
“Oh sure,” said Arthur, “sure.”
|
||
“Bright idea of mine,” said Ford, “to find a passing spaceship and get rescued by it.”
|
||
The real universe arched sickeningly away beneath them. Various pretend ones flitted silently by, like mountain goats. Primal light exploded, splattering space-time as with gobbets of junket. Time blossomed, matter shrank away. The highest prime number coalesced quietly in a corner and hid itself away for ever.
|
||
“Oh come off it,” said Arthur, “the chances against it were astronomical.”
|
||
“Don't knock it, it worked,” said Ford.
|
||
“What sort of ship are we in?” asked Arthur as the pit of eternity yawned beneath them.
|
||
“I don't know,” said Ford, “I haven't opened my eyes yet.”
|
||
“No, nor have I,” said Arthur.
|
||
The Universe jumped, froze, quivered and splayed out in several unexpected directions.
|
||
Arthur and Ford opened their eyes and looked about in considerable surprise.
|
||
“Good god,” said Arthur, “it looks just like the sea front at Southend.”
|
||
“Hell, I'm relieved to hear you say that,” said Ford.
|
||
“Why?”
|
||
“Because I thought I must be going mad.”
|
||
“Perhaps you are. Perhaps you only thought I said it.”
|
||
Ford thought about this.
|
||
“Well, did you say it or didn't you?” he asked.
|
||
“I think so,” said Arthur.
|
||
“Well, perhaps we're both going mad.”
|
||
“Yes,” said Arthur, “we'd be mad, all things considered, to think this was Southend.”
|
||
“Well, do you think this is Southend?”
|
||
“Oh yes.”
|
||
“So do I.”
|
||
“Therefore we must be mad.”
|
||
“Nice day for it.”
|
||
“Yes,” said a passing maniac.
|
||
“Who was that?” asked Arthur
|
||
“Who — the man with the five heads and the elderberry bush full of kippers?”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“I don't know. Just someone.”
|
||
“Ah.”
|
||
They both sat on the pavement and watched with a certain unease as huge children bounced heavily along the sand and wild horses thundered through the sky taking fresh supplies of reinforced railings to the Uncertain Areas.
|
||
“You know,” said Arthur with a slight cough, “if this is Southend, there's something very odd about it...”
|
||
“You mean the way the sea stays steady and the buildings keep washing up and down?” said Ford. “Yes I thought that was odd too. In fact,” he continued as with a huge bang Southend split itself into six equal segments which danced and span giddily round each other in lewd and licentious formation, “there is something altogether very strange going on.”
|
||
Wild yowling noises of pipes and strings seared through the wind, hot doughnuts popped out of the road for ten pence each, horrid fish stormed out of the sky and Arthur and Ford decided to make a run for it.
|
||
They plunged through heavy walls of sound, mountains of archaic thought, valleys of mood music, bad shoe sessions and footling bats and suddenly heard a girl's voice.
|
||
It sounded quite a sensible voice, but it just said, “Two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against and falling,” and that was all.
|
||
Ford skidded down a beam of light and span round trying to find a source for the voice but could see nothing he could seriously believe in.
|
||
“What was that voice?” shouted Arthur.
|
||
“I don't know,” yelled Ford, “I don't know. It sounded like a measurement of probability.”
|
||
“Probability? What do you mean?”
|
||
“Probability. You know, like two to one, three to one, five to four against.
|
||
It said two to the power of one hundred thousand to one against. That's pretty improbable you know.”
|
||
A million-gallon vat of custard upended itself over them without warning.
|
||
“But what does it mean?” cried Arthur.
|
||
“What, the custard?”
|
||
“No, the measurement of probability!”
|
||
“I don't know. I don't know at all. I think we're on some kind of spaceship.”
|
||
“I can only assume,” said Arthur, “that this is not the firstclass compartment.”
|
||
Bulges appeared in the fabric of space-time. Great ugly bulges.
|
||
“Haaaauuurrgghhh...” said Arthur as he felt his body softening and bending in unusual directions. “Southend seems to be melting away...
|
||
the stars are swirling... a dustbowl... my legs are drifting off into the sunset... my left arm's come off too.” A frightening thought struck him: “Hell,” he said, “how am I going to operate my digital watch now?” He wound his eyes desperately around in Ford's direction.
|
||
“Ford,” he said, “you're turning into a penguin. Stop it.”
|
||
Again came the voice.
|
||
“Two to the power of seventy-five thousand to one against and falling.”
|
||
Ford waddled around his pond in a furious circle.
|
||
“Hey, who are you,” he quacked. “Where are you? What's going on and is there any way of stopping it?”
|
||
“Please relax,” said the voice pleasantly, like a stewardess in an airliner with only one wing and two engines one of which is on fire, “you are perfectly safe.”
|
||
“But that's not the point!” raged Ford. “The point is that I am now a perfectly save penguin, and my colleague here is rapidly running out of limbs!”
|
||
“It's alright, I've got them back now,” said Arthur.
|
||
“Two to the power of fifty thousand to one against and falling,” said the voice.
|
||
“Admittedly,” said Arthur, “they're longer than I usually like them, but...”
|
||
“Isn't there anything,” squawked Ford in avian fury, “you feel you ought to be telling us?”
|
||
The voice cleared its throat. A giant petit four lolloped off into the distance.
|
||
“Welcome,” the voice said, “to the Starship Heart of Gold.”
|
||
The voice continued.
|
||
“Please do not be alarmed,” it said, “by anything you see or hear around you. You are bound to feel some initial ill effects as you have been rescued from certain death at an improbability level of two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand to one against — possibly much higher. We are now cruising at a level of two to the power of twenty-five thousand to one against and falling, and we will be restoring normality just as soon as we are sure what is normal anyway. Thank you. Two to the power of twenty thousand to one against and falling.”
|
||
The voice cut out.
|
||
Ford and Arthur were in a small luminous pink cubicle.
|
||
Ford was wildly excited.
|
||
“Arthur!” he said, “this is fantastic! We've been picked up by a ship powered by the Infinite Improbability Drive! This is incredible! I heard rumors about it before! They were all officially denied, but they must have done it! They've built the Improbability Drive! Arthur, this is...
|
||
Arthur? What's happening?”
|
||
Arthur had jammed himself against the door to the cubicle, trying to hold it closed, but it was ill fitting. Tiny furry little hands were squeezing themselves through the cracks, their fingers were inkstained; tiny voices chattered insanely.
|
||
Arthur looked up.
|
||
“Ford!” he said, “there's an infinite number of monkeys outside who want to talk to us about this script for Hamlet they've worked out." 11
|
||
The Infinite Improbability Drive is a wonderful new method of crossing vast interstellar distances in a mere nothingth of a second, without all that tedious mucking about in hyperspace.
|
||
It was discovered by a lucky chance, and then developed into a governable form of propulsion by the Galactic Government's research team on Damogran.
|
||
This, briefly, is the story of its discovery.
|
||
The principle of generating small amounts of finite improbability by simply hooking the logic circuits of a Bambleweeny 57 SubMeson Brain to an atomic vector plotter suspended in a strong Brownian Motion producer (say a nice hot cup of tea) were of course well understood — and such generators were often used to break the ice at parties by making all the molecules in the hostess's undergarments leap simultaneously one foot to the left, in accordance with the Theory of Indeterminacy.
|
||
Many respectable physicists said that they weren't going to stand for this — partly because it was a debasement of science, but mostly because they didn't get invited to those sort of parties.
|
||
Another thing they couldn't stand was the perpetual failure they encountered in trying to construct a machine which could generate the infinite improbability field needed to flip a spaceship across the mindparalysing distances between the furthest stars, and in the end they grumpily announced that such a machine was virtually impossible.
|
||
Then, one day, a student who had been left to sweep up the lab after a particularly unsuccessful party found himself reasoning this way:
|
||
If, he thought to himself, such a machine is a virtual impossibility, then it must logically be a finite improbability. So all I have to do in order to make one is to work out exactly how improbable it is, feed that figure into the finite improbability generator, give it a fresh cup of really hot tea... and turn it on!
|
||
He did this, and was rather startled to discover that he had managed to create the long sought after golden Infinite Improbability generator out of thin air.
|
||
It startled him even more when just after he was awarded the Galactic Institute's Prize for Extreme Cleverness he got lynched by a rampaging mob of respectable physicists who had finally realized that the one thing they really couldn't stand was a smartass. 12
|
||
The Improbability-proof control cabin of the Heart of Gold looked like a perfectly conventional spaceship except that it was perfectly clean because it was so new. Some of the control seats hadn't had the plastic wrapping taken off yet. The cabin was mostly white, oblong, and about the size of a smallish restaurant. In fact it wasn't perfectly oblong: the two long walls were raked round in a slight parallel curve, and all the angles and corners were contoured in excitingly chunky shapes. The truth of the matter is that it would have been a great deal simpler and more practical to build the cabin as an ordinary three-dimensional oblong rom, but then the designers would have got miserable. As it was the cabin looked excitingly purposeful, with large video screens ranged over the control and guidance system panels on the concave wall, and long banks of computers set into the convex wall. In one corner a robot sat humped, its gleaming brushed steel head hanging loosely between its gleaming brushed steel knees. It too was fairly new, but though it was beautifully constructed and polished it somehow looked as if the various parts of its more or less humanoid body didn't quite fit properly. In fact they fitted perfectly well, but something in its bearing suggested that they might have fitted better.
|
||
Zaphod Beeblebrox paced nervously up and down the cabin, brushing his hands over pieces of gleaming equipment and giggling with excitement.
|
||
Trillian sat hunched over a clump of instruments reading off figures. Her voice was carried round the Tannoy system of the whole ship.
|
||
“Five to one against and falling...” she said, “four to one against and falling... three to one... two... one... probability factor of one to one... we have normality, I repeat we have normality.” She turned her microphone off — then turned it back on, with a slight smile and continued: “Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem. Please relax. You will be sent for soon.”
|
||
Zaphod burst out in annoyance: “Who are they Trillian?”
|
||
Trillian span her seat round to face him and shrugged.
|
||
“Just a couple of guys we seem to have picked up in open space,” she said. “Section ZZ9 Plural Z Alpha.”
|
||
“Yeah, well that's a very sweet thought Trillian,” complained Zaphod, “but do you really think it's wise under the circumstances? I mean, here we are on the run and everything, we must have the police of half the Galaxy after us by now, and we stop to pick up hitch hikers. OK, so ten out of ten for style, but minus several million for good thinking, yeah?”
|
||
He tapped irritably at a control panel. Trillian quietly moved his hand before he tapped anything important. Whatever Zaphod's qualities of mind might include — dash, bravado, conceit — he was mechanically inept and could easily blow the ship up with an extravagant gesture. Trillian had come to suspect that the main reason why he had had such a wild and successful life that he never really understood the significance of anything he did.
|
||
“Zaphod,” she said patiently, “they were floating unprotected in open space... you wouldn't want them to have died would you?”
|
||
“Well, you know... no. Not as such, but...”
|
||
“Not as such? Not die as such? But?” Trillian cocked her head on one side.
|
||
“Well, maybe someone else might have picked them up later.”
|
||
“A second later and they would have been dead.”
|
||
“Yeah, so if you'd taken the trouble to think about the problem a bit longer it would have gone away.”
|
||
“You'd been happy to let them die?”
|
||
“Well, you know, not happy as such, but...”
|
||
“Anyway,” said Trillian, turning back to the controls, “I didn't pick them up.”
|
||
“What do you mean? Who picked them up then?”
|
||
“The ship did.”
|
||
“Huh?”
|
||
“The ship did. All by itself.”
|
||
“Huh?”
|
||
“Whilst we were in Improbability Drive.”
|
||
“But that's incredible.”
|
||
“No Zaphod. Just very very improbable.”
|
||
“Er, yeah.”
|
||
“Look Zaphod,” she said, patting his arm, “don't worry about the aliens.
|
||
They're just a couple of guys I expect. I'll send the robot down to get them and bring them up here. Hey Marvin!”
|
||
In the corner, the robot's head swung up sharply, but then wobbled about imperceptibly. It pulled itself up to its feet as if it was about five pounds heavier that it actually was, and made what an outside observer would have thought was a heroic effort to cross the room. It stopped in front of Trillian and seemed to stare through her left shoulder.
|
||
“I think you ought to know I'm feeling very depressed,” it said. Its voice was low and hopeless.
|
||
“Oh God,” muttered Zaphod and slumped into a seat.
|
||
“Well,” said Trillian in a bright compassionate tone, “here's something to occupy you and keep your mind off things.”
|
||
“It won't work,” droned Marvin, “I have an exceptionally large mind.”
|
||
“Marvin!” warned Trillian.
|
||
“Alright,” said Marvin, “what do you want me to do?”
|
||
“Go down to number two entry bay and bring the two aliens up here under surveillance.”
|
||
With a microsecond pause, and a finely calculated micromodulation of pitch and timbre — nothing you could actually take offence at — Marvin managed to convey his utter contempt and horror of all things human.
|
||
“Just that?” he said.
|
||
“Yes,” said Trillian firmly.
|
||
“I won't enjoy it,” said Marvin.
|
||
Zaphod leaped out of his seat.
|
||
“She's not asking you to enjoy it,” he shouted, “just do it will you?”
|
||
“Alright,” said Marvin like the tolling of a great cracked bell, “I'll do it.”
|
||
“Good...” snapped Zaphod, “great... thank you...”
|
||
Marvin turned and lifted his flat-topped triangular red eyes up towards him.
|
||
“I'm not getting you down at all am I?” he said pathetically.
|
||
“No no Marvin,” lilted Trillian, “that's just fine, really...”
|
||
“I wouldn't like to think that I was getting you down.”
|
||
“No, don't worry about that,” the lilt continued, “you just act as comes naturally and everything will be just fine.”
|
||
“You're sure you don't mind?” probed Marvin.
|
||
“No no Marvin,” lilted Trillian, “that's just fine, really... just part of life.”
|
||
“Marvin flashed him an electronic look.
|
||
“Life,” said Marvin, “don't talk to me about life.”
|
||
He turned hopelessly on his heel and lugged himself out of the cabin.
|
||
With a satisfied hum and a click the door closed behind him
|
||
“I don't think I can stand that robot much longer Zaphod,” growled Trillian.
|
||
The Encyclopaedia Galactica defines a robot as a mechanical apparatus designed to do the work of a man. The marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation defines a robot as “Your Plastic Pal Who's Fun To Be With.”
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy defines the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as “a bunch of mindless jerks who'll be the first against the wall when the revolution comes,” with a footnote to the effect that the editors would welcome applications from anyone interested in taking over the post of robotics correspondent.
|
||
Curiously enough, an edition of the Encyclopaedia Galactica that had the good fortune to fall through a time warp from a thousand years in the future defined the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation as “a bunch of mindless jerks who were the first against the wall when the revolution came.”
|
||
The pink cubicle had winked out of existence, the monkeys had sunk away to a better dimension. Ford and Arthur found themselves in the embarkation area of the ship. It was rather smart.
|
||
“I think the ship's brand new,” said Ford.
|
||
“How can you tell?” asked Arthur. “Have you got some exotic device for measuring the age of metal?”
|
||
“No, I just found this sales brochure lying on the floor. It's a lot of “the Universe can be yours' stuff. Ah! Look, I was right.”
|
||
Ford jabbed at one of the pages and showed it to Arthur. “It says: Sensational new breakthrough in Improbability Physics. As soon as the ship's drive reaches Infinite Improbability it passes through every point in the Universe. Be the envy of other major governments. Wow, this is big league stuff.”
|
||
Ford hunted excitedly through the technical specs of the ship, occasionally gasping with astonishment at what he read — clearly Galactic astrotechnology had moved ahead during the years of his exile.
|
||
Arthur listened for a short while, but being unable to understand the vast majority of what Ford was saying he began to let his mind wander, trailing his fingers along the edge of an incomprehensible computer bank, he reached out and pressed an invitingly large red button on a nearby panel. The panel lit up with the words Please do not press this button again. He shook himself.
|
||
“Listen,” said Ford, who was still engrossed in the sales brochure, “they make a big thing of the ship's cybernetics. A new generation of Sirius Cybernetics Corporation robots and computers, with the new GPP feature.”
|
||
“GPP feature?” said Arthur. “What's that?”
|
||
“Oh, it says Genuine People Personalities.”
|
||
“Oh,” said Arthur, “sounds ghastly.”
|
||
A voice behind them said, “It is.” The voice was low and hopeless and accompanied by a slight clanking sound. They span round and saw an abject steel man standing hunched in the doorway.
|
||
“What?” they said.
|
||
“Ghastly,” continued Marvin, “it all is. Absolutely ghastly. Just don't even talk about it. Look at this door,” he said, stepping through it.
|
||
The irony circuits cut into his voice modulator as he mimicked the style of the sales brochure. “All the doors in this spaceship have a cheerful and sunny disposition. It is their pleasure to open for you, and their satisfaction to close again with the knowledge of a job well done.”
|
||
As the door closed behind them it became apparent that it did indeed have a satisfied sigh-like quality to it. “Hummmmmmmyummmmmmm ah!” it said.
|
||
Marvin regarded it with cold loathing whilst his logic circuits chattered with disgust and tinkered with the concept of directing physical violence against it Further circuits cut in saying, Why bother? What's the point? Nothing is worth getting involved in. Further circuits amused themselves by analysing the molecular components of the door, and of the humanoids' brain cells. For a quick encore they measured the level of hydrogen emissions in the surrounding cubic parsec of space and then shut down again in boredom. A spasm of despair shook the robot's body as he turned.
|
||
“Come on,” he droned, “I've been ordered to take you down to the bridge. Here I am, brain the size of a planet and they ask me to take you down to the bridge. Call that job satisfaction? 'Cos I don't.”
|
||
He turned and walked back to the hated door.
|
||
“Er, excuse me,” said Ford following after him, “which government owns this ship?”
|
||
Marvin ignored him.
|
||
“You watch this door,” he muttered, “it's about to open again. I can tell by the intolerable air of smugness it suddenly generates.”
|
||
With an ingratiating little whine the door slit open again and Marvin stomped through.
|
||
“Come on,” he said.
|
||
The others followed quickly and the door slit back into place with pleased little clicks and whirrs.
|
||
“Thank you the marketing division of the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation,” said Marvin and trudged desolately up the gleaming curved corridor that stretched out before them. “Let's build robots with Genuine People Personalities,” they said. So they tried it out with me. I'm a personality prototype. You can tell can't you?”
|
||
Ford and Arthur muttered embarrassed little disclaimers.
|
||
“I hate that door,” continued Marvin. “I'm not getting you down at all am I?”
|
||
“Which government...” started Ford again.
|
||
“No government owns it,” snapped the robot, “it's been stolen.”
|
||
“Stolen?”
|
||
“Stolen?” mimicked Marvin.
|
||
“Who by?” asked Ford.
|
||
“Zaphod Beeblebrox.”
|
||
Something extraordinary happened to Ford's face. At least five entirely separate and distinct expressions of shock and amazement piled up on it in a jumbled mess. His left leg, which was in mid stride, seemed to have difficulty in finding the floor again. He stared at the robot and tried to entangle some dartoid muscles.
|
||
“Zaphod Beeblebrox...?” he said weakly.
