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bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_15_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 7

act 3 scene 7

{"name": "Act 3 Scene 7 ", "summary": "The information Cornwall received from Edmund concerning the invasion by the French army is passed on to Goneril with the assumption that the Duke of Albany will command the English forces. Cornwall then orders that the traitor Gloucester is to be captured and Regan urges that he be hanged, but the crueler Goneril suggests that eyes be plucked out. Cornwall advises Edmund that he should not be present when his father is caught and punished. Oswald, Goneril's steward, reports that the Earl of Gloucester arranged for Lear to be transported to Dover. Gloucester is captured and brought before Cornwall. Regan humiliates the old man by plucking his beard and when questioned, Gloucester freely admits that he had arranged Lear's transport to Dover in order to save him from the cruelty of his daughters. Cornwall removes one of Gloucester's eyes and crushes it on the floor with his foot. One of Cornwall's own servants pleads with his master to stop this cruelty and comes to Gloucester's defense. The servant draws his sword and wounds Cornwall, but he is slain by Regan. Cornwall then removes Gloucester's other eye, and in his anguish, the old man cries out for Edmund. The cruel Regan informs Gloucester that it was Edmund who has betrayed him. Realizing his folly, Gloucester prays for forgiveness and hopes that his true son Edgar will be spared. Gloucester is banished from the castle. Cornwall leaves, bleeding profusely from the wound he received from his servant. Some of the servants who have witnessed this scene are horrified and they follow after Gloucester in order to assist him. Poor Tom takes over the care of his father, but does not reveal his identity.", "analysis": "Interpretation Arguably, this scene is one of the most appalling to be found in dramatic literature. Its impact may have been more severe had Shakespeare not prepared his audience well in advance. We have an inkling of what the various characters are capable of and they do not disappoint us. When Gloucester is asked why he arranged for Lear to be sent to Dover he replies to Regan, Because I would not see thy cruel nails pluck out his poor old eyes; not thy fierce sister in his anointed flesh still boarish fangs.\" Cornwall then has Gloucester held in a chair and he says, \"Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot '' Out, vile jelly! Where is thy luster now?\" Gloucester responds, \"Where's my son Edmund? '' to quit this horrid act.\" As well as being tortured physically by Cornwall, Regan mentally tortures the old man by revealing Edmund's treachery. Even the modern day audience will be appalled at this scene, but it is true to say that the Shakespearean audience also had the same appetite for violence, but even by his standards Shakespeare outreaches himself in this scene. We see that this clique of evil characters have usurped the old values of love for parents, respect for the aged and sympathy for those less fortunate, and replaced these by a brutal regime, hungry for power and possessions. In particular there is a strong prejudice shown against the older characters by their children and their partners. When insulting Gloucester particular reference is made to his age and looks, his withered arms and white beard that Regan plucks. We now see Gloucester in his true light as loyal subject to King Lear and he honestly admits that he aided Lear in his escape to Dover, considering this to be a noble act. Again there is further reference to sight or the lack of it. Gloucester's inability to see Edmund's treachery is reinforced by the removal of his eyes. He realizes that he has grossly misjudged Edgar, and although he knows there is no hope of receiving forgiveness from his first-born son, he does pray for Edgar's safety. The defiant Gloucester, before losing his sight, does give the audience a glimmer of hope by saying, But I shall see the winged vengeance overtake such children.\" This prompts Cornwall to follow Goneril's instructions to remove Gloucester's eyes so that his prophecy cannot come true. The importance of this scene and its impact can only be fully appreciated by viewing this spectacle on stage. Some of the drama is lost when just reading the text. Its success depends much on the acting ability of the players. In the earlier scenes we have noted Cornwall's eloquent speech, which bolsters the fa'ade of civility that hides the beast that lies beneath this veneer of respectability. In this scene we see the beast breaking through this thin skin of civilization and it is the manifestation of evil that we witness. Cornwall does not attempt to restrain himself; his cruelty is fully vented against poor Gloucester. Many of the 'good' characters have called upon the gods to assist them, but up until now, evil has prevailed. Although both Lear and Gloucester have made many errors between them, the injustice they have suffered is disproportionate, and the audience must wonder when these brutal and cruel acts will cease so that good can prevail. We also obtain an insight into how the common people react to this situation. There are at least three servants witnessing this episode. One is moved to protect Gloucester by stabbing Cornwall, the other two pass comment on the proceedings at the end of the scene when the main characters exit. This scene is also notable for the fact that it shows the only human aspect in the character of Regan when she shows sympathy for Cornwall's wounding."}

Scena Septima. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gonerill, Bastard, and Seruants. Corn. Poste speedily to my Lord your husband, shew him this Letter, the Army of France is landed: seeke out the Traitor Glouster Reg. Hang him instantly Gon. Plucke out his eyes Corn. Leaue him to my displeasure. Edmond, keepe you our Sister company: the reuenges wee are bound to take vppon your Traitorous Father, are not fit for your beholding. Aduice the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our Postes shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt vs. Farewell deere Sister, farewell my Lord of Glouster. Enter Steward. How now? Where's the King? Stew. My Lord of Glouster hath conuey'd him hence Some fiue or six and thirty of his Knights Hot Questrists after him, met him at gate, Who, with some other of the Lords, dependants, Are gone with him toward Douer; where they boast To haue well armed Friends Corn. Get horses for your Mistris Gon. Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister. Exit Corn. Edmund farewell: go seek the Traitor Gloster, Pinnion him like a Theefe, bring him before vs: Though well we may not passe vpon his life Without the forme of Iustice: yet our power Shall do a curt'sie to our wrath, which men May blame, but not comptroll. Enter Gloucester, and Seruants. Who's there? the Traitor? Reg. Ingratefull Fox, 'tis he Corn. Binde fast his corky armes Glou. What meanes your Graces? Good my Friends consider you are my Ghests: Do me no foule play, Friends Corn. Binde him I say Reg. Hard, hard: O filthy Traitor Glou. Vnmercifull Lady, as you are, I'me none Corn. To this Chaire binde him, Villaine, thou shalt finde Glou. By the kinde Gods, 'tis most ignobly done To plucke me by the Beard Reg. So white, and such a Traitor? Glou. Naughty Ladie, These haires which thou dost rauish from my chin Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your Host, With Robbers hands, my hospitable fauours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do? Corn. Come Sir. What Letters had you late from France? Reg. Be simple answer'd, for we know the truth Corn. And what confederacie haue you with the Traitors, late footed in the Kingdome? Reg. To whose hands You haue sent the Lunaticke King: Speake Glou. I haue a Letter guessingly set downe Which came from one that's of a newtrall heart, And not from one oppos'd Corn. Cunning Reg. And false Corn. Where hast thou sent the King? Glou. To Douer Reg. Wherefore to Douer? Was't thou not charg'd at perill Corn. Wherefore to Douer? Let him answer that Glou. I am tyed to'th' Stake, And I must stand the Course Reg. Wherefore to Douer? Glou. Because I would not see thy cruell Nailes Plucke out his poore old eyes: nor thy fierce Sister, In his Annointed flesh, sticke boarish phangs. The Sea, with such a storme as his bare head, In Hell-blacke-night indur'd, would haue buoy'd vp And quench'd the Stelled fires: Yet poore old heart, he holpe the Heauens to raine. If Wolues had at thy Gate howl'd that sterne time, Thou should'st haue said, good Porter turne the Key: All Cruels else subscribe: but I shall see The winged Vengeance ouertake such Children Corn. See't shalt thou neuer. Fellowes hold y Chaire, Vpon these eyes of thine, Ile set my foote Glou. He that will thinke to liue, till he be old, Giue me some helpe. - O cruell! O you Gods Reg. One side will mocke another: Th' other too Corn. If you see vengeance Seru. Hold your hand, my Lord: I haue seru'd you euer since I was a Childe: But better seruice haue I neuer done you, Then now to bid you hold Reg. How now, you dogge? Ser. If you did weare a beard vpon your chin, I'ld shake it on this quarrell. What do you meane? Corn. My Villaine? Seru. Nay then come on, and take the chance of anger Reg. Giue me thy Sword. A pezant stand vp thus? Killes him. Ser. Oh I am slaine: my Lord, you haue one eye left To see some mischefe on him. Oh Corn. Lest it see more, preuent it; Out vilde gelly: Where is thy luster now? Glou. All darke and comfortlesse? Where's my Sonne Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparkes of Nature To quit this horrid acte Reg. Out treacherous Villaine, Thou call'st on him, that hates thee. It was he That made the ouerture of thy Treasons to vs: Who is too good to pitty thee Glou. O my Follies! then Edgar was abus'd, Kinde Gods, forgiue me that, and prosper him Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Douer. Exit with Glouster. How is't my Lord? How looke you? Corn. I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady; Turne out that eyelesse Villaine: throw this Slaue Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace, Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme. Exeunt.