|
||
“Sorry, did I say something wrong?” said Marvin, dragging himself on regardless. “Pardon me for breathing, which I never do anyway so I don't know why I bother to say it, oh God I'm so depressed. Here's another of those self-satisfied door. Life! Don't talk to me about life.”
|
||
“No one ever mentioned it,” muttered Arthur irritably. “Ford, are you alright?”
|
||
Ford stared at him. “Did that robot say Zaphod Beeblebrox?” he said. 13
|
||
A loud clatter of gunk music flooded through the Heart of Gold cabin as Zaphod searched the sub-etha radio wavebands for news of himself.
|
||
The machine was rather difficult to operate. For years radios had been operated by means of pressing buttons and turning dials; then as the technology became more sophisticated the controls were made touchsensitive — you merely had to brush the panels with your fingers; now all you had to do was wave your hand in the general direction of the components and hope. It saved a lot of muscular expenditure of course, but meant that you had to sit infuriatingly still if you wanted to keep listening to the same programme.
|
||
Zaphod waved a hand and the channel switched again. More gunk music, but this time it was a background to a news announcement. The news was always heavily edited to fit the rhythms of the music.
|
||
“... and news brought to you here on the sub-etha wave band, broadcasting around the galaxy around the clock,” squawked a voice, “and we'll be saying a big hello to all intelligent life forms everywhere... and to everyone else out there, the secret is to bang the rocks together, guys.
|
||
And of course, the big news story tonight is the sensational theft of the new Improbability Drive prototype ship by none other than Galactic President Zaphod Beeblebrox. And the question everyone's asking is...
|
||
has the big Z finally flipped? Beeblebrox, the man who invented the Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster, ex-confidence trickster, once described by Eccentrica Gallumbits as the Best Bang since the Big One, and recently voted the Wort Dressed Sentinent Being in the Known Universe for the seventh time... has he got an answer this time? We asked his private brain care specialist Gag Halfrunt...” The music swirled and dived for a moment. Another voice broke in, presumably Halfrunt. He said: “Vell, Zaphod's jist zis guy you know?” but got no further because an electric pencil flew across the cabin and through the radio's on/off sensitive airspace. Zaphod turned and glared at Trillian — she had thrown the pencil.
|
||
“Hey,” he said, what do you do that for?”
|
||
Trillian was tapping her fingers on a screenful of figures.
|
||
“I've just thought of something,” she said.
|
||
“Yeah? Worth interrupting a news bulletin about me for?”
|
||
“You hear enough about yourself as it is.”
|
||
“I'm very insecure. We know that.”
|
||
“Can we drop your ego for a moment? This is important.”
|
||
“If there's anything more important than my ego around, I want it caught and shot now.” Zaphod glared at her again, then laughed.
|
||
“Listen,” she said, “we picked up those couple of guys...”
|
||
“What couple of guys?”
|
||
“The couple of guys we picked up.”
|
||
“Oh, yeah,” said Zaphod, “those couple of guys.”
|
||
“We picked them up in sector ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha.”
|
||
“Yeah?” said Zaphod and blinked.
|
||
Trillian said quietly, “Does that mean anything to you?”
|
||
“Mmmmm,” said Zaphod, “ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha. ZZ 9 Plural Z Alpha?”
|
||
“Well?” said Trillian.
|
||
“Er... what does the Z mean?” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Which one?”
|
||
“Any one.”
|
||
One of the major difficulties Trillian experienced in her relationship with Zaphod was learning to distinguish between him pretending to be stupid just to get people off their guard, pretending to be stupid because he couldn't be bothered to think and wanted someone else to do it for him, pretending to be outrageously stupid to hide the fact that he actually didn't understand what was going on, and really being genuinely stupid.
|
||
He was renowned for being amazingly clever and quite clearly was so — but not all the time, which obviously worried him, hence the act. He proffered people to be puzzled rather than contemptuous. This above all appeared to Trillian to be genuinely stupid, but she could no longer be bothered to argue about it.
|
||
She sighed and punched up a star map on the visiscreen so she could make it simple for him, whatever his reasons for wanting it to be that way.
|
||
“There,” she pointed, “right there.”
|
||
“Hey... Yeah!” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Well?” she said.
|
||
“Well what?”
|
||
Parts of the inside of her head screamed at other parts of the inside of her head. She said, very calmly, “It's the same sector you originally picked me up in.”
|
||
He looked at her and then looked back at the screen. “Hey, yeah,” he said, “now that is wild. We should have zapped straight into the middle of the Horsehead Nebula. How did we come to be there? I mean that's nowhere.”
|
||
She ignored this.
|
||
“Improbability Drive,” she said patiently. “You explained it to me yourself. We pass through every point in the Universe, you know that.”
|
||
“Yeah, but that's one wild coincidence isn't it?”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“Picking someone up at that point? Out of the whole of the Universe to choose from? That's just too... I want to work this out. Computer!”
|
||
The Sirius Cybernetics Corporation Shipboard Computer which controlled and permeated every particle of the ship switched into communication mode.
|
||
“Hi there!” it said brightly and simultaneously spewed out a tiny ribbon of ticker tape just for the record. The ticker tape said, Hi there!
|
||
“Oh God,” said Zaphod. He hadn't worked with this computer for long but had already learned to loathe it.
|
||
The computer continued, brash and cheery as if it was selling detergent.
|
||
“I want you to know that whatever your problem, I am here to help you solve it.”
|
||
“Yeah yeah,” said Zaphod. “Look, I think I'll just use a piece of paper.”
|
||
“Sure thing,” said the computer, spilling out its message into a waste bin at the same time, “I understand. If you ever want...”
|
||
“Shut up!” said Zaphod, and snatching up a pencil sat down next to Trillian at the console.
|
||
“OK, OK...” said the computer in a hurt tone of voice and closed down its speech channel again.
|
||
Zaphod and Trillian pored over the figures that the Improbability flight path scanner flashed silently up in front of them.
|
||
“Can we work out,” said Zaphod, “from their point of view what the Improbability of their rescue was?”
|
||
“Yes, that's a constant”, said Trillian, “two to the power of two hundred and seventy-six thousand seven hundred and nine to one against.”
|
||
“That's high. They're two lucky lucky guys.”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“But relative to what we were doing when the ship picked them up...”
|
||
Trillian punched up the figures. They showed tow-to-the powerofInfinity-minus-one (an irrational number that only has a conventional meaning in Improbability physics).
|
||
“... it's pretty low,” continued Zaphod with a slight whistle.
|
||
“Yes,” agreed Trillian, and looked at him quizzically.
|
||
“That's one big whack of Improbability to be accounted for. Something pretty improbable has got to show up on the balance sheet if it's all going to add up into a pretty sum.”
|
||
Zaphod scribbled a few sums, crossed them out and threw the pencil away.
|
||
“Bat's dots, I can't work it out.”
|
||
“Well?”
|
||
Zaphod knocked his two heads together in irritation and gritted his teeth.
|
||
“OK,” he said. “Computer!”
|
||
The voice circuits sprang to life again.
|
||
“Why hello there!” they said (ticker tape, ticker tape). “All I want to do is make your day nicer and nicer and nicer...”
|
||
“Yeah well shut up and work something out for me.”
|
||
“Sure thing,” chattered the computer, “you want a probability forecast based on...”
|
||
“Improbability data, yeah.”
|
||
“OK,” the computer continued. “Here's an interesting little notion. Did you realize that most people's lives are governed by telephone numbers?”
|
||
A pained look crawled across one of Zaphod's faces and on to the other one.
|
||
“Have you flipped?” he said.
|
||
“No, but you will when I tell you that...”
|
||
Trillian gasped. She scrabbled at the buttons on the Improbability flight path screen.
|
||
“Telephone number?” she said. “Did that thing say telephone number?” Numbers flashed up on the screen.
|
||
The computer had paused politely, but now it continued.
|
||
“What I was about to say was that...”
|
||
“Don't bother please,” said Trillian.
|
||
“Look, what is this?” said Zaphod.
|
||
“I don't know,” said Trillian, “but those aliens — they're on the way up to the bridge with that wretched robot. Can we pick them up on any monitor cameras?" 14
|
||
Marvin trudged on down the corridor, still moaning.
|
||
“... and then of course I've got this terrible pain in all the diodes down my left hand side...”
|
||
“No?” said Arthur grimly as he walked along beside him. “Really?”
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Marvin, “I mean I've asked for them to be replaced but no one ever listens.”
|
||
“I can imagine.”
|
||
Vague whistling and humming noises were coming from Ford. “Well well well,” he kept saying to himself, “Zaphod Beeblebrox...”
|
||
Suddenly Marvin stopped, and held up a hand.
|
||
“You know what's happened now of course?”
|
||
“No, what?” said Arthur, who didn't what to know.
|
||
“We've arrived at another of those doors.”
|
||
There was a sliding door let into the side of the corridor. Marvin eyed it suspiciously.
|
||
“Well?” said Ford impatiently. “Do we go through?”
|
||
“Do we go through?” mimicked Marvin. “Yes. This is the entrance to the bridge. I was told to take you to the bridge. Probably the highest demand that will be made on my intellectual capacities today I shouldn't wonder.”
|
||
Slowly, with great loathing, he stepped towards the door, like a hunter stalking his prey. Suddenly it slid open.
|
||
“Thank you,” it said, “for making a simple door very happy.”
|
||
Deep in Marvin's thorax gears ground.
|
||
“Funny,” he intoned funerally, “how just when you think life can't possibly get any worse it suddenly does.” He heaved himself through the door and left Ford and Arthur staring at each other and shrugging their shoulders. From inside they heard Marvin's voice again.
|
||
“I suppose you want to see the aliens now,” he said. “Do you want me to sit in a corner and rust, or just fall apart where I'm standing?”
|
||
“Yeah, just show them in would you Marvin?” came another voice.
|
||
Arthur looked at Ford and was astonished to see him laughing.
|
||
“What's...?”
|
||
“Shhh,” said Ford, “come in.”
|
||
He stepped through into the bridge.
|
||
Arthur followed him in nervously and was astonished to see a man lolling back in a chair with his feet on a control console picking the teeth in his right-hand head with his left hand. The right-hand head seemed to be thoroughly preoccupied with this task, but the left-hand one was grinning a broad, relaxed, nonchalant grin. The number of things that Arthur couldn't believe he was seeing was fairly large. His jaw flapped about at a loose end for a while.
|
||
The peculiar man waved a lazy wave at Ford and with an appalling affectation of nonchalance said, “Ford, hi, how are you? Glad you could drop in.”
|
||
Ford was not going to be outcooled.
|
||
“Zaphod,” he drawled, “great to see you, you're looking well, the extra arm suits you. Nice ship you've stolen.”
|
||
Arthur goggled at him.
|
||
“You mean you know this guy?” he said, waving a wild finger at Zaphod.
|
||
“Know him!” exclaimed Ford, “he's...” he paused, and decided to do the introductions the other way round.
|
||
“Oh, Zaphod, this is a friend of mine, Arthur Dent,” he said, “I saved him when his planet blew up.”
|
||
“Oh sure,” said Zaphod, “hi Arthur, glad you could make it.” His righthand head looked round casually, said “hi” and went back to having his teeth picked.
|
||
Ford carried on. “And Arthur,” he said, “this is my semi-cousin Zaphod Beeb...”
|
||
“We've met,” said Arthur sharply.
|
||
When you're cruising down the road in the fast lane and you lazily sail past a few hard driving cars and are feeling pretty pleased with yourself and then accidentally change down from fourth to first instead of third thus making your engine leap out of your bonnet in a rather ugly mess, it tends to throw you off your stride in much the same way that this remark threw Ford Prefect off his.
|
||
“Err... what?”
|
||
“I said we've met.”
|
||
Zaphod gave an awkward start of surprise and jabbed a gum sharply.
|
||
“Hey... er, have we? Hey... er...”
|
||
Ford rounded on Arthur with an angry flash in his eyes. Now he felt he was back on home ground he suddenly began to resent having lumbered himself with this ignorant primitive who knew as much about the affairs of the Galaxy as an Ilford-based gnat knew about life in Peking.
|
||
“What do you mean you've met?” he demanded. “This is Zaphod Beeblebrox from Betelgeuse Five you know, not bloody Martin Smith from Croydon.”
|
||
“I don't care,” said Arthur coldly. We've met, haven't we Zaphod Beeblebrox — or should I say... Phil?”
|
||
“What!” shouted Ford.
|
||
“You'll have to remind me,” said Zaphod. “I've a terrible memory for species.”
|
||
“It was at a party,” pursued Arthur.
|
||
“Yeah, well I doubt that,” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Cool it will you Arthur!” demanded Ford.
|
||
Arthur would not be deterred. “A party six months ago. On Earth...
|
||
England...”
|
||
Zaphod shook his head with a tight-lipped smile.
|
||
“London,” insisted Arthur, “Islington.”
|
||
“Oh,” said Zaphod with a guilty start, “that party.”
|
||
This wasn't fair on Ford at all. He looked backwards and forwards between Arthur and Zaphod. “What?” he said to Zaphod. “You don't mean to say you've been on that miserable planet as well do you?”
|
||
“No, of course not,” said Zaphod breezily. “Well, I may have just dropped in briefly, you know, on my way somewhere...”
|
||
“But I was stuck there for fifteen years!”
|
||
“Well I didn't know that did I?”
|
||
“But what were you doing there?”
|
||
“Looking about, you know.”
|
||
“He gatecrashed a party,” persisted Arthur, trembling with anger, “a fancy dress party...”
|
||
“It would have to be, wouldn't it?” said Ford.
|
||
“At this party,” persisted Arthur, “was a girl... oh well, look it doesn't matter now. The whole place has gone up in smoke anyway...”
|
||
“I wish you'd stop sulking about that bloody planet,” said Ford. “Who was the lady?”
|
||
“Oh just somebody. Well alright, I wasn't doing very well with her.
|
||
I'd been trying all evening. Hell, she was something though. Beautiful, charming, devastatingly intelligent, at last I'd got her to myself for a bit and was plying her with a bit of talk when this friend of yours barges up and says Hey doll, is this guy boring you? Why don't you talk to me instead? I'm from a different planet.” I never saw her again.”
|
||
“Zaphod?” exclaimed Ford.
|
||
“Yes,” said Arthur, glaring at him and trying not to feel foolish. “He only had the two arms and the one head and he called himself Phil, but...”
|
||
“But you must admit he did turn out to be from another planet,” said Trillian wandering into sight at the other end of the bridge. She gave Arthur a pleasant smile which settled on him like a ton of bricks and then turned her attention to the ship's controls again.
|
||
There was silence for a few seconds, and then out of the scrambled mess of Arthur's brain crawled some words.
|
||
“Tricia McMillian?” he said. “What are you doing here?”
|
||
“Same as you,” she said, “I hitched a lift. After all with a degree in Maths and another in astrophysics what else was there to do? It was either that or the dole queue again on Monday.”
|
||
“Infinity minus one,” chattered the computer, “Improbability sum now complete.”
|
||
Zaphod looked about him, at Ford, at Arthur, and then at Trillian.
|
||
“Trillian,” he said, “is this sort of thing going to happen every time we use the Improbability drive?”
|
||
“Very probably, I'm afraid,” she said. 15
|
||
The Heart of Gold fled on silently through the night of space, now on conventional photon drive. Its crew of four were ill at ease knowing that they had been brought together not of their own volition or by simple coincidence, but by some curious principle of physics — as if relationships between people were susceptible to the same laws that governed the relationships between atoms and molecules.
|
||
As the ship's artificial night closed in they were each grateful to retire to separate cabins and try to rationalize their thoughts.
|
||
Trillian couldn't sleep. She sat on a couch and stared at a small cage which contained her last and only links with Earth — two white mice that she had insisted Zaphod let her bring. She had expected not to see the planet again, but she was disturbed by her negative reaction to the planet's destruction. It seemed remote and unreal and she could find no thoughts to think about it. She watched the mice scurrying round the cage and running furiously in their little plastic treadwheels till they occupied her whole attention. Suddenly she shook herself and went back to the bridge to watch over the tiny flashing lights and figures that charted the ship's progress through the void. She wished she knew what it was she was trying not to think about.
|
||
Zaphod couldn't sleep. He also wished he knew what it was that he wouldn't let himself think about. For as long as he could remember he'd suffered from a vague nagging feeling of being not all there. Most of the time he was able to put this thought aside and not worry about it, but it had been re-awakened by the sudden inexplicable arrival of Ford Prefect and Arthur Dent. Somehow it seemed to conform to a pattern that he couldn't see.
|
||
Ford couldn't sleep. He was too excited about being back on the road again. Fifteen years of virtual imprisonment were over, just as he was finally beginning to give up hope. Knocking about with Zaphod for a bit promised to be a lot of fun, though there seemed to be something faintly odd about his semi-cousin that he couldn't put his finger on. The fact that he had become President of the Galaxy was frankly astonishing, as was the manner of his leaving the post. Was there a reason behind it?
|
||
There would be no point in asking Zaphod, he never appeared to have a reason for anything he did at all: he had turned unfathomably into an art form. He attacked everything in life with a mixture of extraordinary genius and naive incompetence and it was often difficult to tell which was which.
|
||
Arthur slept: he was terribly tired.
|
||
There was a tap at Zaphod's door. It slid open.
|
||
“Zaphod...?”
|
||
“Yeah?”
|
||
“I think we just found what you came to look for.”
|
||
“Hey, yeah?” Ford gave up the attempt to sleep. In the corner of his cabin was a small computer screen and keyboard. He sat at it for a while and tried to compose a new entry for the Guide on the subject of Vogons but couldn't think of anything vitriolic enough so he gave that up too, wrapped a robe round himself and went for a walk to the bridge.
|
||
As he entered he was surprised to see two figures hunched excitedly over the instruments.
|
||
“See? The ship's about to move into orbit,” Trillian was saying. “There's a planet out there. It's at the exact coordinates you predicted.”
|
||
Zaphod heard a noise and looked up.
|
||
“Ford!” he hissed. “Hey, come and take a look at this.”
|
||
Ford went and had a look at it. It was a series of figures flashing over a screen.
|
||
“You recognize those Galactic coordinates?” said Zaphod.
|
||
“No.”
|
||
“I'll give you a clue. Computer!”
|
||
“Hi gang!” enthused the computer. “This is getting real sociable isn't it?”
|
||
“Shut up,” said Zaphod, “and show up the screens.”
|
||
Light on the bridge sank. Pinpoints of light played across the consoles and reflected in four pairs of eyes that stared up at the external monitor screens.
|
||
There was absolutely nothing on them.
|
||
“Recognize that?” whispered Zaphod.
|
||
Ford frowned.
|
||
“Er, no,” he said.
|
||
“What do you see?”
|
||
“Nothing.”
|
||
“Recognize it?”
|
||
“What are you talking about?”
|
||
“We're in the Horsehead Nebula. One whole vast dark cloud.”
|
||
“And I was meant to recognize that from a blank screen?”
|
||
“Inside a dark nebula is the only place in the Galaxy you'd see a dark screen.”
|
||
“Very good.”
|
||
Zaphod laughed. He was clearly very excited about something, almost childishly so.
|
||
“Hey, this is really terrific, this is just far too much!”
|
||
“What's so great about being stuck in a dust cloud?” said Ford.
|
||
“What would you reckon to find here?” urged Zaphod.
|
||
“Nothing.”
|
||
“No stars? No planets?”
|
||
“No.”
|
||
“Computer!” shouted Zaphod, “rotate angle of vision through oneeighty degrees and don't talk about it!”
|
||
For a moment it seemed that nothing was happening, then a brightness glowed at the edge of the huge screen. A red star the size of a small plate crept across it followed quickly by another one — a binary system. Then a vast crescent sliced into the corner of the picture — a red glare shading away into the deep black, the night side of the planet.
|
||
“I've found it!” cried Zaphod, thumping the console. “I've found it!”
|
||
Ford stared at it in astonishment.
|
||
“What is it?” he said.
|
||
“That...” said Zaphod, “is the most improbable planet that ever existed." 16
|
||
(Excerpt from The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy, Page 634784, Section 5a, Entry: Magrathea)
|
||
|
||
Far back in the mists of ancient time, in the great and glorious days of the former Galactic Empire, life was wild, rich and largely tax free.
|
||
Mighty starships plied their way between exotic suns, seeking adventure and reward amongst the furthest reaches of Galactic space. In those days spirits were brave, the stakes were high, men were real men, women were real women, and small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri were real small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri. And all dared to brave unknown terrors, to do mighty deeds, to boldly split infinitives that no man had split before — and thus was the Empire forged.
|
||
Many men of course became extremely rich, but this was perfectly natural and nothing to be ashamed of because no one was really poor — at least no one worth speaking of. And for all the richest and most successful merchants life inevitably became rather dull and niggly, and they began to imagine that this was therefore the fault of the worlds they'd settled on — none of them was entirely satisfactory: either the climate wasn't quite right in the later part of the afternoon, or the day was half an hour too long, or the sea was exactly the wrong shade of pink.
|
||
And thus were created the conditions for a staggering new form of specialist industry: custom-made luxury planet building. The home of this industry was the planet Magrathea, where hyperspatial engineers sucked matter through white holes in space to form it into dream planets — gold planets, platinum planets, soft rubber planets with lots of earthquakes all lovingly made to meet the exacting standards that the Galaxy's richest men naturally came to expect.
|
||
But so successful was this venture that Magrathea itself soon became the richest planet of all time and the rest of the Galaxy was reduced to abject poverty. And so the system broke down, the Empire collapsed, and a long sullen silence settled over a billion worlds, disturbed only by the pen scratchings of scholars as they laboured into the night over smug little treaties on the value of a planned political economy.
|
||
Magrathea itself disappeared and its memory soon passed into the obscurity of legend.
|
||
In these enlightened days of course, no one believes a word of it. 17
|
||
Arthur awoke to the sound of argument and went to the bridge. Ford was waving his arms about.
|
||
“You're crazy, Zaphod,” he was saying, “Magrathea is a myth, a fairy story, it's what parents tell their kids about at night if they want them to grow up to become economists, it's...”
|
||
“And that's what we are currently in orbit around,” insisted Zaphod.
|
||
“Look, I can't help what you may personally be in orbit around,” said Ford, “but this ship...”
|
||
“Computer!” shouted Zaphod.
|
||
“Oh no...”
|
||
“Hi there! This is Eddie your shipboard computer, and I'm feeling just great guys, and I know I'm just going to get a bundle of kicks out of any programme you care to run through me.”
|
||
Arthur looked inquiringly at Trillian. She motioned him to come on in but keep quiet.
|
||
“Computer,” said Zaphod, “tell us again what our present trajectory is.”
|
||
“A real pleasure feller,” it burbled, “we are currently in orbit at an altitude of three hundred miles around the legendary planet of Magrathea.”
|
||
“Proving nothing,” said Ford. “I wouldn't trust that computer to speak my weight.”
|
||
“I can do that for you, sure,” enthused the computer, punching out more tickertape. “I can even work out you personality problems to ten decimal places if it will help.”
|
||
Trillian interrupted.
|
||
“Zaphod,” she said, “any minute now we will be swinging round to the daylight side of this planet,” adding, “whatever it turns out to be.”
|
||
“Hey, what do you mean by that? The planet's where I predicted it would be isn't it?”
|
||
“Yes, I know there's a planet there. I'm not arguing with anyone, it's just that I wouldn't know Magrathea from any other lump of cold rock.
|
||
Dawn's coming up if you want it.”
|
||
“OK, OK,” muttered Zaphod, “let's at least give our eyes a good time.
|
||
Computer!”
|
||
“Hi there! What can I...”
|
||
“Just shut up and give us a view of the planet again.”
|
||
A dark featureless mass once more filled the screens — the planet rolling away beneath them.
|
||
They watched for a moment in silence, but Zaphod was fidgety with excitement.
|
||
“We are now traversing the night side...” he said in a hushed voice. The planet rolled on.
|
||
“The surface of the planet is now three hundred miles beneath us...” he continued. He was trying to restore a sense of occasion to what he felt should have been a great moment. Magrathea! He was piqued by Ford's sceptical reaction. Magrathea!
|
||
“In a few seconds,” he continued, “we should see... there!”
|
||
The moment carried itself. Even the most seasoned star tramp can't help but shiver at the spectacular drama of a sunrise seen from space, but a binary sunrise is one of the marvels of the Galaxy.
|
||
Out of the utter blackness stabbed a sudden point of blinding light. It crept up by slight degrees and spread sideways in a thin crescent blade, and within seconds two suns were visible, furnaces of light, searing the black edge of the horizon with white fire. Fierce shafts of colour streaked through the thin atmosphere beneath them. “The fires of dawn... !” breathed Zaphod. “The twin suns of Soulianis and Rahm... !”
|
||
“Or whatever,” said Ford quietly.
|
||
“Soulianis and Rahm!” insisted Zaphod.
|
||
The suns blazed into the pitch of space and a low ghostly music floated through the bridge: Marvin was humming ironically because he hated humans so much.
|
||
As Ford gazed at the spectacle of light before them excitement burnt inside him, but only the excitement of seeing a strange new planet, it was enough for him to see it as it was. It faintly irritated him that Zaphod had to impose some ludicrous fantasy on to the scene to make it work for him. All this Magrathea nonsense seemed juvenile. Isn't it enough to see that a garden is beautiful without having to believe that there are fairies at the bottom of it too?
|
||
All this Magrathea business seemed totally incomprehensible to Arthur.
|
||
He edged up to Trillian and asked her what was going on.
|
||
“I only know what Zaphod's told me,” she whispered. “Apparently Magrathea is some kind of legend from way back which no one seriously believes in. Bit like Atlantis on Earth, except that the legends say the Magratheans used to manufacture planets.”
|
||
Arthur blinked at the screens and felt he was missing something important. Suddenly he realized what it was.
|
||
“Is there any tea on this spaceship?” he asked.
|
||
More of the planet was unfolding beneath them as the Heart of Gold streaked along its orbital path. The suns now stood high in the black sky, the pyrotechnics of dawn were over, and the surface of the planet appeared bleak and forbidding in the common light of day — grey, dusty and only dimly contoured. It looked dead and cold as a crypt. From time to time promising features would appear on the distant horizon — ravines, maybe mountains, maybe even cities — but as they approached the lines would soften and blur into anonymity and nothing would transpire. The planet's surface was blurred by time, by the slow movement of the thin stagnant air that had crept across it for century upon century.
|
||
Clearly, it was very very old.
|
||
A moment of doubt came to Ford as he watched the grey landscape move beneath them. The immensity of time worried him, he could feel it as a presence. He cleared his throat.
|
||
“Well, even supposing it is...”
|
||
“It is,” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Which it isn't,” continued Ford. “What do you want with it anyway?
|
||
There's nothing there.”
|
||
“Not on the surface,” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Alright, just supposing there's something. I take it you're not here for the sheer industrial archaeology of it all. What are you after?”
|
||
One of Zaphod's heads looked away. The other one looked round to see what the first was looking at, but it wasn't looking at anything very much.
|
||
“Well,” said Zaphod airily, “it's partly the curiosity, partly a sense of adventure, but mostly I think it's the fame and the money...”
|
||
Ford glanced at him sharply. He got a very strong impression that Zaphod hadn't the faintest idea why he was there at all.
|
||
“You know I don't like the look of that planet at all,” said Trillian shivering.
|
||
“Ah, take no notice,” said Zaphod, “with half the wealth of the former Galactic Empire stored on it somewhere it can afford to look frumpy.”
|
||
Bullshit, thought Ford. Even supposing this was the home of some ancient civilization now gone to dust, even supposing a number of exceedingly unlikely things, there was no way that vast treasures of wealth were going to be stored there in any form that would still have meaning now. He shrugged.
|
||
“I think it's just a dead planet,” he said.
|
||
“The suspense is killing me,” said Arthur testily.
|
||
Stress and nervous tension are now serious social problems in all parts of the Galaxy, and it is in order that this situation should not in any way be exacerbated that the following facts will now be revealed in advance.
|
||
The planet in question is in fact the legendary Magrathea.
|
||
The deadly missile attack shortly to be launched by an ancient automatic defence system will result merely in the breakage of three coffee cups and a micecage, the bruising of somebody's upper arm, and the untimely creation and sudden demise of a bowl of petunias and an innocent sperm whale.
|
||
In order that some sense of mystery should still be preserved, no revelation will yet be made concerning whose upper arm sustained the bruise.
|
||
This fact may safely be made the subject of suspense since it is of no significance whatsoever. 18
|
||
After a fairly shaky start to the day, Arthur's mind was beginning to reassemble itself from the shellshocked fragments the previous day had left him with. He had found a Nutri-Matic machine which had provided him with a plastic cup filled with a liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The way it functioned was very interesting. When the Drink button was pressed it made an instant but highly detailed examination of the subject's taste buds, a spectroscopic analysis of the subject's metabolism and then sent tiny experimental signals down the neural pathways to the taste centres of the subject's brain to see what was likely to go down well. However, no one knew quite why it did this because it invariably delivered a cupful of liquid that was almost, but not quite, entirely unlike tea. The Nutri-Matic was designed and manufactured by the Sirius Cybernetics Corporation whose complaints department now covers all the major land masses of the first three planets in the Sirius Tau Star system.
|
||
Arthur drank the liquid and found it reviving. He glanced up at the screens again and watched a few more hundred miles of barren greyness slide past. It suddenly occurred to him to ask a question which had been bothering him.
|
||
“Is it safe?” he said.
|
||
“Magrathea's been dead for five million years,” said Zaphod, “of course it's safe. Even the ghosts will have settled down and raised families by now.” At which point a strange and inexplicable sound thrilled suddenly through the bridge — a noise as of a distant fanfare; a hollow, reedy, insubstantial sound. It preceded a voice that was equally hollow, reedy and insubstantial. The voice said “Greetings to you...”
|
||
Someone from the dead planet was talking to them.
|
||
“Computer!” shouted Zaphod.
|
||
“Hi there!”
|
||
“What the photon is it?”
|
||
“Oh, just some five-million-year-old tape that's being broadcast at us.”
|
||
“A what? A recording?”
|
||
“Shush!” said Ford. “It's carrying on.”
|
||
The voice was old, courteous, almost charming, but was underscored with quite unmistakable menace.
|
||
“This is a recorded announcement,” it said, “as I'm afraid we're all out at the moment. The commercial council of Magrathea thanks you for your esteemed visit...”
|
||
(“A voice from ancient Magrathea!” shouted Zaphod. “OK, OK,” said Ford.)
|
||
“... but regrets,” continued the voice, “that the entire planet is temporarily closed for business. Thank you. If you would care to leave your name and the address of a planet where you can be contacted, kindly speak when you hear the tone.” A short buzz followed, then silence.
|
||
“They want to get rid of us,” said Trillian nervously. “What do we do?”
|
||
“It's just a recording,” said Zaphod. “We keep going. Got that, computer?”
|
||
“I got it,” said the computer and gave the ship an extra kick of speed.
|
||
They waited.
|
||
After a second or so came the fanfare once again, and then the voice.
|
||
“We would like to assure you that as soon as our business is resumed announcements will be made in all fashionable magazines and colour supplements, when our clients will once again be able to select from all that's best in contemporary geography.” The menace in the voice took on a sharper edge. “Meanwhile we thank our clients for their kind interest and would ask them to leave. Now.”
|
||
Arthur looked round the nervous faces of his companions.
|
||
“Well, I suppose we'd better be going then, hadn't we?” he suggested.
|
||
“Shhh!” said Zaphod. “There's absolutely nothing to be worried about.”
|
||
“Then why's everyone so tense?”
|
||
“They're just interested!” shouted Zaphod. “Computer, start a descent into the atmosphere and prepare for landing.”
|
||
This time the fanfare was quite perfunctory, the voice distinctly cold.
|
||
“It is most gratifying,” it said, “that your enthusiasm for our planet continues unabated, and so we would like to assure you that the guided missiles currently converging with your ship are part of a special service we extend to all of our most enthusiastic clients, and the fully armed nuclear warheads are of course merely a courtesy detail. We look forward to your custom in future lives... thank you.”
|
||
The voice snapped off.
|
||
“Oh,” said Trillian.
|
||
“Er...” said Arthur.
|
||
“Well?” said Ford.
|
||
“Look,” said Zaphod, “will you get it into your heads? That's just a recorded message. It's millions of years old. It doesn't apply to us, get it?”
|
||
“What,” said Trillian quietly, “about the missiles?”
|
||
“Missiles? Don't make me laugh.”
|
||
Ford tapped Zaphod on the shoulder and pointed at the rear screen.
|
||
Clear in the distance behind them two silver darts were climbing through the atmosphere towards the ship. A quick change of magnification brought them into close focus — two massively real rockets thundering through the sky. The suddenness of it was shocking.
|
||
“I think they're going to have a very good try at applying to us,” said Ford.
|
||
Zaphod stared at them in astonishment.
|
||
“Hey this is terrific!” he said. “Someone down there is trying to kill us!”
|
||
“Terrific,” said Arthur.
|
||
“But don't you see what this means?”
|
||
“Yes. We're going to die.”
|
||
“Yes, but apart from that.”
|
||
“Apart from that?”
|
||
“It means we must be on to something!”
|
||
“How soon can we get off it?”
|
||
Second by second the image of the missiles on the screen became larger.
|
||
They had swung round now on to a direct homing course so that all that could be seen of them now was the warheads, head on.
|
||
“As a matter of interest,” said Trillian, “what are we going to do?”
|
||
“Just keep cool,” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Is that all?” shouted Arthur.
|
||
“No, we're also going to... er... take evasive action!” said Zaphod with a sudden access of panic. “Computer, what evasive action can we take?”
|
||
“Er, none I'm afraid, guys,” said the computer.
|
||
“... or something,” said Zaphod, ”... er...” he said.
|
||
“There seems to be something jamming my guidance system,” explained the computer brightly, “impact minus forty-five seconds. Please call me Eddie if it will help you to relax.”
|
||
Zaphod tried to run in several equally decisive directions simultaneously.
|
||
“Right!” he said. “Er... we've got to get manual control of this ship.”
|
||
“Can you fly her?” asked Ford pleasantly.
|
||
“No, can you?”
|
||
“No.”
|
||
“Trillian, can you?”
|
||
“No.”
|
||
“Fine,” said Zaphod, relaxing. “We'll do it together.”
|
||
“I can't either,” said Arthur, who felt it was time he began to assert himself.
|
||
“I'd guessed that,” said Zaphod. “OK computer, I want full manual control now.”
|
||
“You got it,” said the computer.
|
||
Several large desk panels slid open and banks of control consoles sprang up out of them, showering the crew with bits of expanded polystyrene packaging and balls of rolled-up cellophane: these controls had never been used before.
|
||
Zaphod stared at them wildly.
|
||
“OK, Ford,” he said, “full retro thrust and ten degrees starboard. Or something...”
|
||
“Good luck guys,” chirped the computer, “impact minus thirty seconds...”
|
||
Ford leapt to the controls — only a few of them made any immediate sense to him so he pulled those. The ship shook and screamed as its guidance rocked jets tried to push it every which way simultaneously. He released half of them and the ship span round in a tight arc and headed back the way it had come, straight towards the oncoming missiles.
|
||
Air cushions ballooned out of the walls in an instant as everyone was thrown against them. For a few seconds the inertial forces held them flattened and squirming for breath, unable to move. Zaphod struggled and pushed in manic desperation and finally managed a savage kick at a small lever that formed part of the guidance system.
|
||
The lever snapped off. The ship twisted sharply and rocketed upwards.
|
||
The crew were hurled violently back across the cabin. Ford's copy of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy smashed into another section of the control console with the combined result that the guide started to explain to anyone who cared to listen about the best ways of smuggling Antarean parakeet glands out of Antares (an Antarean parakeet gland stuck on a small stick is a revolting but much sought after cocktail delicacy and very large sums of money are often paid for them by very rich idiots who want to impress other very rich idiots), and the ship suddenly dropped out of the sky like a stone.
|
||
It was of course more or less at this moment that one of the crew sustained a nasty bruise to the upper arm. This should be emphasized because, as had already been revealed, they escape otherwise completely unharmed and the deadly nuclear missiles do not eventually hit the ship.
|
||
The safety of the crew is absolutely assured.
|
||
“Impact minus twenty seconds, guys...” said the computer.
|
||
“Then turn the bloody engines back on!” bawled Zaphod.
|
||
“OK, sure thing, guys,” said the computer. With a subtle roar the engines cut back in, the ship smoothly flattened out of its dive and headed back towards the missiles again.
|
||
The computer started to sing.
|
||
“When you walk through the storm...” it whined nasally, “hold your head up high...”
|
||
Zaphod screamed at it to shut up, but his voice was lost in the din of what they quite naturally assumed was approaching destruction.
|
||
“And don't... be afraid... of the dark!” Eddie wailed.
|
||
The ship, in flattening out had in fact flattened out upside down and lying on the ceiling as they were it was now totally impossible for any of the crew to reach the guidance systems.
|
||
“At the end of the storm...” crooned Eddie.
|
||
The two missiles loomed massively on the screens as they thundered towards the ship.
|
||
“... is a golden sky...”
|
||
But by an extraordinarily lucky chance they had not yet fully corrected their flight paths to that of the erratically weaving ship, and they passed right under it.
|
||
“And the sweet silver songs of the lark... Revised impact time fifteen seconds fellas... Walk on through the wind...”
|
||
The missiles banked round in a screeching arc and plunged back into pursuit.
|
||
“This is it,” said Arthur watching them. “We are now quite definitely going to die aren't we?”
|
||
“I wish you'd stop saying that,” shouted Ford.
|
||
“Well we are aren't we?”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
“Walk on through the rain...” sang Eddie.
|
||
A thought struck Arthur. He struggled to his feet.
|
||
“Why doesn't anyone turn on this Improbability Drive thing?” he said.
|
||
“We could probably reach that.”
|
||
“What are you crazy?” said Zaphod. “Without proper programming anything could happen.”
|
||
“Does that matter at this stage?” shouted Arthur.
|
||
“Though your dreams be tossed and blown...” sand Eddie.
|
||
Arthur scrambled up on to one end of the excitingly chunky pieces of moulded contouring where the curve of the wall met the ceiling.
|
||
“Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart...”
|
||
“Does anyone know why Arthur can't turn on the Improbability Drive?” shouted Trillian.