Act 3 Scene 7

The information Cornwall received from Edmund concerning the invasion by the French army is passed on to Goneril with the assumption that the Duke of Albany will command the English forces. Cornwall then orders that the traitor Gloucester is to be captured and Regan urges that he be hanged, but the crueler Goneril suggests that eyes be plucked out. Cornwall advises Edmund that he should not be present when his father is caught and punished. Oswald, Goneril's steward, reports that the Earl of Gloucester arranged for Lear to be transported to Dover. Gloucester is captured and brought before Cornwall. Regan humiliates the old man by plucking his beard and when questioned, Gloucester freely admits that he had arranged Lear's transport to Dover in order to save him from the cruelty of his daughters. Cornwall removes one of Gloucester's eyes and crushes it on the floor with his foot. One of Cornwall's own servants pleads with his master to stop this cruelty and comes to Gloucester's defense. The servant draws his sword and wounds Cornwall, but he is slain by Regan. Cornwall then removes Gloucester's other eye, and in his anguish, the old man cries out for Edmund. The cruel Regan informs Gloucester that it was Edmund who has betrayed him. Realizing his folly, Gloucester prays for forgiveness and hopes that his true son Edgar will be spared. Gloucester is banished from the castle. Cornwall leaves, bleeding profusely from the wound he received from his servant. Some of the servants who have witnessed this scene are horrified and they follow after Gloucester in order to assist him. Poor Tom takes over the care of his father, but does not reveal his identity.

Interpretation Arguably, this scene is one of the most appalling to be found in dramatic literature. Its impact may have been more severe had Shakespeare not prepared his audience well in advance. We have an inkling of what the various characters are capable of and they do not disappoint us. When Gloucester is asked why he arranged for Lear to be sent to Dover he replies to Regan, Because I would not see thy cruel nails pluck out his poor old eyes; not thy fierce sister in his anointed flesh still boarish fangs." Cornwall then has Gloucester held in a chair and he says, "Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot '' Out, vile jelly! Where is thy luster now?" Gloucester responds, "Where's my son Edmund? '' to quit this horrid act." As well as being tortured physically by Cornwall, Regan mentally tortures the old man by revealing Edmund's treachery. Even the modern day audience will be appalled at this scene, but it is true to say that the Shakespearean audience also had the same appetite for violence, but even by his standards Shakespeare outreaches himself in this scene. We see that this clique of evil characters have usurped the old values of love for parents, respect for the aged and sympathy for those less fortunate, and replaced these by a brutal regime, hungry for power and possessions. In particular there is a strong prejudice shown against the older characters by their children and their partners. When insulting Gloucester particular reference is made to his age and looks, his withered arms and white beard that Regan plucks. We now see Gloucester in his true light as loyal subject to King Lear and he honestly admits that he aided Lear in his escape to Dover, considering this to be a noble act. Again there is further reference to sight or the lack of it. Gloucester's inability to see Edmund's treachery is reinforced by the removal of his eyes. He realizes that he has grossly misjudged Edgar, and although he knows there is no hope of receiving forgiveness from his first-born son, he does pray for Edgar's safety. The defiant Gloucester, before losing his sight, does give the audience a glimmer of hope by saying, But I shall see the winged vengeance overtake such children." This prompts Cornwall to follow Goneril's instructions to remove Gloucester's eyes so that his prophecy cannot come true. The importance of this scene and its impact can only be fully appreciated by viewing this spectacle on stage. Some of the drama is lost when just reading the text. Its success depends much on the acting ability of the players. In the earlier scenes we have noted Cornwall's eloquent speech, which bolsters the fa'ade of civility that hides the beast that lies beneath this veneer of respectability. In this scene we see the beast breaking through this thin skin of civilization and it is the manifestation of evil that we witness. Cornwall does not attempt to restrain himself; his cruelty is fully vented against poor Gloucester. Many of the 'good' characters have called upon the gods to assist them, but up until now, evil has prevailed. Although both Lear and Gloucester have made many errors between them, the injustice they have suffered is disproportionate, and the audience must wonder when these brutal and cruel acts will cease so that good can prevail. We also obtain an insight into how the common people react to this situation. There are at least three servants witnessing this episode. One is moved to protect Gloucester by stabbing Cornwall, the other two pass comment on the proceedings at the end of the scene when the main characters exit. This scene is also notable for the fact that it shows the only human aspect in the character of Regan when she shows sympathy for Cornwall's wounding.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_16_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 1

act 4 scene 1

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 1 ", "summary": "Just when Edgar thinks that matters cannot get any worse, he meets with his blind father, led by an old servant. Edgar dismisses Gloucester's guide, as he will be in danger if he is seen helping &#8216a traitor'. Gloucester continues to lament his ill-judged treatment of Edgar who maintains his disguise and uses the voice of Poor Tom. Gloucester remembers meeting Tom on the night of the storm. The old servant provides Edgar with decent clothing before departing. Gloucester asks Tom if he will guide him to Dover where he wishes to cast himself off the cliff.", "analysis": "Interpretation The scene opens with Edgar comforting himself that he has withstood all that fortune can throw at him, but this presumption is tested when Gloucester is led in by an old servant. We wonder at this stage why Edgar maintains his pretence and what Shakespeare's reasoning is for this. It is merely for dramatic effect, for it is not time for Gloucester to be regenerated. This will happen at the climax of the play. Later on in the play in the middle of Act V, Edgar will admit that he should have disclosed his true identity to his father now. The two old characters of Lear and Gloucester are to be pushed to the limits of human endurance, and the results of this on them and those that love them will become evident later on in the story. We also note a change in Gloucester's character, similar to that of Lear. You will remember that Lear only appreciated the hardships faced by his lowliest subjects after he too had been brought low. Now Gloucester is filled with compassion for Poor Tom. He arranges for the servant to provide him with clothing - a far cry from the man we saw in Act I of the play when he boasted about the good sport he had enjoyed in bringing about Edmund's conception. By his actions, Gloucester shows that he is sorry for his previous behavior and will try to make amends by sharing what little he has with those he had never previously noticed. Shakespeare deliberately stalls the use of divine justice until the main characters have earned their assistance."}

Actus Quartus. Scena Prima. Enter Edgar. Edg. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd, Then still contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worst: The lowest, and most deiected thing of Fortune, Stands still in esperance, liues not in feare: The lamentable change is from the best, The worst returnes to laughter. Welcome then, Thou vnsubstantiall ayre that I embrace: The Wretch that thou hast blowne vnto the worst, Owes nothing to thy blasts. Enter Glouster, and an Oldman. But who comes heere? My Father poorely led? World, World, O world! But that thy strange mutations make vs hate thee, Life would not yeelde to age Oldm. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant, And your Fathers Tenant, these fourescore yeares Glou. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone, Thy comforts can do me no good at all, Thee, they may hurt Oldm. You cannot see your way Glou. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes: I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seene, Our meanes secure vs, and our meere defects Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar, The food of thy abused Fathers wrath: Might I but liue to see thee in my touch, I'ld say I had eyes againe Oldm. How now? who's there? Edg. O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst? I am worse then ere I was Old. 'Tis poore mad Tom Edg. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not, So long as we can say this is the worst Oldm. Fellow, where goest? Glou. Is it a Beggar-man? Oldm. Madman, and beggar too Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I'th' last nights storme, I such a fellow saw; Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne Came then into my minde, and yet my minde Was then scarse Friends with him. I haue heard more since: As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods, They kill vs for their sport Edg. How should this be? Bad is the Trade that must play Foole to sorrow, Ang'ring it selfe, and others. Blesse thee Master Glou. Is that the naked Fellow? Oldm. I, my Lord Glou. Get thee away: If for my sake Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine I'th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue, And bring some couering for this naked Soule, Which Ile intreate to leade me Old. Alacke sir, he is mad Glou. 'Tis the times plague, When Madmen leade the blinde: Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure: Aboue the rest, be gone Oldm. Ile bring him the best Parrell that I haue Come on't what will. Exit Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow Edg. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further Glou. Come hither fellow Edg. And yet I must: Blesse thy sweete eyes, they bleede Glou. Know'st thou the way to Douer? Edg. Both style, and gate; Horseway, and foot-path: poore Tom hath bin scarr'd out of his good wits. Blesse thee good mans sonne, from the foule Fiend Glou. Here take this purse, y whom the heau'ns plagues Haue humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier: Heauens deale so still: Let the superfluous, and Lust-dieted man, That slaues your ordinance, that will not see Because he do's not feele, feele your powre quickly: So distribution should vndoo excesse, And each man haue enough. Dost thou know Douer? Edg. I Master Glou. There is a Cliffe, whose high and bending head Lookes fearfully in the confined Deepe: Bring me but to the very brimme of it, And Ile repayre the misery thou do'st beare With something rich about me: from that place, I shall no leading neede Edg. Giue me thy arme; Poore Tom shall leade thee. Exeunt.

Act 4 Scene 1

Just when Edgar thinks that matters cannot get any worse, he meets with his blind father, led by an old servant. Edgar dismisses Gloucester's guide, as he will be in danger if he is seen helping &#8216a traitor'. Gloucester continues to lament his ill-judged treatment of Edgar who maintains his disguise and uses the voice of Poor Tom. Gloucester remembers meeting Tom on the night of the storm. The old servant provides Edgar with decent clothing before departing. Gloucester asks Tom if he will guide him to Dover where he wishes to cast himself off the cliff.

Interpretation The scene opens with Edgar comforting himself that he has withstood all that fortune can throw at him, but this presumption is tested when Gloucester is led in by an old servant. We wonder at this stage why Edgar maintains his pretence and what Shakespeare's reasoning is for this. It is merely for dramatic effect, for it is not time for Gloucester to be regenerated. This will happen at the climax of the play. Later on in the play in the middle of Act V, Edgar will admit that he should have disclosed his true identity to his father now. The two old characters of Lear and Gloucester are to be pushed to the limits of human endurance, and the results of this on them and those that love them will become evident later on in the story. We also note a change in Gloucester's character, similar to that of Lear. You will remember that Lear only appreciated the hardships faced by his lowliest subjects after he too had been brought low. Now Gloucester is filled with compassion for Poor Tom. He arranges for the servant to provide him with clothing - a far cry from the man we saw in Act I of the play when he boasted about the good sport he had enjoyed in bringing about Edmund's conception. By his actions, Gloucester shows that he is sorry for his previous behavior and will try to make amends by sharing what little he has with those he had never previously noticed. Shakespeare deliberately stalls the use of divine justice until the main characters have earned their assistance.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_17_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 2

act 4 scene 2

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 2", "summary": "The scene opens with Goneril and Edmund and they are joined by Oswald who has news that Albany is a changed man. The steward informs Goneril that Albany seems pleased at the impending invasion by France and showed disappointment that Edmund has replaced his father as Earl of Gloucester. As a result, Goneril takes command of her forces and orders Edmund to return to Cornwall while she deals with her husband. Goneril has been flirting with Edmund and she gives him a favor of affection and a kiss. Goneril is impressed by the vibrant Edmund compared with her own weakling husband. Albany enters scolding his wife for her inhuman treatment of King Lear. A messenger arrives to relay the news that the Duke of Cornwall has died from the wound he received from his servant. Albany declares that this act represents retribution from the gods for Cornwall's treatment of Gloucester. Albany vows revenge against Edmund for leaving his father at the mercy of Cornwall. In the evil mind of Goneril, she seeks to gain advantage from these circumstances and form an alliance with Edmund. However, she is concerned that her widowed sister may also seek Edmund's love.", "analysis": "Interpretation There are the first indications in this scene that Albany does not wish to ally him with the other three evil characters. He is becoming more critical of his wife's behavior and welcomes the developments in Dover where the French army is expected. The evil Goneril recognizes similar traits in Edmund and is consequently attracted to him. She regards her husband's virtuous behavior as a sign of weakness. She admires Edmund because he is driven to better himself, no matter what the consequences. Another indication here of loss of values is that it does not matter to Goneril that she is already married when she flirts with Edmund. The bold Albany compares Goneril and her sister to beasts. He says, \"Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savor but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform&#8217d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Most barbarous, most degenerate! Have you madded?\" Albany's true nature is at last revealed to the audience. All Goneril can say to him is that he is A moral fool\". Albany responds to her by saying, \"You are not worth the dust which the rude wind blows in your face.\" Albany laments the fact that the bonds that tie families and society together have been broken and that chaos will descend on them all. Again we remember Cordelia's statement at the start of the play that she loved her father in accordance with the bond between parent and child. The acts that Goneril and Regan and Edmund have performed have broken the bonds between parent and child. We will see later that Cornwall's death will place Albany in a dilemma. He could quite easily have left the other three, but with Cornwall dead, there is no-one left with experience to lead the English army against the invading French. A further complication is introduced into the plot through Goneril's lust for Edmund. This will put a strain on her relationship with her sister, should the recently widowed Regan now too desire Edmund. Edmund has the attributes that would attract both sisters."}