|
||
“And you'll never walk alone... Impact minus five seconds, it's been great knowing you guys, God bless... You'll ne... ver... walk... alone!”
|
||
“I said,” yelled Trillian, “does anyone know...”
|
||
The next thing that happened was a mid-mangling explosion of noise and light. 19
|
||
And the next thing that happened after that was that the Heart of Gold continued on its way perfectly normally with a rather fetchingly redesigned interior. It was somewhat larger, and done out in delicate pastel shades of green and blue. In the centre a spiral staircase, leading nowhere in particular, stood in a spray of ferns and yellow flowers and next to it a stone sundial pedestal housed the main computer terminal.
|
||
Cunningly deployed lighting and mirrors created the illusion of standing in a conservatory overlooking a wide stretch of exquisitely manicured garden. Around the periphery of the conservatory area stood marbletopped tables on intricately beautiful wrought-iron legs. As you gazed into the polished surface of the marble the vague forms of instruments became visible, and as you touched them the instruments materialized instantly under your hands. Looked at from the correct angles the mirrors appeared to reflect all the required data readouts, though it was far from clear where they were reflected from. It was in fact sensationally beautiful.
|
||
Relaxing in a wickerwork sun chair, Zaphod Beeblebrox said, “What the hell happened?”
|
||
“Well I was just saying,” said Arthur lounging by a small fish pool, “there's this Improbability Drive switch over here...” he waved at where it had been. There was a potted plant there now. “But where are we?” said Ford who was sitting on the spiral staircase, a nicely chilled Pan Galactic Gargle Blaster in his hand.
|
||
“Exactly where we were, I think...” said Trillian, as all about them the mirrors showed them an image of the blighted landscape of Magrathea which still scooted along beneath them.
|
||
Zaphod leapt out of his seat.
|
||
“Then what's happened to the missiles?” he said.
|
||
A new and astounding image appeared in the mirrors.
|
||
“They would appear,” said Ford doubtfully, “to have turned into a bowl of petunias and a very surprised looking whale...”
|
||
“At an Improbability Factor,” cut in Eddie, who hadn't changed a bit, “of eight million seven hundred and sixty-seven thousand one hundred and twenty-eight to one against.”
|
||
Zaphod stared at Arthur.
|
||
“Did you think of that, Earthman?” he demanded.
|
||
“Well,” said Arthur, “all I did was...”
|
||
“That's very good thinking you know. Turn on the Improbability Drive for a second without first activating the proofing screens. Hey kid you just saved our lives, you know that?”
|
||
“Oh,” said Arthur, “well, it was nothing really...”
|
||
“Was it?” said Zaphod. “Oh well, forget it then. OK, computer, take us in to land.”
|
||
“But...”
|
||
“I said forget it.”
|
||
Another thing that got forgotten was the fact that against all probability a sperm whale had suddenly been called into existence several miles above the surface of an alien planet.
|
||
And since this is not a naturally tenable position for a whale, this poor innocent creature had very little time to come to terms with its identity as a whale before it then had to come to terms with not being a whale any more.
|
||
This is a complete record of its thoughts from the moment it began its life till the moment it ended it.
|
||
Ah... ! What's happening? it thought.
|
||
Er, excuse me, who am I?
|
||
Hello? Why am I here? What's my purpose in life?
|
||
What do I mean by who am I?
|
||
Calm down, get a grip now... oh! this is an interesting sensation, what is it? It's a sort of... yawning, tingling sensation in my... my... well I suppose I'd better start finding names for things if I want to make any headway in what for the sake of what I shall call an argument I shall call the world, so let's call it my stomach.
|
||
Good. Ooooh, it's getting quite strong. And hey, what's about this whistling roaring sound going past what I'm suddenly going to call my head? Perhaps I can call that... wind! Is that a good name? It'll do...
|
||
perhaps I can find a better name for it later when I've found out what it's for. It must be something very important because there certainly seems to be a hell of a lot of it. Hey! What's this thing? This... let's call it a tail — yeah, tail. Hey! I can can really thrash it about pretty good can't I? Wow! Wow! That feels great! Doesn't seem to achieve very much but I'll probably find out what it's for later on. Now — have I built up any coherent picture of things yet?
|
||
No. Never mind, hey, this is really exciting, so much to find out about, so much to look forward to, I'm quite dizzy with anticipation... Or is it the wind?
|
||
There really is a lot of that now isn't it?
|
||
And wow! Hey! What's this thing suddenly coming towards me very fast? Very very fast. So big and flat and round, it needs a big wide sounding name like... ow... ound... round... ground! That's it! That's a good name — ground!
|
||
I wonder if it will be friends with me?
|
||
And the rest, after a sudden wet thud, was silence.
|
||
Curiously enough, the only thing that went through the mind of the bowl of petunias as it fell was Oh no, not again. Many people have speculated that if we knew exactly why the bowl of petunias had thought that we would know a lot more about the nature of the universe than we do now. 20
|
||
“Are we taking this robot with us?” said Ford, looking with distaste at Marvin who was standing in an awkward hunched posture in the corner under a small palm tree.
|
||
Zaphod glanced away from the mirror screens which presented a panoramic view of the blighted landscape on which the Heart of Gold had now landed.
|
||
“Oh, the Paranoid Android,” he said. “Yeah, we'll take him.”
|
||
“But what are supposed to do with a manically depressed robot?”
|
||
“You think you've got problems,” said Marvin as if he was addressing a newly occupied coffin, “what are you supposed to do if you are a manically depressed robot? No, don't bother to answer that, I'm fifty thousand times more intelligent than you and even I don't know the answer. It gives me a headache just trying to think down to your level.”
|
||
Trillian burst in through the door from her cabin.
|
||
“My white mice have escaped!” she said.
|
||
An expression of deep worry and concern failed to cross either of Zaphod's faces.
|
||
“Nuts to your white mice,” he said.
|
||
Trillian glared an upset glare at him, and disappeared again.
|
||
It is possible that her remark would have commanded greater attention had it been generally realized that human beings were only the third most intelligent life form present on the planet Earth, instead of (as was generally thought by most independent observers) the second.
|
||
“Good afternoon boys.”
|
||
The voice was oddly familiar, but oddly different. It had a matriarchal twang. It announced itself to the crew as they arrived at the airlock hatchway that would let them out on the planet surface.
|
||
They looked at each other in puzzlement.
|
||
“It's the computer,” explained Zaphod. “I discovered it had an emergency back-up personality that I thought might work out better.”
|
||
“Now this is going to be your first day out on a strange new planet,” continued Eddie's new voice, “so I want you all wrapped up snug and warm, and no playing with any naughty bug-eyed monsters.”
|
||
Zaphod tapped impatiently on the hatch.
|
||
“I'm sorry,” he said, “I think we might be better off with a slide rule.”
|
||
“Right!” snapped the computer. “Who said that?”
|
||
“Will you open the exit hatch please, computer?” said Zaphod trying not to get angry.
|
||
“Not until whoever said that owns up,” urged the computer, stamping a few synapses closed. “Oh God,” muttered Ford, slumped against a bulkhead and started to count to ten. He was desperately worried that one day sentinent life forms would forget how to do this. Only by counting could humans demonstrate their independence of computers.
|
||
“Come on,” said Eddie sternly.
|
||
“Computer...” began Zaphod...
|
||
“I'm waiting,” interrupted Eddie. “I can wait all day if necessary...”
|
||
“Computer...” said Zaphod again, who had been trying to think of some subtle piece of reasoning to put the computer down with, and had decided not to bother competing with it on its own ground, “if you don't open that exit hatch this moment I shall zap straight off to your major data banks and reprogram you with a very large axe, got that?”
|
||
Eddie, shocked, paused and considered this.
|
||
Ford carried on counting quietly. This is about the most aggressive thing you can do to a computer, the equivalent of going up to a human being and saying Blood... blood... blood... blood...
|
||
Finally Eddie said quietly, “I can see this relationship is something we're all going to have to work at,” and the hatchway opened.
|
||
An icy wind ripped into them, they hugged themselves warmly and stepped down the ramp on to the barren dust of Magrathea.
|
||
“It'll all end in tears, I know it,” shouted Eddie after them and closed the hatchway again.
|
||
A few minutes later he opened and closed the hatchway again in response to a command that caught him entirely by surprise. 21
|
||
Five figures wandered slowly over the blighted land. Bits of it were dullish grey, bits of it dullish brown, the rest of it rather less interesting to look at. It was like a dried-out marsh, now barren of all vegetation and covered with a layer of dust about an inch thick. It was very cold.
|
||
Zaphod was clearly rather depressed about it. He stalked off by himself and was soon lost to sight behind a slight rise in the ground.
|
||
The wind stung Arthur's eyes and ears, and the stale thin air clasped his throat. However, the thing stung most was his mind.
|
||
“It's fantastic...” he said, and his own voice rattled his ears. Sound carried badly in this thin atmosphere. “Desolate hole if you ask me,” said Ford. “I could have more fun in a cat litter.” He felt a mounting irritation. Of all the planets in all the star systems of all the Galaxy — didn't he just have to turn up at a dump like this after fifteen years of being a castaway? Not even a hot dog stand in evidence. He stooped down and picked up a cold clot of earth, but there was nothing underneath it worth crossing thousands of light years to look at.
|
||
“No,” insisted Arthur, “don't you understand, this is the first time I've actually stood on the surface of another planet... a whole alien world...! Pity it's such a dump though.”
|
||
Trillian hugged herself, shivered and frowned. She could have sworn she saw a slight and unexpected movement out of the corner of her eye, but when she glanced in that direction all she could see was the ship, still and silent, a hundred yards or so behind them.
|
||
She was relieved when a second or so later they caught sight of Zaphod standing on top of the ridge of ground and waving to them to come and join him.
|
||
He seemed to be excited, but they couldn't clearly hear what he was saying because of the thinnish atmosphere and the wind.
|
||
As they approached the ridge of higher ground they became aware that it seemed to be circular — a crater about a hundred and fifty yards wide.
|
||
Round the outside of the crater the sloping ground was spattered with black and red lumps. They stopped and looked at a piece. It was wet.
|
||
It was rubbery.
|
||
With horror they suddenly realized that it was fresh whalemeat.
|
||
At the top of the crater's lip they met Zaphod.
|
||
“Look,” he said, pointing into the crater.
|
||
In the centre lay the exploded carcass of a lonely sperm whale that hadn't lived long enough to be disappointed with its lot. The silence was only disturbed by the slight involuntary spasms of Trillian's throat.
|
||
“I suppose there's no point in trying to bury it?” murmured Arthur, and then wished he hadn't.
|
||
“Come,” said Zaphod and started back down into the crater.
|
||
“What, down there?” said Trillian with severe distaste.
|
||
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “come on, I've got something to show you.”
|
||
“We can see it,” said Trillian.
|
||
“Not that,” said Zaphod, “something else. Come on.”
|
||
They all hesitated.
|
||
“Come on,” insisted Zaphod, “I've found a way in.”
|
||
“In?” said Arthur in horror.
|
||
“Into the interior of the planet! An underground passage. The force of the whale's impact cracked it open, and that's where we have to go.
|
||
Where no man has trod these five million years, into the very depths of time itself...”
|
||
Marvin started his ironical humming again.
|
||
Zaphod hit him and he shut up.
|
||
With little shudders of disgust they all followed Zaphod down the incline into the crater, trying very hard not to look at its unfortunate creator.
|
||
“Life,” said Marvin dolefully, “loathe it or ignore it, you can't like it.”
|
||
The ground had caved in where the whale had hit it revealing a network of galleries and passages, now largely obstructed by collapsed rubble and entrails. Zaphod had made a start clearing a way into one of them, but Marvin was able to do it rather faster. Dank air wafted out of its dark recesses, and as Zaphod shone a torch into it, little was visible in the dusty gloom.
|
||
“According to the legends,” he said, “the Magratheans lived most of their lives underground.”
|
||
“Why's that?” said Arthur. “Did the surface become too polluted or overpopulated?”
|
||
“No, I don't think so,” said Zaphod. “I think they just didn't like it very much.”
|
||
“Are you sure you know what you're doing?” said Trillian peering nervously into the darkness. “We've been attacked once already you know.”
|
||
“Look kid, I promise you the live population of this planet is nil plus the four of us, so come on, let's get on in there. Er, hey Earthman...”
|
||
“Arthur,” said Arthur.
|
||
“Yeah could you just sort of keep this robot with you and guard this end of the passageway. OK?”
|
||
“Guard?” said Arthur. “What from? You just said there's no one here.”
|
||
“Yeah, well, just for safety, OK?” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Whose? Yours or mine?”
|
||
“Good lad. OK, here we go.”
|
||
Zaphod scrambled down into the passage, followed by Trillian and Ford.
|
||
“Well I hope you all have a really miserable time,” complained Arthur.
|
||
“Don't worry,” Marvin assured him, “they will.”
|
||
In a few seconds they had disappeared from view.
|
||
Arthur stamped around in a huff, and then decided that a whale's graveyard is not on the whole a good place to stamp around in.
|
||
Marvin eyed him balefully for a moment, and then turned himself off.
|
||
Zaphod marched quickly down the passageway, nervous as hell, but trying to hide it by striding purposefully. He flung the torch beam around.
|
||
The walls were covered in dark tiles and were cold to the touch, the air thick with decay.
|
||
“There, what did I tell you?” he said. “An inhabited planet. Magrathea,” and he strode on through the dirt and debris that littered the tile floor.
|
||
Trillian was reminded unavoidably of the London Underground, though it was less thoroughly squalid.
|
||
At intervals along the walls the tiles gave way to large mosaics — simple angular patterns in bright colours. Trillian stopped and studied one of them but could not interpret any sense in them. She called to Zaphod.
|
||
“Hey, have you any idea what these strange symbols are?”
|
||
“I think they're just strange symbols of some kind,” said Zaphod, hardly glancing back.
|
||
Trillian shrugged and hurried after him.
|
||
>From time to time a doorway led either to the left or right into smallish chambers which Ford discovered to be full of derelict computer equipment. He dragged Zaphod into one to have a look. Trillian followed.
|
||
“Look,” said Ford, “you reckon this is Magrathea...”
|
||
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and we heard the voice, right?”
|
||
“OK, so I've bought the fact that it's Magrathea — for the moment. What you have so far said nothing about is how in the Galaxy you found it.
|
||
You didn't just look it up in a star atlas, that's for sure.”
|
||
“Research. Government archives. Detective work. Few lucky guesses.
|
||
Easy.”
|
||
“And then you stole the Heart of Gold to come and look for it with?”
|
||
“I stole it to look for a lot of things.”
|
||
“A lot of things?” said Ford in surprise. “Like what?”
|
||
“I don't know.”
|
||
“What?”
|
||
“I don't know what I'm looking for.”
|
||
“Why not?”
|
||
“Because... because... I think it might be because if I knew I wouldn't be able to look for them.”
|
||
“What, are you crazy?”
|
||
“It's a possibility I haven't ruled out yet,” said Zaphod quietly. “I only know as much about myself as my mind can work out under its current conditions. And its current conditions are not good.”
|
||
For a long time nobody said anything as Ford gazed at Zaphod with a mind suddenly full of worry.
|
||
“Listen old friend, if you want to...” started Ford eventually.
|
||
“No, wait... I'll tell you something,” said Zaphod. “I freewheel a lot.
|
||
I get an idea to do something, and, hey, why not, I do it. I reckon I'll become President of the Galaxy, and it just happens, it's easy. I decide to steal this ship. I decide to look for Magrathea, and it all just happens.
|
||
Yeah, I work out how it can best be done, right, but it always works out. It's like having a Galacticredit card which keeps on working though you never send off the cheques. And then whenever I stop and think — why did I want to do something? — how did I work out how to do it? — I get a very strong desire just to stop thinking about it. Like I have now.
|
||
It's a big effort to talk about it.”
|
||
Zaphod paused for a while. For a while there was silence. Then he frowned and said, “Last night I was worrying about this again. About the fact that part of my mind just didn't seem to work properly. Then it occurred to me that the way it seemed was that someone else was using my mind to have good ideas with, without telling me about it. I put the two ideas together and decided that maybe that somebody had locked off part of my mind for that purpose, which was why I couldn't use it.
|
||
I wondered if there was a way I could check.
|
||
“I went to the ship's medical bay and plugged myself into the encephelographic screen. I went through every major screening test on both my heads — all the tests I had to go through under government medical officers before my nomination for Presidency could be properly ratified.
|
||
They showed up nothing. Nothing unexpected at least. They showed that I was clever, imaginative, irresponsible, untrustworthy, extrovert, nothing you couldn't have guessed. And no other anomalies. So I started inventing further tests, completely at random. Nothing. Then I tried superimposing the results from one head on top of the results from the other head. Still nothing. Finally I got silly, because I'd given it all up as nothing more than an attack of paranoia. Last thing I did before I packed it in was take the superimposed picture and look at it through a green filter. You remember I was always superstitious about the color green when I was a kid? I always wanted to be a pilot on one of the trading scouts?”
|
||
Ford nodded.
|
||
“And there it was,” said Zaphod, “clear as day. A whole section in the middle of both brains that related only to each other and not to anything else around them. Some bastard had cauterized all the synapses and electronically traumatised those two lumps of cerebellum.”
|
||
Ford stared at him, aghast. Trillian had turned white.
|
||
“Somebody did that to you?” whispered Ford.
|
||
“Yeah.”
|
||
“But have you any idea who? Or why?”
|
||
“Why? I can only guess. But I do know who the bastard was.”
|
||
“You know? How do you know?”
|
||
“Because they left their initials burnt into the cauterized synapses. They left them there for me to see.”
|
||
Ford stared at him in horror and felt his skin begin to crawl.
|
||
“Initials? Burnt into your brain?”
|
||
“Yeah.”
|
||
“Well, what were they, for God's sake?”
|
||
Zaphod looked at him in silence again for a moment. Then he looked away.
|
||
“Z.B.,” he said.
|
||
At that moment a steel shutter slammed down behind them and gas started to pour into the chamber.
|
||
“I'll tell you about it later,” choked Zaphod as all three passed out. 22
|
||
On the surface of Magrathea Arthur wandered about moodily.
|
||
Ford had thoughtfully left him his copy of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy to while away the time with. He pushed a few buttons at random.
|
||
The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy is a very unevenly edited book and contains many passages that simply seemed to its editors like a good idea at the time.
|
||
One of these (the one Arthur now came across) supposedly relates the experiences of one Veet Voojagig, a quiet young student at the University of Maximegalon, who pursued a brilliant academic career studying ancient philology, transformational ethics and the wave harmonic theory of historical perception, and then, after a night of drinking Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters with Zaphod Beeblebrox, became increasingly obsessed with the problem of what had happened to all the biros he'd bought over the past few years.
|
||
There followed a long period of painstaking research during which he visited all the major centres of biro loss throughout the galaxy and eventually came up with a quaint little theory which quite caught the public imagination at the time. Somewhere in the cosmos, he said, along with all the planets inhabited by humanoids, reptiloids, fishoids, walking treeoids and superintelligent shades of the colour blue, there was also a planet entirely given over to biro life forms. And it was to this planet that unattended biros would make their way, slipping away quietly through wormholes in space to a world where they knew they could enjoy a uniquely biroid lifestyle, responding to highly biro-oriented stimuli, and generally leading the biro equivalent of the good life.
|
||
And as theories go this was all very fine and pleasant until Veet Voojagig suddenly claimed to have found this planet, and to have worked there for a while driving a limousine for a family of cheap green retractables, whereupon he was taken away, locked up, wrote a book, and was finally sent into tax exile, which is the usual fate reserved for those who are determined to make a fool of themselves in public.
|
||
When one day an expedition was sent to the spatial coordinates that Voojagig had claimed for this planet they discovered only a small asteroid inhabited by a solitary old man who claimed repeatedly that nothing was true, though he was later discovered to be lying.
|
||
There did, however, remain the question of both the mysterious 60,000 Altairan dollars paid yearly into his Brantisvogan bank account, and of course Zaphod Beeblebrox's highly profitable second-hand biro business.
|
||
Arthur read this, and put the book down.
|
||
The robot still sat there, completely inert.
|
||
Arthur got up and walked to the top of the crater. He walked around the crater. He watched two suns set magnificently over Magrathea.
|
||
He went back down into the crater. He woke the robot up because even a manically depressed robot is better to talk to than nobody.
|
||
“Night's falling,” he said. “Look robot, the stars are coming out.” >From the heart of a dark nebula it is possible to see very few stars, and only very faintly, but they were there to be seen.
|
||
The robot obediently looked at them, then looked back.
|
||
“I know,” he said. “Wretched isn't it?”
|
||
“But that sunset! I've never seen anything like it in my wildest dreams... the two suns! It was like mountains of fire boiling into space.”
|
||
“I've seen it,” said Marvin. “It's rubbish.”
|
||
“We only ever had the one sun at home,” persevered Arthur, “I came from a planet called Earth you know.”
|
||
“I know,” said Marvin, “you keep going on about it. It sounds awful.”
|
||
“Ah no, it was a beautiful place.”
|
||
“Did it have oceans?”