Scena Secunda. Enter Gonerill, Bastard, and Steward. Gon. Welcome my Lord. I meruell our mild husband Not met vs on the way. Now, where's your Master? Stew. Madam within, but neuer man so chang'd: I told him of the Army that was Landed: He smil'd at it. I told him you were comming, His answer was, the worse. Of Glosters Treachery, And of the loyall Seruice of his Sonne When I inform'd him, then he call'd me Sot, And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out: What most he should dislike, seemes pleasant to him; What like, offensiue Gon. Then shall you go no further. It is the Cowish terror of his spirit That dares not vndertake: Hee'l not feele wrongs Which tye him to an answer: our wishes on the way May proue effects. Backe Edmond to my Brother, Hasten his Musters, and conduct his powres. I must change names at home, and giue the Distaffe Into my Husbands hands. This trustie Seruant Shall passe betweene vs: ere long you are like to heare (If you dare venture in your owne behalfe) A Mistresses command. Weare this; spare speech, Decline your head. This kisse, if it durst speake Would stretch thy Spirits vp into the ayre: Conceiue, and fare thee well Bast. Yours in the rankes of death. Enter. Gon. My most deere Gloster. Oh, the difference of man, and man, To thee a Womans seruices are due, My Foole vsurpes my body Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord. Enter Albany. Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle Alb. Oh Gonerill, You are not worth the dust which the rude winde Blowes in your face Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man, That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs, Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning Thine Honor, from thy suffering Alb. See thy selfe diuell: Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend So horrid as in woman Gon. Oh vaine Foole. Enter a Messenger. Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead, Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out The other eye of Glouster Alb. Glousters eyes Mes. A Seruant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse, Oppos'd against the act: bending his Sword To his great Master, who, threat-enrag'd Flew on him, and among'st them fell'd him dead, But not without that harmefull stroke, which since Hath pluckt him after Alb. This shewes you are aboue You Iustices, that these our neather crimes So speedily can venge. But (O poore Glouster) Lost he his other eye? Mes. Both, both, my Lord. This Leter Madam, craues a speedy answer: 'Tis from your Sister Gon. One way I like this well. But being widdow, and my Glouster with her, May all the building in my fancie plucke Vpon my hatefull life. Another way The Newes is not so tart. Ile read, and answer Alb. Where was his Sonne, When they did take his eyes? Mes. Come with my Lady hither Alb. He is not heere Mes. No my good Lord, I met him backe againe Alb. Knowes he the wickednesse? Mes. I my good Lord: 'twas he inform'd against him And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might haue the freer course Alb. Glouster, I liue To thanke thee for the loue thou shew'dst the King, And to reuenge thine eyes. Come hither Friend, Tell me what more thou know'st. Exeunt.

Act 4 Scene 2

The scene opens with Goneril and Edmund and they are joined by Oswald who has news that Albany is a changed man. The steward informs Goneril that Albany seems pleased at the impending invasion by France and showed disappointment that Edmund has replaced his father as Earl of Gloucester. As a result, Goneril takes command of her forces and orders Edmund to return to Cornwall while she deals with her husband. Goneril has been flirting with Edmund and she gives him a favor of affection and a kiss. Goneril is impressed by the vibrant Edmund compared with her own weakling husband. Albany enters scolding his wife for her inhuman treatment of King Lear. A messenger arrives to relay the news that the Duke of Cornwall has died from the wound he received from his servant. Albany declares that this act represents retribution from the gods for Cornwall's treatment of Gloucester. Albany vows revenge against Edmund for leaving his father at the mercy of Cornwall. In the evil mind of Goneril, she seeks to gain advantage from these circumstances and form an alliance with Edmund. However, she is concerned that her widowed sister may also seek Edmund's love.

Interpretation There are the first indications in this scene that Albany does not wish to ally him with the other three evil characters. He is becoming more critical of his wife's behavior and welcomes the developments in Dover where the French army is expected. The evil Goneril recognizes similar traits in Edmund and is consequently attracted to him. She regards her husband's virtuous behavior as a sign of weakness. She admires Edmund because he is driven to better himself, no matter what the consequences. Another indication here of loss of values is that it does not matter to Goneril that she is already married when she flirts with Edmund. The bold Albany compares Goneril and her sister to beasts. He says, "Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savor but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform&#8217d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Most barbarous, most degenerate! Have you madded?" Albany's true nature is at last revealed to the audience. All Goneril can say to him is that he is A moral fool". Albany responds to her by saying, "You are not worth the dust which the rude wind blows in your face." Albany laments the fact that the bonds that tie families and society together have been broken and that chaos will descend on them all. Again we remember Cordelia's statement at the start of the play that she loved her father in accordance with the bond between parent and child. The acts that Goneril and Regan and Edmund have performed have broken the bonds between parent and child. We will see later that Cornwall's death will place Albany in a dilemma. He could quite easily have left the other three, but with Cornwall dead, there is no-one left with experience to lead the English army against the invading French. A further complication is introduced into the plot through Goneril's lust for Edmund. This will put a strain on her relationship with her sister, should the recently widowed Regan now too desire Edmund. Edmund has the attributes that would attract both sisters.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_18_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 3

act 4 scene 3

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 3 ", "summary": "Although the King of France commanded his forces when they arrived in Dover, he has left and his army is commanded by his Marshall. A gentleman describes to Kent Cordelia's reaction on receiving Kent's letter providing information concerning King Lear's status. Cordelia is appalled at the behavior of her two older sisters. Kent tells the gentleman that Lear is nearby, but that he cannot bring himself to meet with Cordelia so filled is he with shame. The gentleman also tells Kent that the forces of Albany and Cornwall are close by. The disguised Kent informs the gentleman that he will bring Lear to Dover and then reveal his own identity.", "analysis": "Interpretation This scene is omitted from some versions of the play and may also have been amended. It was politically sensitive to have the King of France on English soil with an invading army, and so Shakespeare arranges for his return to France. Shakespeare also makes it clear that although technically the Marshall commands the forces, they are in the realm in order to protect Cordelia's father King Lear. The importance of the scene is to make it clear to the audience that Cordelia truly loves her father and is totally different from her siblings. There is also an indication that the evil flowing in Regan and Goneril's blood is a result of supernatural influences. This has an important bearing on the divine justice that will operate in later scenes. At this stage in the play, both Lear and Gloucester question whether any such justice exists. Shakespeare deliberately set this play in pre-Christian Britain and so there is still a doubt whether good will prevail over evil, and this anomaly enables the tension to be maintained."}

Scena Tertia. Enter with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Gentlemen, and Souldiours. Cor. Alacke, 'tis he: why he was met euen now As mad as the vext Sea, singing alowd. Crown'd with ranke Fenitar, and furrow weeds, With Hardokes, Hemlocke, Nettles, Cuckoo flowres, Darnell, and all the idle weedes that grow In our sustaining Corne. A Centery send forth; Search euery Acre in the high-growne field, And bring him to our eye. What can mans wisedome In the restoring his bereaued Sense; he that helpes him, Take all my outward worth Gent. There is meanes Madam: Our foster Nurse of Nature, is repose, The which he lackes: that to prouoke in him Are many Simples operatiue, whose power Will close the eye of Anguish Cord. All blest Secrets, All you vnpublish'd Vertues of the earth Spring with my teares; be aydant, and remediate In the Goodmans desires: seeke, seeke for him, Least his vngouern'd rage, dissolue the life That wants the meanes to leade it. Enter Messenger. Mes. Newes Madam, The Brittish Powres are marching hitherward Cor. 'Tis knowne before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O deere Father, It is thy businesse that I go about: Therfore great France My mourning, and importun'd teares hath pittied: No blowne Ambition doth our Armes incite, But loue, deere loue, and our ag'd Fathers Rite: Soone may I heare, and see him. Exeunt.

Act 4 Scene 3

Although the King of France commanded his forces when they arrived in Dover, he has left and his army is commanded by his Marshall. A gentleman describes to Kent Cordelia's reaction on receiving Kent's letter providing information concerning King Lear's status. Cordelia is appalled at the behavior of her two older sisters. Kent tells the gentleman that Lear is nearby, but that he cannot bring himself to meet with Cordelia so filled is he with shame. The gentleman also tells Kent that the forces of Albany and Cornwall are close by. The disguised Kent informs the gentleman that he will bring Lear to Dover and then reveal his own identity.

Interpretation This scene is omitted from some versions of the play and may also have been amended. It was politically sensitive to have the King of France on English soil with an invading army, and so Shakespeare arranges for his return to France. Shakespeare also makes it clear that although technically the Marshall commands the forces, they are in the realm in order to protect Cordelia's father King Lear. The importance of the scene is to make it clear to the audience that Cordelia truly loves her father and is totally different from her siblings. There is also an indication that the evil flowing in Regan and Goneril's blood is a result of supernatural influences. This has an important bearing on the divine justice that will operate in later scenes. At this stage in the play, both Lear and Gloucester question whether any such justice exists. Shakespeare deliberately set this play in pre-Christian Britain and so there is still a doubt whether good will prevail over evil, and this anomaly enables the tension to be maintained.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_19_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 4

act 4 scene 4

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 4 ", "summary": "Cordelia learns from a messenger that her father is nearby. She now commands the armies of her husband and she waits to face the English army. She learns that her father is a weird sight dressed in weeds and flowers. She consults with her physician to ask whether her father can be cured. He is confident that with care Lear can be returned to sanity.", "analysis": "Interpretation Cordelia describes her father as \"mad as the vex&#8217d sea, singing aloud;\" She sends her troops to find him and bring him into her care. We hear that the King suffers from no ordinary madness, but a madness befitting a King, which not only invokes pity, but astonishment. The decking of oneself in flowers has particular symbolism, each separate flower or weed symbolizing the numerous torments suffered by Lear. The King wishes to project an image of wildness and freedom, hence the wearing of flowers representing his chaotic state of mind. This theme of wearing weeds and flowers was quite common and there are examples of this in both Richard II and Hamlet. Sometimes the weeds represent evil, but in this case they represent the madness of the King, and he no doubt wore the Cuckoo Flower also aptly named the Bedlam Cowslip, which is a fairly common weed in this part of England."}

Scena Quarta. Enter Regan, and Steward. Reg. But are my Brothers Powres set forth? Stew. I Madam Reg. Himselfe in person there? Stew. Madam with much ado: Your Sister is the better Souldier Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your Lord at home? Stew. No Madam Reg. What might import my Sisters Letter to him? Stew. I know not, Lady Reg. Faith he is poasted hence on serious matter: It was great ignorance, Glousters eyes being out To let him liue. Where he arriues, he moues All hearts against vs: Edmund, I thinke is gone In pitty of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life: Moreouer to descry The strength o'th' Enemy Stew. I must needs after him, Madam, with my Letter Reg. Our troopes set forth to morrow, stay with vs: The wayes are dangerous Stew. I may not Madam: My Lady charg'd my dutie in this busines Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you transport her purposes by word? Belike, Some things, I know not what. Ile loue thee much Let me vnseale the Letter Stew. Madam, I had rather- Reg. I know your Lady do's not loue her Husband, I am sure of that: and at her late being heere, She gaue strange Eliads, and most speaking lookes To Noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosome Stew. I, Madam? Reg. I speake in vnderstanding: Y'are: I know't, Therefore I do aduise you take this note: My Lord is dead: Edmond, and I haue talk'd, And more conuenient is he for my hand Then for your Ladies: You may gather more: If you do finde him, pray you giue him this; And when your Mistris heares thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisedome to her. So fare you well: If you do chance to heare of that blinde Traitor, Preferment fals on him, that cuts him off Stew. Would I could meet Madam, I should shew What party I do follow Reg. Fare thee well. Exeunt.

Act 4 Scene 4

Cordelia learns from a messenger that her father is nearby. She now commands the armies of her husband and she waits to face the English army. She learns that her father is a weird sight dressed in weeds and flowers. She consults with her physician to ask whether her father can be cured. He is confident that with care Lear can be returned to sanity.

Interpretation Cordelia describes her father as "mad as the vex&#8217d sea, singing aloud;" She sends her troops to find him and bring him into her care. We hear that the King suffers from no ordinary madness, but a madness befitting a King, which not only invokes pity, but astonishment. The decking of oneself in flowers has particular symbolism, each separate flower or weed symbolizing the numerous torments suffered by Lear. The King wishes to project an image of wildness and freedom, hence the wearing of flowers representing his chaotic state of mind. This theme of wearing weeds and flowers was quite common and there are examples of this in both Richard II and Hamlet. Sometimes the weeds represent evil, but in this case they represent the madness of the King, and he no doubt wore the Cuckoo Flower also aptly named the Bedlam Cowslip, which is a fairly common weed in this part of England.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_20_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 5

act 4 scene 5

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 5", "summary": "Oswald advises Regan that the Duke of Albany has been persuaded to lead the English forces against the French army. He also carries a letter from Goneril to Edmund and Regan is more interested in the contents of the letter than the forthcoming battle. She commands Oswald to give her the letter because she is aware that Goneril has flirted with Edmund. Regan reminds Oswald that his mistress is still married and that she considers that Edmund is reserved for her. Regan instructs Oswald that if he should meet Gloucester, he should kill him.", "analysis": "Interpretation Albany is persuaded to lead the armies, not because he wishes to support his wife and her sister, but because of his obligation to defend the Kingdom against foreign invaders. Oswald makes the comment that he considers Goneril probably a better soldier than her husband. Perhaps Albany is using this as a ruse and may be able to avoid battle, rescue Lear, and protect Cordelia. If he is able to achieve this, then the foreign troops will probably depart peacefully. We note the growing suspicion between Goneril and Regan, and cracks are beginning to appear in the evil alliance. The audience senses that evil may start to prey on evil and thus consume itself. The Shakespearean audience is every bit as intrigued as we are at the battle between the two sisters over Edmund. Both these women are formidable, and we note that although Oswald is loyal to his mistress, he bends with the wind and obeys Regan as well. No doubt Edmund relishes the position where two women are fighting over him, but there is more to this, for the women in question are Princesses of the realm and this also legitimizes his position. You will recall that Regan had instructed Edmund to kill Gloucester. Now she tells Oswald the same. Hopefully he is now safe in Dover. They would obviously like to see Gloucester dead, because having him roam the land in his sorry state does nothing to promote their position."}