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Arthur with a sigh, “great wide rolling blue oceans...”
|
||
“Can't bear oceans,” said Marvin.
|
||
“Tell me,” inquired Arthur, “do you get on well with other robots?”
|
||
“Hate them,” said Marvin. “Where are you going?”
|
||
Arthur couldn't bear any more. He had got up again.
|
||
“I think I'll just take another walk,” he said.
|
||
“Don't blame you,” said Marvin and counted five hundred and ninetyseven thousand million sheep before falling asleep again a second later.
|
||
Arthur slapped his arms about himself to try and get his circulation a little more enthusiastic about its job. He trudged back up the wall of the crater.
|
||
Because the atmosphere was so thin and because there was no moon, nightfall was very rapid and it was by now very dark. Because of this, Arthur practically walked into the old man before he noticed him. 23
|
||
He was standing with his back to Arthur watching the very last glimmers of light sink into blackness behind the horizon. He was tallish, elderly and dressed in a single long grey robe. When he turned his face was thin and distinguished, careworn but not unkind, the sort of face you would happily bank with. But he didn't turn yet, not even to react to Arthur's yelp of surprise.
|
||
Eventually the last rays of the sun had vanished completely, and he turned. His face was still illuminated from somewhere, and when Arthur looked for the source of the light he saw that a few yards away stood a small craft of some kind — a small hovercraft, Arthur guessed. It shed a dim pool of light around it.
|
||
The man looked at Arthur, sadly it seemed.
|
||
“You choose a cold night to visit our dead planet,” he said.
|
||
“Who... who are you?” stammered Arthur.
|
||
The man looked away. Again a kind of sadness seemed to cross his face.
|
||
“My name is not important,” he said.
|
||
He seemed to have something on his mind. Conversation was clearly something he felt he didn't have to rush at. Arthur felt awkward.
|
||
“I... er... you startled me...” he said, lamely.
|
||
The man looked round to him again and slightly raised his eyebrows.
|
||
“Hmmmm?” he said.
|
||
“I said you startled me.”
|
||
“Do not be alarmed, I will not harm you.”
|
||
Arthur frowned at him. “But you shot at us! There were missiles...” he said.
|
||
The man chuckled slightly.
|
||
“An automatic system,” he said and gave a small sigh. “Ancient computers ranged in the bowels of the planet tick away the dark millennia, and the ages hang heavy on their dusty data banks. I think they take the occasional pot shot to relieve the monotony.”
|
||
He looked gravely at Arthur and said, “I'm a great fan of science you know.”
|
||
“Oh... er, really?” said Arthur, who was beginning to find the man's curious, kindly manner disconcerting.
|
||
“Oh, yes,” said the old man, and simply stopped talking again.
|
||
“Ah,” said Arthur, “er...” He had an odd felling of being like a man in the act of adultery who is surprised when the woman's husband wanders into the room, changes his trousers, passes a few idle remarks about the weather and leaves again.
|
||
“You seem ill at ease,” said the old man with polite concern.
|
||
“Er, no... well, yes. Actually you see, we weren't really expecting to find anybody about in fact. I sort of gathered that you were all dead or something...”
|
||
“Dead?” said the old man. “Good gracious no, we have but slept.”
|
||
“Slept?” said Arthur incredulously.
|
||
“Yes, through the economic recession you see,” said the old man, apparently unconcerned about whether Arthur understood a word he was talking about or not.
|
||
“Er, economic recession?”
|
||
“Well you see, five million years ago the Galactic economy collapsed, and seeing that custom-made planets are something of a luxury commodity you see...”
|
||
He paused and looked at Arthur.
|
||
“You know we built planets do you?” he asked solemnly.
|
||
“Well yes,” said Arthur, “I'd sort of gathered...”
|
||
“Fascinating trade,” said the old man, and a wistful look came into his eyes, “doing the coastlines was always my favourite. Used to have endless fun doing the little bits in fjords... so anyway,” he said trying to find his thread again, “the recession came and we decided it would save us a lot of bother if we just slept through it. So we programmed the computers to revive us when it was all over.”
|
||
The man stifled a very slight yawn and continued.
|
||
“The computers were index linked to the Galactic stock market prices you see, so that we'd all be revived when everybody else had rebuilt the economy enough to afford our rather expensive services.”
|
||
Arthur, a regular Guardian reader, was deeply shocked at this.
|
||
“That's a pretty unpleasant way to behave isn't it?”
|
||
“Is it?” asked the old man mildly. “I'm sorry, I'm a bit out of touch.”
|
||
He pointed down into the crater.
|
||
“Is that robot yours?” he said.
|
||
“No,” came a thin metallic voice from the crater, “I'm mine.”
|
||
“If you'd call it a robot,” muttered Arthur. “It's more a sort of electronic sulking machine.”
|
||
“Bring it,” said the old man. Arthur was quite surprised to hear a note of decision suddenly present in the old man's voice. He called to Marvin who crawled up the slope making a big show of being lame, which he wasn't. “On second thoughts,” said the old man, “leave it here. You must come with me. Great things are afoot.” He turned towards his craft which, though no apparent signal had been given, now drifted quietly towards them through the dark.
|
||
Arthur looked down at Marvin, who now made an equally big show of turning round laboriously and trudging off down into the crater again muttering sour nothings to himself.
|
||
“Come,” called the old man, “come now or you will be late.”
|
||
“Late?” said Arthur. “What for?”
|
||
“What is your name, human?”
|
||
“Dent. Arthur Dent,” said Arthur.
|
||
“Late, as in the late Dentarthurdent,” said the old man, sternly. “It's a sort of threat you see.” Another wistful look came into his tired old eyes. “I've never been very good at them myself, but I'm told they can be very effective.”
|
||
Arthur blinked at him.
|
||
“What an extraordinary person,” he muttered to himself.
|
||
“I beg your pardon?” said the old man.
|
||
“Oh nothing, I'm sorry,” said Arthur in embarrassment. “Alright, where do we go?”
|
||
“In my aircar,” said the old man motioning Arthur to get into the craft which had settled silently next to them. “We are going deep into the bowels of the planet where even now our race is being revived from its five-million-year slumber. Magrathea awakes.”
|
||
Arthur shivered involuntarily as he seated himself next to the old man.
|
||
The strangeness of it, the silent bobbing movement of the craft as it soared into the night sky quite unsettled him.
|
||
He looked at the old man, his face illuminated by the dull glow of tiny lights on the instrument panel.
|
||
“Excuse me,” he said to him, “what is your name by the way?”
|
||
“My name?” said the old man, and the same distant sadness came into his face again. He paused. “My name,” he said, ”... is Slartibartfast.”
|
||
Arthur practically choked.
|
||
“I beg your pardon?” he spluttered.
|
||
“Slartibartfast,” repeated the old man quietly.
|
||
“Slartibartfast?”
|
||
The old man looked at him gravely. “I said it wasn't important,” he said.
|
||
The aircar sailed through the night. 24
|
||
It is an important and popular fact that things are not always what they seem. For instance, on the planet Earth, man had always assumed that he was more intelligent than dolphins because he had achieved so much — the wheel, New York, wars and so on — whilst all the dolphins had ever done was muck about in the water having a good time. But conversely, the dolphins had always believed that they were far more intelligent than man — for precisely the same reasons.
|
||
Curiously enough, the dolphins had long known of the impending destruction of the planet Earth and had made many attempts to alert mankind of the danger; but most of their communications were misinterpreted as amusing attempts to punch footballs or whistle for tidbits, so they eventually gave up and left the Earth by their own means shortly before the Vogons arrived.
|
||
The last ever dolphin message was misinterpreted as a surprisingly sophisticated attempt to do a double-backwardssomersault through a hoop whilst whistling the “Star Sprangled Banner”, but in fact the message was this: So long and thanks for all the fish.
|
||
In fact there was only one species on the planet more intelligent than dolphins, and they spent a lot of their time in behavioural research laboratories running round inside wheels and conducting frighteningly elegant and subtle experiments on man.
|
||
The fact that once again man completely misinterpreted this relationship was entirely according to these creatures' plans. 25
|
||
Silently the aircar coasted through the cold darkness, a single soft glow of light that was utterly alone in the deep Magrathean night. It sped swiftly. Arthur's companion seemed sunk in his own thoughts, and when Arthur tried on a couple of occasions to engage him in conversation again he would simply reply by asking if he was comfortable enough, and then left it at that.
|
||
Arthur tried to gauge the speed at which they were travelling, but the blackness outside was absolute and he was denied any reference points.
|
||
The sense of motion was so soft and slight he could almost believe they were hardly moving at all.
|
||
Then a tiny glow of light appeared in the far distance and within seconds had grown so much in size that Arthur realized it was travelling towards them at a colossal speed, and he tried to make out what sort of craft it might be. He peered at it, but was unable to discern any clear shape, and suddenly gasped in alarm as the aircraft dipped sharply and headed downwards in what seemed certain to be a collision course. Their relative velocity seemed unbelievable, and Arthur had hardly time to draw breath before it was all over. The next thing he was aware of was an insane silver blur that seemed to surround him. He twisted his head sharply round and saw a small black point dwindling rapidly in the distance behind them, and it took him several seconds to realize what had happened.
|
||
They had plunged into a tunnel in the ground. The colossal speed had been their own relative to the glow of light which was a stationary hole in the ground, the mouth of the tunnel. The insane blur of silver was the circular wall of the tunnel down which they were shooting, apparently at several hundred miles an hour.
|
||
He closed his eyes in terror.
|
||
After a length of time which he made no attempt to judge, he sensed a slight subsidence in their speed and some while later became aware that they were gradually gliding to a gentle halt.
|
||
He opened his eyes again. They were still in the silver tunnel, threading and weaving their way through what appeared to be a crisscross warren of converging tunnels. When they finally stopped it was in a small chamber of curved steel. Several tunnels also had their terminus here, and at the farther end of the chamber Arthur could see a large circle of dim irritating light. It was irritating because it played tricks with the eyes, it was impossible to focus on it properly or tell how near or far it was. Arthur guessed (quite wrongly) that it might be ultra violet.
|
||
Slartibartfast turned and regarded Arthur with his solemn old eyes.
|
||
“Earthman,” he said, “we are now deep in the heart of Magrathea.”
|
||
“How did you know I was an Earthman?” demanded Arthur.
|
||
“These things will become clear to you,” said the old man gently, “at least,” he added with slight doubt in his voice, “clearer than they are at the moment.”
|
||
He continued: “I should warn you that the chamber we are about to pass into does not literally exist within our planet. It is a little too... large.
|
||
We are about to pass through a gateway into a vast tract of hyperspace.
|
||
It may disturb you.”
|
||
Arthur made nervous noises.
|
||
Slartibartfast touched a button and added, not entirely reassuringly. “It scares the willies out of me. Hold tight.”
|
||
The car shot forward straight into the circle of light, and suddenly Arthur had a fairly clear idea of what infinity looked like.
|
||
It wasn't infinity in fact. Infinity itself looks flat and uninteresting. Looking up into the night sky is looking into infinity — distance is incomprehensible and therefore meaningless. The chamber into which the aircar emerged was anything but infinite, it was just very very big, so that it gave the impression of infinity far better than infinity itself.
|
||
Arthur's senses bobbed and span, as, travelling at the immense speed he knew the aircar attained, they climbed slowly through the open air leaving the gateway through which they had passed an invisible pinprick in the shimmering wall behind them.
|
||
The wall.
|
||
The wall defied the imagination — seduced it and defeated it. The wall was so paralysingly vast and sheer that its top, bottom and sides passed away beyond the reach of sight. The mere shock of vertigo could kill a man.
|
||
The wall appeared perfectly flat. It would take the finest laser measuring equipment to detect that as it climbed, apparently to infinity, as it dropped dizzily away, as it planed out to either side, it also curved.
|
||
It met itself again thirteen light seconds away. In other words the wall formed the inside of a hollow sphere, a sphere over three million miles across and flooded with unimaginable light.
|
||
“Welcome,” said Slartibartfast as the tiny speck that was the aircar, travelling now at three times the speed of sound, crept imperceptibly forward into the mindboggling space, “welcome,” he said, “to our factory floor.”
|
||
Arthur stared about him in a kind of wonderful horror. Ranged away before them, at distances he could neither judge nor even guess at, were a series of curious suspensions, delicate traceries of metal and light hung about shadowy spherical shapes that hung in the space.
|
||
“This,” said Slartibartfast, “is where we make most of our planets you see.”
|
||
“You mean,” said Arthur, trying to form the words, “you mean you're starting it all up again now?”
|
||
“No no, good heavens no,” exclaimed the old man, “no, the Galaxy isn't nearly rich enough to support us yet. No, we've been awakened to perform just one extraordinary commission for very... special clients from another dimension. It may interest you... there in the distance in front of us.”
|
||
Arthur followed the old man's finger, till he was able to pick out the floating structure he was pointing out. It was indeed the only one of the many structures that betrayed any sign of activity about it, though this was more a sublimal impression than anything one could put one's finger on.
|
||
At the moment however a flash of light arced through the structure and revealed in stark relief the patterns that were formed on the dark sphere within. Patterns that Arthur knew, rough blobby shapes that were as familiar to him as the shapes of words, part of the furniture of his mind. For a few seconds he sat in stunned silence as the images rushed around his mind and tried to find somewhere to settle down and make sense. Part of his brain told him that he knew perfectly well what he was looking at and what the shapes represented whilst another quite sensibly refused to countenance the idea and abdicated responsibility for any further thinking in that direction.
|
||
The flash came again, and this time there could be no doubt.
|
||
“The Earth...” whispered Arthur.
|
||
“Well, the Earth Mark Two in fact,” said Slartibartfast cheery. “We're making a copy from our original blueprints.”
|
||
There was a pause.
|
||
“Are you trying to tell me,” said Arthur, slowly and with control, “that you originally... made the Earth?”
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Slartibartfast. “Did you ever go to a place... I think it was called Norway?”
|
||
“No,” said Arthur, “no, I didn't.”
|
||
“Pity,” said Slartibartfast, “that was one of mine. Won an award you know. Lovely crinkly edges. I was most upset to hear about its destruction.”
|
||
“You were upset!”
|
||
“Yes. Five minutes later and it wouldn't have mattered so much. It was a quite shocking cock-up.”
|
||
“Huh?” said Arthur.
|
||
“The mice were furious.”
|
||
“The mice were furious?”
|
||
“Oh yes,” said the old man mildly.
|
||
“Yes well so I expect were the dogs and cats and duckbilled platypuses, but...”
|
||
“Ah, but they hadn't paid for it you see, had they?”
|
||
“Look,” said Arthur, “would it save you a lot of time if I just gave up and went mad now?”
|
||
For a while the aircar flew on in awkward silence. Then the old man tried patiently to explain.
|
||
“Earthman, the planet you lived on was commissioned, paid for, and run by mice. It was destroyed five minutes before the completion of the purpose for which it was built, and we've got to build another one.”
|
||
Only one word registered with Arthur.
|
||
“Mice?” he said. “Indeed Earthman.”
|
||
“Look, sorry — are we talking about the little white furry things with the cheese fixation and women standing on tables screaming in early sixties sit coms?”
|
||
Slartibartfast coughed politely.
|
||
“Earthman,” he said, “it is sometimes hard to follow your mode of speech. Remember I have been asleep inside this planet of Magrathea for five million years and know little of these early sixties sit coms of which you speak. These creatures you call mice, you see, they are not quite as they appear. They are merely the protrusion into our dimension of vast hyperintelligent pandimensional beings. The whole business with the cheese and the squeaking is just a front.”
|
||
The old man paused, and with a sympathetic frown continued.
|
||
“They've been experimenting on you I'm afraid.”
|
||
Arthur thought about this for a second, and then his face cleared.
|
||
“Ah no,” he said, “I see the source of the misunderstanding now. No, look you see, what happened was that we used to do experiments on them. They were often used in behavioural research, Pavlov and all that sort of stuff. So what happened was hat the mice would be set all sorts of tests, learning to ring bells, run around mazes and things so that the whole nature of the learning process could be examined. From our observations of their behaviour we were able to learn all sorts of things about our own...”
|
||
Arthur's voice tailed off.
|
||
“Such subtlety...” said Slartibartfast, “one has to admire it.”
|
||
“What?” said Arthur.
|
||
“How better to disguise their real natures, and how better to guide your thinking. Suddenly running down a maze the wrong way, eating the wrong bit of cheese, unexpectedly dropping dead of myxomatosis, — if it's finely calculated the cumulative effect is enormous.”
|
||
He paused for effect.
|
||
“You see, Earthman, they really are particularly clever hyperintelligent pan-dimensional beings. Your planet and people have formed the matrix of an organic computer running a tenmillion-year research programme...
|
||
“Let me tell you the whole story. It'll take a little time.”
|
||
“Time,” said Arthur weakly, “is not currently one of my problems." 26
|
||
There are of course many problems connected with life, of which some of the most popular are Why are people born? Why do they die? Why do they want to spend so much of the intervening time wearing digital watches?
|
||
Many many millions of years ago a race of hyperintelligent pandimensional beings (whose physical manifestation in their own pan-dimensional universe is not dissimilar to our own) got so fed up with the constant bickering about the meaning of life which used to interrupt their favourite pastime of Brockian Ultra Cricket (a curious game which involved suddenly hitting people for no readily apparent reason and then running away) that they decided to sit down and solve their problems once and for all.
|
||
And to this end they built themselves a stupendous super computer which was so amazingly intelligent that even before the data banks had been connected up it had started from I think therefore I am and got as far as the existence of rice pudding and income tax before anyone managed to turn it off.