Scena Quinta. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar. Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill? Edg. You do climbe vp it now. Look how we labor Glou. Me thinkes the ground is eeuen Edg. Horrible steepe. Hearke, do you heare the Sea? Glou. No truly Edg. Why then your other Senses grow imperfect By your eyes anguish Glou. So may it be indeed. Me thinkes thy voyce is alter'd, and thou speak'st In better phrase, and matter then thou did'st Edg. Y'are much deceiu'd: In nothing am I chang'd But in my Garments Glou. Me thinkes y'are better spoken Edg. Come on Sir, Heere's the place: stand still: how fearefull And dizie 'tis, to cast ones eyes so low, The Crowes and Choughes, that wing the midway ayre Shew scarse so grosse as Beetles. Halfe way downe Hangs one that gathers Sampire: dreadfull Trade: Me thinkes he seemes no bigger then his head. The Fishermen, that walk'd vpon the beach Appeare like Mice: and yond tall Anchoring Barke, Diminish'd to her Cocke: her Cocke, a Buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring Surge, That on th' vnnumbred idle Pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. Ile looke no more, Least my braine turne, and the deficient sight Topple downe headlong Glou. Set me where you stand Edg. Giue me your hand: You are now within a foote of th' extreme Verge: For all beneath the Moone would I not leape vpright Glou. Let go my hand: Heere Friend's another purse: in it, a Iewell Well worth a poore mans taking. Fayries, and Gods Prosper it with thee. Go thou further off, Bid me farewell, and let me heare thee going Edg. Now fare ye well, good Sir Glou. With all my heart Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his dispaire, Is done to cure it Glou. O you mighty Gods! This world I do renounce, and in your sights Shake patiently my great affliction off: If I could beare it longer, and not fall To quarrell with your great opposelesse willes, My snuffe, and loathed part of Nature should Burne it selfe out. If Edgar liue, O blesse him: Now Fellow, fare thee well Edg. Gone Sir, farewell: And yet I know not how conceit may rob The Treasury of life, when life it selfe Yeelds to the Theft. Had he bin where he thought, By this had thought bin past. Aliue, or dead? Hoa, you Sir: Friend, heare you Sir, speake: Thus might he passe indeed: yet he reuiues. What are you Sir? Glou. Away, and let me dye Edg. Had'st thou beene ought But Gozemore, Feathers, Ayre, (So many fathome downe precipitating) Thou'dst shiuer'd like an Egge: but thou do'st breath: Hast heauy substance, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound, Ten Masts at each, make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell, Thy life's a Myracle. Speake yet againe Glou. But haue I falne, or no? Edg. From the dread Somnet of this Chalkie Bourne Looke vp a height, the shrill-gorg'd Larke so farre Cannot be seene, or heard: Do but looke vp Glou. Alacke, I haue no eyes: Is wretchednesse depriu'd that benefit To end it selfe by death? 'Twas yet some comfort, When misery could beguile the Tyrants rage, And frustrate his proud will Edg. Giue me your arme. Vp, so: How is't? Feele you your Legges? You stand Glou. Too well, too well Edg. This is aboue all strangenesse, Vpon the crowne o'th' Cliffe. What thing was that Which parted from you? Glou. A poore vnfortunate Beggar Edg. As I stood heere below, me thought his eyes Were two full Moones: he had a thousand Noses, Hornes wealk'd, and waued like the enraged Sea: It was some Fiend: Therefore thou happy Father, Thinke that the cleerest Gods, who make them Honors Of mens Impossibilities, haue preserued thee Glou. I do remember now: henceforth Ile beare Affliction, till it do cry out it selfe Enough, enough, and dye. That thing you speake of, I tooke it for a man: often 'twould say The Fiend, the Fiend, he led me to that place Edgar. Beare free and patient thoughts. Enter Lear. But who comes heere? The safer sense will ne're accommodate His Master thus Lear. No, they cannot touch me for crying. I am the King himselfe Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! Lear. Nature's aboue Art, in that respect. Ther's your Presse-money. That fellow handles his bow, like a Crowkeeper: draw mee a Cloathiers yard. Looke, looke, a Mouse: peace, peace, this peece of toasted Cheese will doo't. There's my Gauntlet, Ile proue it on a Gyant. Bring vp the browne Billes. O well flowne Bird: i'th' clout, i'th' clout: Hewgh. Giue the word Edg. Sweet Mariorum Lear. Passe Glou. I know that voice Lear. Ha! Gonerill with a white beard? They flatter'd me like a Dogge, and told mee I had the white hayres in my Beard, ere the blacke ones were there. To say I, and no, to euery thing that I said: I, and no too, was no good Diuinity. When the raine came to wet me once, and the winde to make me chatter: when the Thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go too, they are not men o'their words; they told me, I was euery thing: 'Tis a Lye, I am not Agu-proofe Glou. The tricke of that voyce, I do well remember: Is't not the King? Lear. I, euery inch a King. When I do stare, see how the Subiect quakes. I pardon that mans life. What was thy cause? Adultery? thou shalt not dye: dye for Adultery? No, the Wren goes too't, and the small gilded Fly Do's letcher in my sight. Let Copulation thriue: For Glousters bastard Son was kinder to his Father, Then my Daughters got 'tweene the lawfull sheets. Too't Luxury pell-mell, for I lacke Souldiers. Behold yond simpring Dame, whose face betweene her Forkes presages Snow; that minces Vertue, & do's shake the head to heare of pleasures name. The Fitchew, nor the soyled Horse goes too't with a more riotous appetite: Downe from the waste they are Centaures, though Women all aboue: but to the Girdle do the Gods inherit, beneath is all the Fiends. There's hell, there's darkenes, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption: Fye, fie, fie; pah, pah: Giue me an Ounce of Ciuet; good Apothecary sweeten my immagination: There's money for thee Glou. O let me kisse that hand Lear. Let me wipe it first, It smelles of Mortality Glou. O ruin'd peece of Nature, this great world Shall so weare out to naught. Do'st thou know me? Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough: dost thou squiny at me? No, doe thy worst blinde Cupid, Ile not loue. Reade thou this challenge, marke but the penning of it Glou. Were all thy Letters Sunnes, I could not see Edg. I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breakes at it Lear. Read Glou. What with the Case of eyes? Lear. Oh ho, are you there with me? No eies in your head, nor no mony in your purse? Your eyes are in a heauy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes Glou. I see it feelingly Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes, with no eyes. Looke with thine eares: See how yond Iustice railes vpon yond simple theefe. Hearke in thine eare: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is the Iustice, which is the theefe: Thou hast seene a Farmers dogge barke at a Beggar? Glou. I Sir Lear. And the Creature run from the Cur: there thou might'st behold the great image of Authoritie, a Dogg's obey'd in Office. Thou, Rascall Beadle, hold thy bloody hand: why dost thou lash that Whore? Strip thy owne backe, thou hotly lusts to vse her in that kind, for which thou whip'st her. The Vsurer hangs the Cozener. Thorough tatter'd cloathes great Vices do appeare: Robes, and Furr'd gownes hide all. Place sinnes with Gold, and the strong Lance of Iustice, hurtlesse breakes: Arme it in ragges, a Pigmies straw do's pierce it. None do's offend, none, I say none, Ile able 'em; take that of me my Friend, who haue the power to seale th' accusers lips. Get thee glasse-eyes, and like a scuruy Politician, seeme to see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my Bootes: harder, harder, so Edg. O matter, and impertinency mixt, Reason in Madnesse Lear. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster: Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the Ayre We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke Glou. Alacke, alacke the day Lear. When we are borne, we cry that we are come To this great stage of Fooles. This a good blocke: It were a delicate stratagem to shoo A Troope of Horse with Felt: Ile put't in proofe, And when I haue stolne vpon these Son in Lawes, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill. Enter a Gentleman. Gent. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir. Your most deere Daughter- Lear. No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am euen The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vse me well, You shall haue ransome. Let me haue Surgeons, I am cut to'th' Braines Gent. You shall haue any thing Lear. No Seconds? All my selfe? Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt To vse his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely, Like a smugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall: Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that? Gent. You are a Royall one, and we obey you Lear. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa. Enter. Gent. A sight most pittifull in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter Who redeemes Nature from the generall curse Which twaine haue brought her to Edg. Haile gentle Sir Gent. Sir, speed you: what's your will? Edg. Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward Gent. Most sure, and vulgar: Euery one heares that, which can distinguish sound Edg. But by your fauour: How neere's the other Army? Gent. Neere, and on speedy foot: the maine descry Stands on the hourely thought Edg. I thanke you Sir, that's all Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here Her Army is mou'd on. Enter. Edg. I thanke you Sir Glou. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me, Let not my worser Spirit tempt me againe To dye before you please Edg. Well pray you Father Glou. Now good sir, what are you? Edg. A most poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling sorrowes, Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand, Ile leade you to some biding Glou. Heartie thankes: The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen To boot, and boot. Enter Steward. Stew. A proclaim'd prize: most happie That eyelesse head of thine, was first fram'd flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor, Breefely thy selfe remember: the Sword is out That must destroy thee Glou. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough too't Stew. Wherefore, bold Pezant, Dar'st thou support a publish'd Traitor? Hence, Least that th' infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arme Edg. Chill not let go Zir, Without vurther 'casion Stew. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'st Edg. Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore volke passe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay, come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor' ye, or Ile try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder; chill be plaine with you Stew. Out Dunghill Edg. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor your foynes Stew. Slaue thou hast slaine me: Villain, take my purse; If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie, And giue the Letters which thou find'st about me, To Edmund Earle of Glouster: seeke him out Vpon the English party. Oh vntimely death, death Edg. I know thee well. A seruiceable Villaine, As duteous to the vices of thy Mistris, As badnesse would desire Glou. What, is he dead? Edg. Sit you downe Father: rest you. Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speakes of May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely sorry He had no other Deathsman. Let vs see: Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts, Their Papers is more lawfull. Reads the Letter. Let our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply the place for your Labour. Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate Seruant. Gonerill. Oh indistinguish'd space of Womans will, A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life, And the exchange my Brother: heere, in the sands Thee Ile rake vp, the poste vnsanctified Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time, With this vngracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well, That of thy death, and businesse, I can tell Glou. The King is mad: How stiffe is my vilde sense That I stand vp, and haue ingenious feeling Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were distract, So should my thoughts be seuer'd from my greefes, Drum afarre off. And woes, by wrong imaginations loose The knowledge of themselues Edg. Giue me your hand: Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme. Come Father, Ile bestow you with a Friend. Exeunt.