|
||
It was the size of a small city.
|
||
Its main console was installed in a specially designed executive office, mounted on an enormous executive desk of finest ultramahagony topped with rich ultrared leather. The dark carpeting was discreetly sumptuous, exotic pot plants and tastefully engraved prints of the principal computer programmers and their families were deployed liberally about the room, and stately windows looked out upon a tree-lined public square.
|
||
On the day of the Great On-Turning two soberly dressed programmers with brief cases arrived and were shown discreetly into the office. They were aware that this day they would represent their entire race in its greatest moment, but they conducted themselves calmly and quietly as they seated themselves deferentially before the desk, opened their brief cases and took out their leather-bound notebooks.
|
||
Their names were Lunkwill and Fook.
|
||
For a few moments they sat in respectful silence, then, after exchanging a quiet glance with Fook, Lunkwill leaned forward and touched a small black panel.
|
||
The subtlest of hums indicated that the massive computer was now in total active mode. After a pause it spoke to them in a voice rich resonant and deep.
|
||
It said: “What is this great task for which I, Deep Thought, the second greatest computer in the Universe of Time and Space have been called into existence?”
|
||
Lunkwill and Fook glanced at each other in surprise.
|
||
“Your task, O Computer...” began Fook. “No, wait a minute, this isn't right,” said Lunkwill, worried. “We distinctly designed this computer to be the greatest one ever and we're not making do with second best. Deep Thought,” he addressed the computer, “are you not as we designed you to be, the greatest most powerful computer in all time?”
|
||
“I described myself as the second greatest,” intoned Deep Thought, “and such I am.”
|
||
Another worried look passed between the two programmers. Lunkwill cleared his throat.
|
||
“There must be some mistake,” he said, “are you not a greatest computer than the Milliard Gargantubrain which can count all the atoms in a star in a millisecond?”
|
||
“The Milliard Gargantubrain?” said Deep Thought with unconcealed contempt. “A mere abacus — mention it not.”
|
||
“And are you not,” said Fook leaning anxiously forward, “a greater analyst than the Googleplex Star Thinker in the Seventh Galaxy of Light and Ingenuity which can calculate the trajectory of every single dust particle throughout a five-week Dangrabad Beta sand blizzard?”
|
||
“A five-week sand blizzard?” said Deep Thought haughtily. “You ask this of me who have contemplated the very vectors of the atoms in the Big Bang itself? Molest me not with this pocket calculator stuff.”
|
||
The two programmers sat in uncomfortable silence for a moment. Then Lunkwill leaned forward again.
|
||
“But are you not,” he said, “a more fiendish disputant than the Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler of Ciceronicus 12, the Magic and Indefatigable?”
|
||
“The Great Hyperlobic Omni-Cognate Neutron Wrangler,” said Deep Thought thoroughly rolling the r's, “could talk all four legs off an Arcturan MegaDonkey — but only I could persuade it to go for a walk afterwards.”
|
||
“Then what,” asked Fook, “is the problem?”
|
||
“There is no problem,” said Deep Thought with magnificent ringing tones. “I am simply the second greatest computer in the Universe of Space and Time.”
|
||
“But the second?” insisted Lunkwill. “Why do you keep saying the second? You're surely not thinking of the Multicorticoid Perspicutron Titan Muller are you? Or the Pondermatic? Or the...”
|
||
Contemptuous lights flashed across the computer's console.
|
||
“I spare not a single unit of thought on these cybernetic simpletons!” he boomed. “I speak of none but the computer that is to come after me!” Fook was losing patience. He pushed his notebook aside and muttered, “I think this is getting needlessly messianic.”
|
||
“You know nothing of future time,” pronounced Deep Thought, “and yet in my teeming circuitry I can navigate the infinite delta streams of future probability and see that there must one day come a computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate, but which it will be my fate eventually to design.”
|
||
Fook sighed heavily and glanced across to Lunkwill.
|
||
“Can we get on and ask the question?” he said.
|
||
Lunkwill motioned him to wait.
|
||
“What computer is this of which you speak?” he asked.
|
||
“I will speak of it no further in this present time,” said Deep Thought.
|
||
“Now. Ask what else of me you will that I may function. Speak.”
|
||
They shrugged at each other. Fook composed himself.
|
||
“O Deep Thought Computer,” he said, “the task we have designed you to perform is this. We want you to tell us...” he paused, ”... the Answer!”
|
||
“The answer?” said Deep Thought. “The answer to what?”
|
||
“Life!” urged Fook.
|
||
“The Universe!” said Lunkwill.
|
||
“Everything!” they said in chorus.
|
||
Deep Thought paused for a moment's reflection.
|
||
“Tricky,” he said finally.
|
||
“But can you do it?”
|
||
Again, a significant pause.
|
||
“Yes,” said Deep Thought, “I can do it.”
|
||
“There is an answer?” said Fook with breathless excitement.”
|
||
“A simple answer?” added Lunkwill.
|
||
“Yes,” said Deep Thought. “Life, the Universe, and Everything. There is an answer. But,” he added, “I'll have to think about it.”
|
||
A sudden commotion destroyed the moment: the door flew open and two angry men wearing the coarse faded-blue robes and belts of the Cruxwan University burst into the room, thrusting aside the ineffectual flunkies who tried to bar their way. “We demand admission!” shouted the younger of the two men elbowing a pretty young secretary in the throat.
|
||
“Come on,” shouted the older one, “you can't keep us out!” He pushed a junior programmer back through the door.
|
||
“We demand that you can't keep us out!” bawled the younger one, though he was now firmly inside the room and no further attempts were being made to stop him.
|
||
“Who are you?” said Lunkwill, rising angrily from his seat. “What do you want?”
|
||
“I am Majikthise!” announced the older one.
|
||
“And I demand that I am Vroomfondel!” shouted the younger one.
|
||
Majikthise turned on Vroomfondel. “It's alright,” he explained angrily, “you don't need to demand that.”
|
||
“Alright!” bawled Vroomfondel banging on an nearby desk. “I am Vroomfondel, and that is not a demand, that is a solid fact! What we demand is solid facts!”
|
||
“No we don't!” exclaimed Majikthise in irritation. “That is precisely what we don't demand!”
|
||
Scarcely pausing for breath, Vroomfondel shouted, “We don't demand solid facts! What we demand is a total absence of solid facts. I demand that I may or may not be Vroomfondel!”
|
||
“But who the devil are you?” exclaimed an outraged Fook.
|
||
“We,” said Majikthise, “are Philosophers.”
|
||
“Though we may not be,” said Vroomfondel waving a warning finger at the programmers.
|
||
“Yes we are,” insisted Majikthise. “We are quite definitely here as representatives of the Amalgamated Union of Philosophers, Sages, Luminaries and Other Thinking Persons, and we want this machine off, and we want it off now!”
|
||
“What's the problem?” said Lunkwill.
|
||
“I'll tell you what the problem is mate,” said Majikthise, “demarcation, that's the problem!”
|
||
“We demand,” yelled Vroomfondel, “that demarcation may or may not be the problem!”
|
||
“You just let the machines get on with the adding up,” warned Majikthise, “and we'll take care of the eternal verities thank you very much.
|
||
You want to check your legal position you do mate. Under law the Quest for Ultimate Truth is quite clearly the inalienable prerogative of your working thinkers. Any bloody machine goes and actually finds it and we're straight out of a job aren't we? I mean what's the use of our sitting up half the night arguing that there may or may not be a God if this machine only goes and gives us his bleeding phone number the next morning?”
|
||
“That's right!” shouted Vroomfondel, “we demand rigidly defined areas of doubt and uncertainty!”
|
||
Suddenly a stentorian voice boomed across the room.
|
||
“Might I make an observation at this point?” inquired Deep Thought.
|
||
“We'll go on strike!” yelled Vroomfondel.
|
||
“That's right!” agreed Majikthise. “You'll have a national Philosopher's strike on your hands!”
|
||
The hum level in the room suddenly increased as several ancillary bass driver units, mounted in sedately carved and varnished cabinet speakers around the room, cut in to give Deep Thought's voice a little more power.
|
||
“All I wanted to say,” bellowed the computer, “is that my circuits are now irrevocably committed to calculating the answer to the Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe, and Everything -” he paused and satisfied himself that he now had everyone's attention, before continuing more quietly, “but the programme will take me a little while to run.”
|
||
Fook glanced impatiently at his watch.
|
||
“How long?” he said.
|
||
“Seven and a half million years,” said Deep Thought.
|
||
Lunkwill and Fook blinked at each other.
|
||
“Seven and a half million years...!” they cried in chorus.
|
||
“Yes,” declaimed Deep Thought, “I said I'd have to think about it, didn't I? And it occurs to me that running a programme like this is bound to create an enormous amount of popular publicity for the whole area of philosophy in general. Everyone's going to have their own theories about what answer I'm eventually to come up with, and who better to capitalize on that media market than you yourself? So long as you can keep disagreeing with each other violently enough and slagging each other off in the popular press, you can keep yourself on the gravy train for life. How does that sound?”
|
||
The two philosophers gaped at him.
|
||
“Bloody hell,” said Majikthise, “now that is what I call thinking. Here Vroomfondel, why do we never think of things like that?”
|
||
“Dunno,” said Vroomfondel in an awed whisper, “think our brains must be too highly trained Majikthise.”
|
||
So saying, they turned on their heels and walked out of the door and into a lifestyle beyond their wildest dreams. 27
|
||
“Yes, very salutary,” said Arthur, after Slartibartfast had related the salient points of the story to him, “but I don't understand what all this has got to do with the Earth and mice and things.”
|
||
“That is but the first half of the story Earthman,” said the old man.
|
||
“If you would care to discover what happened seven and a half millions later, on the great day of the Answer, allow me to invite you to my study where you can experience the events yourself on our Sens-O-Tape records. That is unless you would care to take a quick stroll on the surface of New Earth. It's only half completed I'm afraid — we haven't even finished burying the artificial dinosaur skeletons in the crust yet, then we have the Tertiary and Quarternary Periods of the Cenozoic Era to lay down, and...”
|
||
“No thank you,” said Arthur, “it wouldn't be quite the same.”
|
||
“No,” said Slartibartfast, “it won't be,” and he turned the aircar round and headed back towards the mind-numbing wall. 28
|
||
Slartibartfast's study was a total mess, like the results of an explosion in a public library. The old man frowned as they stepped in.
|
||
“Terribly unfortunate,” he said, “a diode blew in one of the life-support computers. When we tried to revive our cleaning staff we discovered they'd been dead for nearly thirty thousand years. Who's going to clear away the bodies, that's what I want to know. Look why don't you sit yourself down over there and let me plug you in?”
|
||
He gestured Arthur towards a chair which looked as if it had been made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus.
|
||
“It was made out of the rib cage of a stegosaurus,” explained the old man as he pottered about fishing bits of wire out from under tottering piles of paper and drawing instruments. “Here,” he said, “hold these,” and passed a couple of stripped wire end to Arthur.
|
||
The instant he took hold of them a bird flew straight through him.
|
||
He was suspended in mid-air and totally invisible to himself. Beneath him was a pretty treelined city square, and all around it as far as the eye could see were white concrete buildings of airy spacious design but somewhat the worse for wear — many were cracked and stained with rain. Today however the sun was shining, a fresh breeze danced lightly through the trees, and the odd sensation that all the buildings were quietly humming was probably caused by the fact that the square and all the streets around it were thronged with cheerful excited people.
|
||
Somewhere a band was playing, brightly coloured flags were fluttering in the breeze and the spirit of carnival was in the air.
|
||
Arthur felt extraordinarily lonely stuck up in the air above it all without so much as a body to his name, but before he had time to reflect on this a voice rang out across the square and called for everyone's attention.
|
||
A man standing on a brightly dressed dais before the building which clearly dominated the square was addressing the crowd over a Tannoy.
|
||
“O people waiting in the Shadow of Deep Thought!” he cried out. “Honoured Descendants of Vroomfondel and Majikthise, the Greatest and Most Truly Interesting Pundits the Universe has ever known... The Time of Waiting is over!”
|
||
Wild cheers broke out amongst the crowd. Flags, streamers and wolf whistles sailed through the air. The narrower streets looked rather like centipedes rolled over on their backs and frantically waving their legs in the air.
|
||
“Seven and a half million years our race has waited for this Great and Hopefully Enlightening Day!” cried the cheer leader. “The Day of the Answer!”
|
||
Hurrahs burst from the ecstatic crowd.
|
||
“Never again,” cried the man, “never again will we wake up in the morning and think Who am I? What is my purpose in life? Does it really, cosmically speaking, matter if I don't get up and go to work? For today we will finally learn once and for all the plain and simple answer to all these nagging little problems of Life, the Universe and Everything!”
|
||
As the crowd erupted once again, Arthur found himself gliding through the air and down towards one of the large stately windows on the first floor of the building behind the dais from which the speaker was addressing the crowd.
|
||
He experienced a moment's panic as he sailed straight through towards the window, which passed when a second or so later he found he had gone right through the solid glass without apparently touching it.
|
||
No one in the room remarked on his peculiar arrival, which is hardly surprising as he wasn't there. He began to realize that the whole experience was merely a recorded projection which knocked six-track seventymillimetre into a cocked hat.
|
||
The room was much as Slartibartfast had described it. In seven and a half million years it had been well looked after and cleaned regularly every century or so. The ultramahagony desk was worn at the edges, the carpet a little faded now, but the large computer terminal sat in sparkling glory on the desk's leather top, as bright as if it had been constructed yesterday. Two severely dressed men sat respectfully before the terminal and waited.
|
||
“The time is nearly upon us,” said one, and Arthur was surprised to see a word suddenly materialize in thin air just by the man's neck. The word was Loonquawl, and it flashed a couple of times and the disappeared again. Before Arthur was able to assimilate this the other man spoke and the word Phouchg appeared by his neck.
|
||
“Seventy-five thousand generations ago, our ancestors set this program in motion,” the second man said, “and in all that time we will be the first to hear the computer speak.”
|
||
“An awesome prospect, Phouchg,” agreed the first man, and Arthur suddenly realized that he was watching a recording with subtitles.
|
||
“We are the ones who will hear,” said Phouchg, “the answer to the great question of Life...!”
|
||
“The Universe...!” said Loonquawl.
|
||
“And Everything...!”
|
||
“Shhh,” said Loonquawl with a slight gesture, “I think Deep Thought is preparing to speak!”
|
||
There was a moment's expectant pause whilst panels slowly came to life on the front of the console. Lights flashed on and off experimentally and settled down into a businesslike pattern. A soft low hum came from the communication channel.
|
||
“Good morning,” said Deep Thought at last.
|
||
“Er... Good morning, O Deep Thought,” said Loonquawl nervously, “do you have... er, that is...”
|
||
“An answer for you?” interrupted Deep Thought majestically. “Yes. I have.”
|
||
The two men shivered with expectancy. Their waiting had not been in vain.
|
||
“There really is one?” breathed Phouchg.
|
||
“There really is one,” confirmed Deep Thought.
|
||
“To Everything? To the great Question of Life, the Universe and Everything?”
|
||
“Yes.”
|
||
Both of the men had been trained for this moment, their lives had been a preparation for it, they had been selected at birth as those who would witness the answer, but even so they found themselves gasping and squirming like excited children.
|
||
“And you're ready to give it to us?” urged Loonquawl. “I am.”
|
||
“Now?”
|
||
“Now,” said Deep Thought.
|
||
They both licked their dry lips.
|
||
“Though I don't think,” added Deep Thought, “that you're going to like it.”
|
||
“Doesn't matter!” said Phouchg. “We must know it! Now!”
|
||
“Now?” inquired Deep Thought.
|
||
“Yes! Now...”
|
||
“Alright,” said the computer and settled into silence again. The two men fidgeted. The tension was unbearable.
|
||
“You're really not going to like it,” observed Deep Thought.
|
||
“Tell us!”
|
||
“Alright,” said Deep Thought. “The Answer to the Great Question...”
|
||
“Yes...!”
|
||
“Of Life, the Universe and Everything...” said Deep Thought.
|
||
“Yes...!”
|
||
“Is...” said Deep Thought, and paused.
|
||
“Yes...!”
|
||
“Is...”
|
||
“Yes...!!!...?”
|
||
“Forty-two,” said Deep Thought, with infinite majesty and calm. 29
|
||
It was a long time before anyone spoke.
|
||
Out of the corner of his eye Phouchg could see the sea of tense expectant faces down in the square outside.
|
||
“We're going to get lynched aren't we?” he whispered.
|
||
“It was a tough assignment,” said Deep Thought mildly.
|
||
“Forty-two!” yelled Loonquawl. “Is that all you've got to show for seven and a half million years' work?”
|
||
“I checked it very thoroughly,” said the computer, “and that quite definitely is the answer. I think the problem, to be quite honest with you, is that you've never actually known what the question is.”
|
||
“But it was the Great Question! The Ultimate Question of Life, the Universe and Everything!” howled Loonquawl.
|
||
“Yes,” said Deep Thought with the air of one who suffers fools gladly, “but what actually is it?”
|
||
A slow stupefied silence crept over the men as they stared at the computer and then at each other.
|
||
“Well, you know, it's just Everything... Everything...” offered Phouchg weakly.
|
||
“Exactly!” said Deep Thought. “So once you do know what the question actually is, you'll know what the answer means.”
|
||
“Oh terrific,” muttered Phouchg flinging aside his notebook and wiping away a tiny tear.
|
||
“Look, alright, alright,” said Loonquawl, “can you just please tell us the Question?”
|
||
“The Ultimate Question?”
|
||
“Yes!”
|
||
“Of Life, the Universe, and Everything?”
|
||
“Yes!”
|
||
Deep Thought pondered this for a moment.
|
||
“Tricky,” he said.
|
||
“But can you do it?” cried Loonquawl.
|
||
Deep Thought pondered this for another long moment.
|
||
Finally: “No,” he said firmly.
|
||
Both men collapsed on to their chairs in despair.
|
||
“But I'll tell you who can,” said Deep Thought.
|
||
They both looked up sharply.
|
||
“Who?”
|
||
“Tell us!”
|
||
Suddenly Arthur began to feel his apparently non-existent scalp begin to crawl as he found himself moving slowly but inexorably forward towards the console, but it was only a dramatic zoom on the part of whoever had made the recording he assumed.
|
||
“I speak of none other than the computer that is to come after me,” intoned Deep Thought, his voice regaining its accustomed declamatory tones. “A computer whose merest operational parameters I am not worthy to calculate — and yet I will design it for you. A computer which can calculate the Question to the Ultimate Answer, a computer of such infinite and subtle complexity that organic life itself shall form part of its operational matrix. And you yourselves shall take on new forms and go down into the computer to navigate its ten-million-year program! Yes!
|
||
I shall design this computer for you. And I shall name it also unto you.
|
||
And it shall be called... The Earth.”
|
||
Phouchg gaped at Deep Thought.
|
||
“What a dull name,” he said and great incisions appeared down the length of his body. Loonquawl too suddenly sustained horrific gashed from nowhere. The Computer console blotched and cracked, the walls flickered and crumbled and the room crashed upwards into its own ceiling...
|
||
Slartibartfast was standing in front of Arthur holding the two wires.
|
||
“End of the tape,” he explained. 30
|
||
“Zaphod! Wake up!”
|
||
“Mmmmmwwwwwerrrrr?”
|
||
“Hey come on, wake up.”
|
||
“Just let me stick to what I'm good at, yeah?” muttered Zaphod and rolled away from the voice back to sleep.
|
||
“Do you want me to kick you?” said Ford.
|
||
“Would it give you a lot of pleasure?” said Zaphod, blearily.
|
||
“No.”
|
||
“Nor me. So what's the point? Stop bugging me.” Zaphod curled himself up.
|
||
“He got a double dose of the gas,” said Trillian looking down at him, “two windpipes.”
|
||
“And stop talking,” said Zaphod, “it's hard enough trying to sleep anyway. What's the matter with the ground? It's all cold and hard.”
|
||
“It's gold,” said Ford.
|
||
With an amazingly balletic movement Zaphod was standing and scanning the horizon, because that was how far the gold ground stretched in every direction, perfectly smooth and solid. It gleamed like... it's impossible to say what it gleamed like because nothing in the Universe gleams in quite the same way that a planet of solid gold does. “Who put all that there?” yelped Zaphod, goggle-eyed.
|
||
“Don't get excited,” said Ford, “it's only a catalogue.”
|
||
“A who?”
|
||
“A catalogue,” said Trillian, “an illusion.”
|
||
“How can you say that?” cried Zaphod, falling to his hands and knees and staring at the ground. He poked it and prodded it with his fingernail.
|
||
It was very heavy and very slightly soft — he could mark it with his fingernail. It was very yellow and very shiny, and when he breathed on it his breath evaporated off it in that very peculiar and special way that breath evaporates off solid gold.
|
||
“Trillian and I came round a while ago,” said Ford. “We shouted and yelled till somebody came and then carried on shouting and yelling till they got fed up and put us in their planet catalogue to keep us busy till they were ready to deal with us. This is all Sens-O-Tape.”
|
||
Zaphod stared at him bitterly.
|
||
“Ah, shit,” he said, “you wake me up from my own perfectly good dream to show me somebody else's.” He sat down in a huff.
|
||
“What's that series of valleys over there?” he said.
|
||
“Hallmark,” said Ford. “We had a look.”
|
||
“We didn't wake you earlier,” said Trillian. “The last planet was knee deep in fish.”
|
||
“Fish?”
|
||
“Some people like the oddest things.”
|
||
“And before that,” said Ford, “we had platinum. Bit dull. We thought you'd like to see this one though.”
|
||
Seas of light glared at them in one solid blaze wherever they looked.
|
||
“Very pretty,” said Zaphod petulantly.
|
||
In the sky a huge green catalogue number appeared. It flickered and changed, and when they looked around again so had the land.
|
||
As with one voice they all went, “Yuch.”
|
||
The sea was purple. The beach they were on was composed of tiny yellow and green pebbles — presumably terribly precious stones. The mountains in the distance seemed soft and undulating with red peaks. Nearby stood a solid silver beach table with a frilly mauve parasol and silver tassles.
|
||
In the sky a huge sign appeared, replacing the catalogue number. It said, Whatever your tastes, Magrathea can cater for you. We are not proud.
|
||
And five hundred entirely naked women dropped out of the sky on parachutes.
|
||
In a moment the scene vanished and left them in a springtime meadow full of cows.
|
||
“Ow!” said Zaphod. “My brains!”
|
||
“You want to talk about it?” said Ford.
|
||
“Yeah, OK,” said Zaphod, and all three sat down and ignored the scenes that came and went around them.
|
||
“I figure this,” said Zaphod. “Whatever happened to my mind, I did it.
|
||
And I did it in such a way that it wouldn't be detected by the government screening tests. And I wasn't to know anything about it myself. Pretty crazy, right?”
|
||
The other two nodded in agreement.
|
||
“So I reckon, what's so secret that I can't let anybody know I know it, not the Galactic Government, not even myself? And the answer is I don't know. Obviously. But I put a few things together and I can begin to guess. When did I decide to run for President? Shortly after the death of President Yooden Vranx. You remember Yooden, Ford?”
|
||
“Yeah,” said Ford, “he was that guy we met when we were kids, the Arcturan captain. He was a gas. He gave us conkers when you bust your way into his megafreighter. Said you were the most amazing kid he'd ever met.”
|
||
“What's all this?” said Trillian.
|
||
“Ancient history,” said Ford, “when we were kids together on Betelgeuse. The Arcturan megafreighters used to carry most of the bulky trade between the Galactic Centre and the outlying regions The Betelgeuse trading scouts used to find the markets and the Arcturans would supply them. There was a lot of trouble with space pirates before they were wiped out in the Dordellis wars, and the megafreighters had to be equipped with the most fantastic defence shields known to Galactic science. They were real brutes of ships, and huge. In orbit round a planet they would eclipse the sun.
|
||
“One day, young Zaphod here decides to raid one. On a tri-jet scooter designed for stratosphere work, a mere kid. I mean forget it, it was crazier than a mad monkey. I went along for the ride because I'd got some very safe money on him not doing it, and didn't want him coming back with fake evidence. So what happens? We got in his tri-jet which he had souped up into something totally other, crossed three parsecs in a matter of weeks, bust our way into a megafreighter I still don't know how, marched on to the bridge waving toy pistols and demanded conkers. A wilder thing I have not known. Lost me a year's pocket money.
|
||
For what? Conkers.”
|
||
“The captain was this really amazing guy, Yooden Vranx,” said Zaphod. “He gave us food, booze — stuff from really weird parts of the Galaxy — lots of conkers of course, and we had just the most incredible time. Then he teleported us back. Into the maximum security wing of Betelgeuse state prison. He was a cool guy. Went on to become President of the Galaxy.”
|
||
Zaphod paused.
|
||
The scene around them was currently plunged into gloom. Dark mists swirled round them and elephantine shapes lurked indistinctly in the shadows. The air was occasionally rent with the sounds of illusory beings murdering other illusory beings. Presumably enough people must have liked this sort of thing to make it a paying proposition.
|
||
“Ford,” said Zaphod quietly.
|
||
“Yeah?”
|
||
“Just before Yooden died he came to see me.”
|
||
“What? You never told me.”
|
||
“No.”
|
||
“What did he say? What did he come to see you about?”
|
||
“He told me about the Heart of Gold. It was his idea that I should steal it.”
|
||
“His idea?”
|
||
“Yeah,” said Zaphod, “and the only possible way of stealing it was to be at the launching ceremony.”
|
||
Ford gaped at him in astonishment for a moment, and then roared with laughter.
|
||
“Are you telling me,” he said, “that you set yourself up to become President of the Galaxy just to steal that ship?”
|
||
“That's it,” said Zaphod with the sort of grin that would get most people locked away in a room with soft walls.
|
||
“But why?” said Ford. “What's so important about having it?”
|
||
“Dunno,” said Zaphod, “I think if I'd consciously known what was so important about it and what I would need it for it would have showed up on the brain screening tests and I would never have passed. I think Yooden told me a lot of things that are still locked away.”
|
||
“So you think you went and mucked about inside your own brain as a result of Yooden talking to you?”
|
||
“He was a hell of a talker.”
|
||
“Yeah, but Zaphod old mate, you want to look after yourself you know.”
|
||
Zaphod shrugged.
|
||
“I mean, don't you have any inkling of the reasons for all this?” asked Ford.
|
||
Zaphod thought hard about this and doubts seemed to cross his minds.
|
||
“No,” he said at last, “I don't seem to be letting myself into any of my secrets. Still,” he added on further reflection, “I can understand that. I wouldn't trust myself further than I could spit a rat.”
|
||
A moment later, the last planet in the catalogue vanished from beneath them and the solid world resolved itself again.
|
||
They were sitting in a plush waiting room full of glass-top tables and design awards.
|
||
A tall Magrathean man was standing in front of them.
|
||
“The mice will see you now,” he said. 31
|
||
“So there you have it,” said Slartibartfast, making a feeble and perfunctory attempt to clear away some of the appalling mess of his study. He picked up a paper from the top of a pile, but then couldn't think of anywhere else to put it, so he but it back on top of the original pile which promptly fell over. “Deep Thought designed the Earth, we built it and you lived on it.”
|
||
“And the Vogons came and destroyed it five minutes before the program was completed,” added Arthur, not unbitterly.
|
||
“Yes,” said the old man, pausing to gaze hopelessly round the room.
|
||
“Ten million years of planning and work gone just like that. Ten million years, Earthman... can you conceive of that kind of time span? A galactic civilization could grow from a single worm five times over in that time.
|
||
Gone.” He paused.
|
||
“Well that's bureaucracy for you,” he added.
|
||
“You know,” said Arthur thoughtfully, “all this explains a lot of things.
|
||
All through my life I've had this strange unaccountable feeling that something was going on in the world, something big, even sinister, and no one would tell me what it was.”
|
||
“No,” said the old man, “that's just perfectly normal paranoia. Everyone in the Universe has that.”
|
||
“Everyone?” said Arthur. “Well, if everyone has that perhaps it means something! Perhaps somewhere outside the Universe we know...”
|
||
“Maybe.
|
||
Who cares?” said Slartibartfast before Arthur got too excited. “Perhaps I'm old and tired,” he continued, “but I always think that the chances of finding out what really is going on are so absurdly remote that the only thing to do is to say hang the sense of it and just keep yourself occupied. Look at me: I design coastlines. I got an award for Norway.”
|
||
He rummaged around in a pile of debris and pulled out a large perspex block with his name on it and a model of Norway moulded into it.
|
||
“Where's the sense in that?” he said. “None that I've been able to make out. I've been doing fjords in all my life. For a fleeting moment they become fashionable and I get a major award.”
|
||
He turned it over in his hands with a shrug and tossed it aside carelessly, but not so carelessly that it didn't land on something soft.
|
||
“In this replacement Earth we're building they've given me Africa to do and of course I'm doing it with all fjords again because I happen to like them, and I'm old fashioned enough to think that they give a lovely baroque feel to a continent. And they tell me it's not equatorial enough.
|
||
Equatorial!” He gave a hollow laugh. “What does it matter? Science has achieved some wonderful things of course, but I'd far rather be happy than right any day.”
|
||
“And are you?”
|
||
“No. That's where it all falls down of course.”
|
||
“Pity,” said Arthur with sympathy. “It sounded like quite a good lifestyle otherwise.”
|
||
Somewhere on the wall a small white light flashed.
|
||
“Come,” said Slartibartfast, “you are to meet the mice. Your arrival on the planet has caused considerable excitement. It has already been hailed, so I gather, as the third most improbable event in the history of the Universe.”
|
||
“What were the first two?”
|
||
“Oh, probably just coincidences,” said Slartibartfast carelessly. He opened the door and stood waiting for Arthur to follow.
|
||
Arthur glanced around him once more, and then down at himself, at the sweaty dishevelled clothes he had been lying in the mud in on Thursday morning.
|
||
“I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” he muttered to himself.
|
||
“I beg your pardon?” said the old man mildly.
|
||
“Oh nothing,” said Arthur, “only joking." 32
|
||
It is of course well known that careless talk costs lives, but the full scale of the problem is not always appreciated.
|
||
For instance, at the very moment that Arthur said “I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle,” a freak wormhole opened up in the fabric of the space-time continuum and carried his words far far back in time across almost infinite reaches of space to a distant Galaxy where strange and warlike beings were poised on the brink of frightful interstellar battle.
|
||
The two opposing leaders were meeting for the last time.
|
||
A dreadful silence fell across the conference table as the commander of the Vl'hurgs, resplendent in his black jewelled battle shorts, gazed levelly at the G'Gugvuntt leader squatting opposite him in a cloud of green sweet-smelling steam, and, with a million sleek and horribly beweaponed star cruisers poised to unleash electric death at his single word of command, challenged the vile creature to take back what it had said about his mother.
|
||
The creature stirred in his sickly broiling vapour, and at that very moment the words I seem to be having tremendous difficulty with my lifestyle drifted across the conference table.
|
||
Unfortunately, in the Vl'hurg tongue this was the most dreadful insult imaginable, and there was nothing for it but to wage terrible war for centuries.
|
||
Eventually of course, after their Galaxy had been decimated over a few thousand years, it was realized that the whole thing had been a ghastly mistake, and so the two opposing battle fleets settled their few remaining differences in order to launch a joint attack on our own Galaxy — now positively identified as the source of the offending remark.
|
||
For thousands more years the mighty ships tore across the empty wastes of space and finally dived screaming on to the first planet they came across — which happened to be the Earth — where due to a terrible miscalculation of scale the entire battle fleet was accidentally swallowed by a small dog.
|
||
Those who study the complex interplay of cause and effect in the history of the Universe say that this sort of thing is going on all the time, but that we are powerless to prevent it.
|
||
“It's just life,” they say.
|
||
A short aircar trip brought Arthur and the old Magrathean to a doorway.
|
||
They left the car and went through the door into a waiting room full of glass-topped tables and perspex awards. Almost immediately, a light flashed above the door at the other side of the room and they entered.
|
||
“Arthur! You're safe!” a voice cried.
|
||
“Am I?” said Arthur, rather startled. “Oh good.”
|
||
The lighting was rather subdued and it took him a moment or so to see Ford, Trillian and Zaphod sitting round a large table beautifully decked out with exotic dishes, strange sweetmeats and bizarre fruits. They were stuffing their faces.
|
||
“What happened to you?” demanded Arthur.
|
||
“Well,” said Zaphod, attacking a boneful of grilled muscle, “our guests here have been gassing us and zapping our minds and being generally weird and have now given us a rather nice meal to make it up to us.
|
||
Here,” he said hoiking out a lump of evil smelling meat from a bowl, “have some Vegan Rhino's cutlet. It's delicious if you happen to like that sort of thing.”
|
||
“Hosts?” said Arthur. “What hosts? I don't see any...”
|
||
A small voice said, “Welcome to lunch, Earth creature.”
|
||
Arthur glanced around and suddenly yelped.
|
||
“Ugh!” he said. “There are mice on the table!”
|
||
There was an awkward silence as everyone looked pointedly at Arthur.
|
||
He was busy staring at two white mice sitting in what looked like whisky glasses on the table. He heard the silence and glanced around at everyone.
|
||
“Oh!” he said, with sudden realization. “Oh, I'm sorry, I wasn't quite prepared for...”
|
||
“Let me introduce you,” said Trillian. “Arthur this is Benji mouse.”
|
||
“Hi,” said one of the mice. His whiskers stroked what must have been a touch sensitive panel on the inside of the whisky-glass like affair, and it moved forward slightly.
|
||
“And this is Frankie mouse.”
|
||
The other mouse said, “Pleased to meet you,” and did likewise.
|
||
Arthur gaped.
|
||
“But aren't they...”
|
||
“Yes,” said Trillian, “they are the mice I brought with me from the Earth.”
|
||
She looked him in the eye and Arthur thought he detected the tiniest resigned shrug.
|
||
“Could you pass me that bowl of grated Arcturan Megadonkey?” she said.
|
||
Slartibartfast coughed politely.
|
||
“Er, excuse me,” he said. “Yes, thank you Slartibartfast,” said Benji mouse sharply, “you may go.”
|
||
“What? Oh... er, very well,” said the old man, slightly taken aback, “I'll just go and get on with some of my fjords then.”
|
||
“Ah, well in fact that won't be necessary,” said Frankie mouse. “It looks very much as if we won't be needing the new Earth any longer.” He swivelled his pink little eyes. “Not now that we have found a native of the planet who was there seconds before it was destroyed.”
|
||
“What?” cried Slartibartfast, aghast. “You can't mean that! I've got a thousand glaciers poised and ready to roll over Africa!”
|
||
“Well perhaps you can take a quick skiing holiday before you dismantle them,” said Frankie, acidly.
|
||
“Skiing holiday!” cried the old man. “Those glaciers are works of art!
|
||
Elegantly sculptured contours, soaring pinnacles of ice, deep majestic ravines! It would be sacrilege to go skiing on high art!”
|
||
“Thank you Slartibartfast,” said Benji firmly. “That will be all.”
|
||
“Yes sir,” said the old man coldly, “thank you very much. Well, goodbye Earthman,” he said to Arthur, “hope the lifestyle comes together.”
|
||
With a brief nod to the rest of the company he turned and walked sadly out of the room.
|
||
Arthur stared after him not knowing what to say.
|
||
“Now,” said Benji mouse, “to business.”
|
||
Ford and Zaphod clinked their glasses together.
|
||
“To business!” they said.
|
||
“I beg your pardon?” said Benji.
|
||
Ford looked round.
|
||
“Sorry, I thought you were proposing a toast,” he said.
|
||
The two mice scuttled impatiently around in their glass transports. Finally they composed themselves, and Benji moved forward to address Arthur.
|
||
“Now, Earth creature,” he said, “the situation we have in effect is this.
|
||
We have, as you know, been more or less running your planet for the last ten million years in order to find this wretched thing called the Ultimate Question.”
|
||
“Why?” said Arthur, sharply.
|
||
“No — we already thought of that one,” said Frankie interrupting, “but it doesn't fit the answer. Why? — Forty-Two... you see, it doesn't work.”
|
||
“No,” said Arthur, “I mean why have you been doing it?”
|
||
“Oh, I see,” said Frankie. “Well, eventually just habit I think, to be brutally honest. And this is more or less the point — we're sick to the teeth with the whole thing, and the prospect of doing it all over again on account of those whinnet-ridden Vogons quite frankly gives me the screaming heeby jeebies, you know what I mean? It was by the merest lucky chance that Benji and I finished our particular job and left the planet early for a quick holiday, and have since manipulated our way back to Magrathea by the good offices of your friends.”
|
||
“Magrathea is a gateway back to our own dimension,” put in Benji.
|
||
“Since when,” continued his murine colleague, “we have had an offer of a quite enormously fat contract to do the 5D chat show and lecture circuit back in our own dimensional neck of the woods, and we're very much inclined to take it.”
|
||
“I would, wouldn't you Ford?” said Zaphod promptingly.