Act 4 Scene 5

Oswald advises Regan that the Duke of Albany has been persuaded to lead the English forces against the French army. He also carries a letter from Goneril to Edmund and Regan is more interested in the contents of the letter than the forthcoming battle. She commands Oswald to give her the letter because she is aware that Goneril has flirted with Edmund. Regan reminds Oswald that his mistress is still married and that she considers that Edmund is reserved for her. Regan instructs Oswald that if he should meet Gloucester, he should kill him.

Interpretation Albany is persuaded to lead the armies, not because he wishes to support his wife and her sister, but because of his obligation to defend the Kingdom against foreign invaders. Oswald makes the comment that he considers Goneril probably a better soldier than her husband. Perhaps Albany is using this as a ruse and may be able to avoid battle, rescue Lear, and protect Cordelia. If he is able to achieve this, then the foreign troops will probably depart peacefully. We note the growing suspicion between Goneril and Regan, and cracks are beginning to appear in the evil alliance. The audience senses that evil may start to prey on evil and thus consume itself. The Shakespearean audience is every bit as intrigued as we are at the battle between the two sisters over Edmund. Both these women are formidable, and we note that although Oswald is loyal to his mistress, he bends with the wind and obeys Regan as well. No doubt Edmund relishes the position where two women are fighting over him, but there is more to this, for the women in question are Princesses of the realm and this also legitimizes his position. You will recall that Regan had instructed Edmund to kill Gloucester. Now she tells Oswald the same. Hopefully he is now safe in Dover. They would obviously like to see Gloucester dead, because having him roam the land in his sorry state does nothing to promote their position.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_22_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 7

act 4 scene 7

{"name": "Act 4 Scene 7", "summary": "Kent reveals his true identity to Cordelia, who expresses her thanks to him for the assistance he has given to her father. Kent will continue to play the part of Caius as he has still work to do. Cordelia's physician advises that the King has slept long and when he is roused it will be to the tune of healing music. Lear is brought in carried on a chair and Cordelia tenderly kisses him. They are reconciled. At first Lear thinks that Cordelia is an angel who has rescued him from purgatory. He soon regains his senses and humbly pleads for his daughter's forgiveness. Cordelia confirms that he is still in his own country and not in France. The physician exits with Lear for he is still not fully restored. Cordelia and Kent learn that Edmund is now in command of Cornwall's army and there is a rumor abroad that both Edgar and Kent have fled to Germany. Kent states that no time must be lost as the battle is imminent.", "analysis": "Interpretation We are not clear why Kent intends to maintain his disguise, but he felt it necessary to reveal his true identity to Cordelia. We can guess that Kent views this time as the climax of his long years of service to the King and his country. Since the King's rescue, he has spent much of his time sleeping and recovering from his ordeal. It takes a while for him to return to full consciousness and he mistakes Cordelia for an angel. Shakespeare is reinforcing the idea that Cordelia represents the height of feminine virtue and honesty. There are again further indications regarding Lear's transformation. His dialogue with Cordelia makes no mention of status or tests of love, but is merely a father being reunited with his daughter. This scene contrasts greatly from the corresponding scene in Act I where father dismissed daughter. We read Lear's statement to Cordelia, Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia.\" This confirms that Lear has regained his sanity. We learn that Lear's return from a deep sleep was accompanied by soothing music. Symbolically this replaces the crashing storm that he fought with on the heath, which symbolized his own state of mind and the evil of his older daughters. The music underlines the return of order to Lear's world. Cordelia is clearly at the far end of the scale from her two sisters, for there is no indication that she desires revenge for what her father has suffered."}