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Ford, “jump at it, like a shot.”
|
||
Arthur glanced at them, wondering what all this was leading up to.
|
||
“But we've got to have a product you see,” said Frankie, “I mean ideally we still need the Ultimate Question in some form or other.”
|
||
Zaphod leaned forward to Arthur.
|
||
“You see,” he said, “if they're just sitting there in the studio looking very relaxed and, you know, just mentioning that they happen to know the Answer to Life, the Universe and Everything, and then eventually have to admit that in fact it's Forty-two, then the show's probably quite short. No follow-up, you see.”
|
||
“We have to have something that sounds good,” said Benji.
|
||
“Something that sounds good?” exclaimed Arthur. “An Ultimate Question that sounds good? From a couple of mice?”
|
||
The mice bristled.
|
||
“Well, I mean, yes idealism, yes the dignity of pure research, yes the pursuit of truth in all its forms, but there comes a point I'm afraid where you begin to suspect that if there's any real truth, it's that the entire multi-dimensional infinity of the Universe is almost certainly being run by a bunch of maniacs. And if it comes to a choice between spending yet another ten million years finding that out, and on the other hand just taking the money and running, then I for one could do with the exercise,” said Frankie.
|
||
“But...” started Arthur, hopelessly. “Hey, will you get this, Earthman,” interrupted Zaphod. “You are a last generation product of that computer matrix, right, and you were there right up to the moment your planet got the finger, yeah?”
|
||
“Er...”
|
||
“So your brain was an organic part of the penultimate configuration of the computer programme,” said Ford, rather lucidly he thought.
|
||
“Right?” said Zaphod.
|
||
“Well,” said Arthur doubtfully. He wasn't aware of ever having felt an organic part of anything. He had always seen this as one of his problems.
|
||
“In other words,” said Benji, steering his curious little vehicle right over to Arthur, “there's a good chance that the structure of the question is encoded in the structure of your brain — so we want to buy it off you.”
|
||
“What, the question?” said Arthur.
|
||
“Yes,” said Ford and Trillian.
|
||
“For lots of money,” said Zaphod.
|
||
“No, no,” said Frankie, “it's the brain we want to buy.”
|
||
“What!”
|
||
“I thought you said you could just read his brain electronically,” protested Ford.
|
||
“Oh yes,” said Frankie, “but we'd have to get it out first. It's got to be prepared.”
|
||
“Treated,” said Benji.
|
||
“Diced.”
|
||
“Thank you,” shouted Arthur, tipping up his chair and backing away from the table in horror.
|
||
“It could always be replaced,” said Benji reasonably, “if you think it's important.”
|
||
“Yes, an electronic brain,” said Frankie, “a simple one would suffice.”
|
||
“A simple one!” wailed Arthur.
|
||
“Yeah,” said Zaphod with a sudden evil grin, “you'd just have to program it to say What? and I don't understand and Where's the tea? — who'd know the difference?”
|
||
“What?” cried Arthur, backing away still further. “See what I mean?” said Zaphod and howled with pain because of something that Trillian did at that moment.
|
||
“I'd notice the difference,” said Arthur.
|
||
“No you wouldn't,” said Frankie mouse, “you'd be programmed not to.”
|
||
Ford made for the door.
|
||
“Look, I'm sorry, mice old lads,” he said. “I don't think we've got a deal.”
|
||
“I rather think we have to have a deal,” said the mice in chorus, all the charm vanishing fro their piping little voices in an instant. With a tiny whining shriek their two glass transports lifted themselves off the table, and swung through the air towards Arthur, who stumbled further backwards into a blind corner, utterly unable to cope or think of anything.
|
||
Trillian grabbed him desperately by the arm and tried to drag him towards the door, which Ford and Zaphod were struggling to open, but Arthur was dead weight — he seemed hypnotized by the airborne rodents swooping towards him.
|
||
She screamed at him, but he just gaped.
|
||
With one more yank, Ford and Zaphod got the door open. On the other side of it was a small pack of rather ugly men who they could only assume were the heavy mob of Magrathea. Not only were they ugly themselves, but the medical equipment they carried with them was also far from pretty. They charged.
|
||
So — Arthur was about to have his head cut open, Trillian was unable to help him, and Ford and Zaphod were about to be set upon by several thugs a great deal heavier and more sharply armed than they were.
|
||
All in all it was extremely fortunate that at that moment every alarm on the planet burst into an earsplitting din. 33
|
||
“Emergency! Emergency!” blared the klaxons throughout Magrathea.
|
||
“Hostile ship has landed on planet. Armed intruders in section 8A. Defence stations, defence stations!”
|
||
The two mice sniffed irritably round the fragments of their glass transports where they lay shattered on the floor.
|
||
“Damnation,” muttered Frankie mouse, “all that fuss over two pounds of Earthling brain.” He scuttled round and about, his pink eyes flashing, his fine white coat bristling with static.
|
||
“The only thing we can do now,” said Benji, crouching and stroking his whiskers in thought, “is to try and fake a question, invent one that will sound plausible.”
|
||
“Difficult,” said Frankie. He thought. “How about What's yellow and dangerous?”
|
||
Benji considered this for a moment.
|
||
“No, no good,” he said. “Doesn't fit the answer.”
|
||
They sank into silence for a few seconds.
|
||
“Alright,” said Benji. “What do you get if you multiply six by seven?”
|
||
“No, no, too literal, too factual,” said Frankie, “wouldn't sustain the punters' interest.”
|
||
Again they thought.
|
||
Then Frankie said: “Here's a thought. How many roads must a man walk down?”
|
||
“Ah,” said Benji. “Aha, now that does sound promising!” He rolled the phrase around a little. “Yes,” he said, “that's excellent! Sounds very significant without actually tying you down to meaning anything at all.
|
||
How many roads must a man walk down? Forty-two. Excellent, excellent, that'll fox 'em. Frankie baby, we are made!”
|
||
They performed a scampering dance in their excitement.
|
||
Near them on the floor lay several rather ugly men who had been hit about the head with some heavy design awards.
|
||
Half a mile away, four figures pounded up a corridor looking for a way out. They emerged into a wide open-plan computer bay. They glanced about wildly.
|
||
“Which way do you reckon Zaphod?” said Ford.
|
||
“At a wild guess, I'd say down here,” said Zaphod, running off down to the right between a computer bank and the wall. As the others started after him he was brought up short by a Kill-O-Zap energy bolt that cracked through the air inches in front of him and fried a small section of adjacent wall.
|
||
A voice on a loud hailer said, “OK Beeblebrox, hold it right there. We've got you covered.”
|
||
“Cops!” hissed Zaphod, and span around in a crouch. “You want to try a guess at all, Ford?”
|
||
“OK, this way,” said Ford, and the four of them ran down a gangway between two computer banks.
|
||
At the end of the gangway appeared a heavily armoured and spacesuited figure waving a vicious Kill-O-Zap gun.
|
||
“We don't want to shoot you, Beeblebrox!” shouted the figure. “Suits me fine!” shouted Zaphod back and dived down a wide gap between two data process units.
|
||
The others swerved in behind him.
|
||
“There are two of them,” said Trillian. “We're cornered.”
|
||
They squeezed themselves down in an angle between a large computer data bank and the wall.
|
||
They held their breath and waited.
|
||
Suddenly the air exploded with energy bolts as both the cops opened fire on them simultaneously.
|
||
“Hey, they're shooting at us,” said Arthur, crouching in a tight ball, “I thought they said they didn't want to do that.”
|
||
“Yeah, I thought they said that,” agreed Ford.
|
||
Zaphod stuck a head up for a dangerous moment.
|
||
“Hey,” he said, “I thought you said you didn't want to shoot us!” and ducked again.
|
||
They waited.
|
||
After a moment a voice replied, “It isn't easy being a cop!”
|
||
“What did he say?” whispered Ford in astonishment.
|
||
“He said it isn't easy being a cop.”
|
||
“Well surely that's his problem isn't it?”
|
||
“I'd have thought so.”
|
||
Ford shouted out, “Hey listen! I think we've got enough problems on our own having you shooting at us, so if you could avoid laying your problems on us as well, I think we'd all find it easier to cope!”
|
||
Another pause, and then the loud hailer again.
|
||
“Now see here, guy,” said the voice on the loud hailer, “you're not dealing with any dumb two-bit trigger-pumping morons with low hairlines, little piggy eyes and no conversation, we're a couple of intelligent caring guys that you'd probably quite like if you met us socially! I don't go around gratuitously shooting people and then bragging about it afterwards in seedy space-rangers bars, like some cops I could mention! I go around shooting people gratuitously and then I agonize about it afterwards for hours to my girlfriend!”
|
||
“And I write novels!” chimed in the other cop. “Though I haven't had any of them published yet, so I better warn you, I'm in a meeeean mood!”
|
||
Ford's eyes popped halfway out of their sockets. “Who are these guys?” he said.
|
||
“Dunno,” said Zaphod, “I think I preferred it when they were shooting.”
|
||
“So are you going to come quietly,” shouted one of the cops again, “or are you going to let us blast you out?”
|
||
“Which would you prefer?” shouted Ford.
|
||
A millisecond later the air about them started to fry again, as bolt after bolt of Kill-O-Zap hurled itself into the computer bank in front of them.
|
||
The fusillade continued for several seconds at unbearable intensity.
|
||
When it stopped, there were a few seconds of near quietness ad the echoes died away.
|
||
“You still there?” called one of the cops.
|
||
“Yes,” they called back.
|
||
“We didn't enjoy doing that at all,” shouted the other cop.
|
||
“We could tell,” shouted Ford.
|
||
“Now, listen to this, Beeblebrox, and you better listen good!”
|
||
“Why?” shouted Back Zaphod.
|
||
“Because,” shouted the cop, “it's going to be very intelligent, and quite interesting and humane! Now either you all give yourselves up now and let us beat you up a bit, though not very much of course because we are firmly opposed to needless violence, or we blow up this entire planet and possibly one or two others we noticed on our way out here!”
|
||
“But that's crazy!” cried Trillian. “You wouldn't do that!”
|
||
“Oh yes we would,” shouted the cop, “wouldn't we?” he asked the other one.
|
||
“Oh yes, we'd have to, no question,” the other one called back.
|
||
“But why?” demanded Trillian.
|
||
“Because there are some things you have to do even if you are an enlightened liberal cop who knows all about sensitivity and everything!”
|
||
“I just don't believe these guys,” muttered Ford, shaking his head.
|
||
One cop shouted to the other, “Shall we shoot them again for a bit?”
|
||
“Yeah, why not?” They let fly another electric barrage.
|
||
The heat and noise was quite fantastic. Slowly, the computer bank was beginning to disintegrate. The front had almost all melted away, and thick rivulets of molten metal were winding their way back towards where they were squatting. They huddled further back and waited for the end. 34
|
||
But the end never came, at least not then.
|
||
Quite suddenly the barrage stopped, and the sudden silence afterwards was punctuated by a couple of strangled gurgles and thuds.
|
||
The four stared at each other.
|
||
“What happened?” said Arthur.
|
||
“They stopped,” said Zaphod with a shrug.
|
||
“Why?”
|
||
“Dunno, do you want to go and ask them?”
|
||
“No.”
|
||
They waited.
|
||
“Hello?” called out Ford.
|
||
No answer.
|
||
“That's odd.”
|
||
“Perhaps it's a trap.”
|
||
“They haven't the wit.”
|
||
“What were those thuds?”
|
||
“Dunno.”
|
||
They waited for a few more seconds.
|
||
“Right,” said Ford, “I'm going to have a look.”
|
||
He glanced round at the others.
|
||
“Is no one going to say, No you can't possibly, let me go instead?”
|
||
They all shook their heads.
|
||
“Oh well,” he said, and stood up. For a moment, nothing happened.
|
||
Then, after a second or so, nothing continued to happen. Ford peered through the thick smoke that was billowing out of the burning computer.
|
||
Cautiously he stepped out into the open.
|
||
Still nothing happened.
|
||
Twenty yards away he could dimly see through the smoke the spacesuited figure of one of the cops. He was lying in a crumpled heap on the ground. Twenty yards in the other direction lay the second man. No one else was anywhere to be seen.
|
||
This struck Ford as being extremely odd.
|
||
Slowly, nervously, he walked towards the first one. The body lay reassuringly still as he approached it, and continued to lie reassuringly still as he reached it and put his foot down on the Kill-O-Zap gun that still dangled from its limp fingers.
|
||
He reached down and picked it up, meeting no resistance.
|
||
The cop was quite clearly dead.
|
||
A quick examination revealed him to be from Blagulon Kappa — he was a methane-breathing life form, dependent on his space suit for survival in the thin oxygen atmosphere of Magrathea.
|
||
The tiny life-support system computer on his backpack appeared unexpectedly to have blown up.
|
||
Ford poked around in it in considerable astonishment. These miniature suit computers usually had the full back-up of the main computer back on the ship, with which they were directly linked through the sub-etha.
|
||
Such a system was fail-safe in all circumstances other than total feedback malfunction, which was unheard of.
|
||
He hurried over to the other prone figure, and discovered that exactly the same impossible thing had happened to him, presumably simultaneously.
|
||
He called the others over to look. They came, shared his astonishment, but not his curiosity.
|
||
“Let's get shot out of this hole,” said Zaphod. “If whatever I'm supposed to be looking for is here, I don't want it.” He grabbed the second Kill-OZap gun, blasted a perfectly harmless accounting computer and rushed out into the corridor, followed by the others. He very nearly blasted hell out of an aircar that stood waiting for them a few yards away.
|
||
The aircar was empty, but Arthur recognized it as belonging to Slartibartfast.
|
||
It had a note from him pinned to part of its sparse instrument panel.
|
||
The note had an arrow drawn on it, pointing at one of the controls.
|
||
It said, This is probably the best button to press. 35
|
||
The aircar rocketed them at speeds in excess of R17 through the steel tunnels that lead out onto the appalling surface of the planet which was now in the grip of yet another drear morning twilight. Ghastly grey lights congealed on the land.
|
||
R is a velocity measure, defined as a reasonable speed of travel that is consistent with health, mental wellbeing and not being more than say five minutes late. It is therefore clearly an almost infinitely variable figure according to circumstances, since the first two factors vary not only with speed taken as an absolute, but also with awareness of the third factor. Unless handled with tranquility this equation can result in considerable stress, ulcers and even death.
|
||
R17 is not a fixed velocity, but it is clearly far too fast.
|
||
The aircar flung itself through the air at R17 and above, deposited them next to the Heart of Gold which stood starkly on the frozen ground like a bleached bone, and then precipitately hurled itself back in the direction whence they had come, presumably on important business of its own.
|
||
Shivering, the four of them stood and looked at the ship.
|
||
Beside it stood another one.
|
||
It was the Blagulon Kappa policecraft, a bulbous sharklike affair, slate green in colour and smothered with black stencilled letters of varying degrees of size and unfriendliness. The letters informed anyone who cared to read them as to where the ship was from, what section of the police it was assigned to, and where the power feeds should be connected.
|
||
It seemed somehow unnaturally dark and silent, even for a ship whose two-man crew was at that moment lying asphyxicated in a smoke-filled chamber several miles beneath the ground. It is one of those curious things that is impossible to explain or define, but one can sense when a ship is completely dead.
|
||
Ford could sense it and found it most mysterious — a ship and two policemen seemed to have gone spontaneously dead. In his experience the Universe simply didn't work like that.
|
||
The other three could sense it too, but they could sense the bitter cold even more and hurried back into the Heart of Gold suffering from an acute attack of no curiosity.
|
||
Ford stayed, and went to examine the Blagulon ship. As he walked, he nearly tripped over an inert steel figure lying face down in the cold dust.
|
||
“Marvin!” he exclaimed. “What are you doing?”
|
||
“Don't feel you have to take any notice of me, please,” came a muffled drone.
|
||
“But how are you, metalman?” said Ford.
|
||
“Very depressed.”
|
||
“What's up?”
|
||
“I don't know,” said Marvin, “I've never been there.”
|
||
“Why,” said Ford squatting down beside him and shivering, “are you lying face down in the dust?”
|
||
“It's a very effective way of being wretched,” said Marvin. “Don't pretend you want to talk to me, I know you hate me.”
|
||
“No I don't.”
|
||
“Yes you do, everybody does. It's part of the shape of the Universe. I only have to talk to somebody and they begin to hate me. Even robots hate me. If you just ignore me I expect I shall probably go away.”
|
||
He jacked himself up to his feet and stood resolutely facing the opposite direction.
|
||
“That ship hated me,” he said dejectedly, indicating the policecraft.
|
||
“That ship?” said Ford in sudden excitement. “What happened to it?
|
||
Do you know?”
|
||
“It hated me because I talked to it.”
|
||
“You talked to it?” exclaimed Ford. “What do you mean you talked to it?”
|
||
“Simple. I got very bored and depressed, so I went and plugged myself in to its external computer feed. I talked to the computer at great length and explained my view of the Universe to it,” said Marvin.
|
||
“And what happened?” pressed Ford.
|
||
“It committed suicide,” said Marvin and stalked off back to the Heart of Gold. 36
|
||
That night, as the Heart of Gold was busy putting a few light years between itself and the Horsehead Nebula, Zaphod lounged under the small palm tree on the bridge trying to bang his brain into shape with massive Pan Galactic Gargle Blasters; Ford and Trillian sat in a corner discussing life and matters arising from it; and Arthur took to his bed to flip through Ford's copy of The Hitch Hiker's Guide to the Galaxy.
|
||
Since he was going to live in the place, he reasoned, he'd better start finding out something about it.
|
||
He came across this entry.
|
||
It said: 'The History of every major Galactic Civilization tends to pass through three distinct and recognizable phases, those of Survival, Inquiry and Sophistication, otherwise known as the How, Why and Where phases.
|
||
“For instance, the first phase is characterized by the question How can we eat? the second by the question Why do we eat? and the third by the question Where shall we have lunch?”
|
||
He got no further before the ship's intercom buzzed into life.
|
||
“Hey Earthman? You hungry kid?” said Zaphod's voice.
|
||
“Er, well yes, a little peckish I suppose,” said Arthur.
|
||
“OK baby, hold tight,” said Zaphod. “We'll take in a quick bite at the Restaurant at the End of the Universe." 37 37.1 What's President?
|
||
President: full title President of the Imperial Galactic Government. The term Imperial is kept though it is now an anachronism. The hereditary Emperor is nearly dead and has been so for many centuries. In the last moments of his dying coma he was locked in a statis field which keeps him in a state of perpetual unchangingness. All his heirs are now long dead, and this means that without any drastic political upheaval, power has simply and effectively moved a rung or two down the ladder, and is now seen to be vested in a body which used to act simply as advisers to the Emperor — an elected Governmental assembly headed by a President elected by that assembly. In fact it vests in no such place. The President in particular is very much a figurehead — he wields no real power whatsoever. He is apparently chosen by the government, but the qualities he is required to display are not those of leadership but those of finely judged outrage. For this reason the President is always a controversial choice, always an infuriating but fascinating character. His job is not to wield power but to draw attention away from it. On those criteria Zaphod Beeblebrox is one of the most successful Presidents the Galaxy has ever had — he has already spent two of his ten Presidential years in prison for fraud. Very very few people realize that the President and the Government have virtually no power at all, and of these very few people only six know whence ultimate political power is wielded. Most of the others secretly believe that the ultimate decision-making process is handled by a computer. They couldn't be more wrong.
|
||
37.2 About Ford Perfect
|
||
Ford Prefect's original name is only pronuncible in an obscure Betelgeusian dialect, now virtually extinct since the Great Collapsing Hrung Disaster of Gal./Sid./Year 03758 which wiped out all the old Praxibetel communities on Betelgeuse Seven. Ford's father was the only man on the entire planet to survive the Great Collapsing Hrung disaster, by an extraordinary coincidence that he was never able satisfactorily to explain. The whole episode is shrouded in deep mystery: in fact no one ever knew what a Hrung was nor why it had chosen to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven particularly. Ford's father, magnanimously waving aside the clouds of suspicion that had inevitably settled around him, came to live on Betelgeuse Five where he both fathered and uncled Ford; in memory of his now dead race he christened him in the ancient Praxibetel tongue.
|
||
Because Ford never learned to say his original name, his father eventually died of shame, which is still a terminal disease in some parts of the Galaxy. The other kids at school nicknamed him Ix, which in the language of Betelgeuse Five translates as “boy who is not able satisfactorily to explain what a Hrung is, nor why it should choose to collapse on Betelgeuse Seven”.
|
||
|
||
|
||
|