Scaena Septima. Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman. Cor. O thou good Kent, How shall I liue and worke To match thy goodnesse? My life will be too short, And euery measure faile me Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd, All my reports go with the modest truth, Nor more, nor clipt, but so Cor. Be better suited, These weedes are memories of those worser houres: I prythee put them off Kent. Pardon deere Madam, Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent, My boone I make it, that you know me not, Till time, and I, thinke meet Cor. Then be't so my good Lord: How do's the King? Gent. Madam sleepes still Cor. O you kind Gods! Cure this great breach in his abused Nature, Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp, Of this childe-changed Father Gent. So please your Maiesty, That we may wake the King, he hath slept long? Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd? Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants] Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe, We put fresh garments on him. Be by good Madam when we do awake him, I doubt of his Temperance Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters Haue in thy Reuerence made Kent. Kind and deere Princesse Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face To be oppos'd against the iarring windes? Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me, Should haue stood that night against my fire, And was't thou faine (poore Father) To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne, In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke, 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest Cor. How does my Royall Lord? How fares your Maiesty? Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue, Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares Do scal'd, like molten Lead Cor. Sir, do you know me? Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye? Cor. Still, still, farre wide Gen. He's scarse awake, Let him alone a while Lear. Where haue I bin? Where am I? Faire day light? I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty To see another thus. I know not what to say: I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see, I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd Of my condition Cor. O looke vpon me Sir, And hold your hand in benediction o're me, You must not kneele Lear. Pray do not mocke me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourescore and vpward, Not an houre more, nor lesse: And to deale plainely, I feare I am not in my perfect mind. Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man, Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant What place this is: and all the skill I haue Remembers not these garments: nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me, For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady To be my childe Cordelia Cor. And so I am: I am Lear. Be your teares wet? Yes faith: I pray weepe not, If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it: I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong. You haue some cause, they haue not Cor. No cause, no cause Lear. Am I in France? Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir Lear. Do not abuse me Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in, Trouble him no more till further setling Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke? Lear. You must beare with me: Pray you now forget, and forgiue, I am old and foolish. Exeunt.

Act 4 Scene 7

Kent reveals his true identity to Cordelia, who expresses her thanks to him for the assistance he has given to her father. Kent will continue to play the part of Caius as he has still work to do. Cordelia's physician advises that the King has slept long and when he is roused it will be to the tune of healing music. Lear is brought in carried on a chair and Cordelia tenderly kisses him. They are reconciled. At first Lear thinks that Cordelia is an angel who has rescued him from purgatory. He soon regains his senses and humbly pleads for his daughter's forgiveness. Cordelia confirms that he is still in his own country and not in France. The physician exits with Lear for he is still not fully restored. Cordelia and Kent learn that Edmund is now in command of Cornwall's army and there is a rumor abroad that both Edgar and Kent have fled to Germany. Kent states that no time must be lost as the battle is imminent.

Interpretation We are not clear why Kent intends to maintain his disguise, but he felt it necessary to reveal his true identity to Cordelia. We can guess that Kent views this time as the climax of his long years of service to the King and his country. Since the King's rescue, he has spent much of his time sleeping and recovering from his ordeal. It takes a while for him to return to full consciousness and he mistakes Cordelia for an angel. Shakespeare is reinforcing the idea that Cordelia represents the height of feminine virtue and honesty. There are again further indications regarding Lear's transformation. His dialogue with Cordelia makes no mention of status or tests of love, but is merely a father being reunited with his daughter. This scene contrasts greatly from the corresponding scene in Act I where father dismissed daughter. We read Lear's statement to Cordelia, Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia." This confirms that Lear has regained his sanity. We learn that Lear's return from a deep sleep was accompanied by soothing music. Symbolically this replaces the crashing storm that he fought with on the heath, which symbolized his own state of mind and the evil of his older daughters. The music underlines the return of order to Lear's world. Cordelia is clearly at the far end of the scale from her two sisters, for there is no indication that she desires revenge for what her father has suffered.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_23_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 5.scene 1

act 5 scene 1

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 1 ", "summary": "Edmund and Regan have assembled their army, but they wonder whether Albany is resolute in his intention to fight against the French. They are also concerned about Oswald's disappearance and they feel sure he has met with disaster. Regan makes it clear that she lusts after Edmund, but she is also consumed with jealousy in case he chooses Goneril. Edmund reassures Regan that he has not sought or enjoyed any favors from Goneril. Goneril and Albany enter with their army. Goneril makes an aside that she would rather lose the battle than have Regan win Edmund. Albany makes it clear that he will only fight against the French invaders and not any British subjects or King Lear. Edmund and Albany have a counsel of war before the battle. Regan and Goneril keep a close eye on one another. Edgar enters, still disguised, and gives Albany a letter that he had removed from Oswald's body. This letter contains orders from Goneril to Edmund to kill her husband Albany. Edgar leaves, and Edmund re-enters with the news that the opposing army approaches. The scene ends with Edmund delivering a soliloquy where he reveals his thoughts and plans.", "analysis": "Interpretation This scene merely provides more information concerning the triangle between Edmund, Goneril and Regan. The two sisters' jealousy heightens and their competition over Edmund intensifies. Edgar provides Albany with the evidence of Goneril's plot to kill him in order that she may be totally free to form an alliance with Edmund. The sisters' behavior in this scene is quite pathetic and their behavior is further ridiculed when we hear Edmund's soliloquy. We read, \"To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy&#8217d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and Cordelia The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate.\" Amidst all this turmoil, Edmund remains cool, calm and calculating. He debates with himself which sister to have, if any. His attitude is almost cavalier. He talks of the sisters as if they were livestock and he is the farmer at an auction, where in fact he is talking about two Princesses of the Kingdom. He is not the least bit intimidated by them. Perhaps that is why they are attracted to him, but we read above that he recognizes exactly what they are - two jealous, poisonous snakes, but he is not daunted by them. Shakespeare has created a different type of villain. He is not like Iago, who quests power over Othello so as to unravel him. He is not like Richard III who lusts for power. He is a manipulator and relishes the fact that he is a bastard. He regards himself as a representative of his kind and he wishes to reverse the conventions so that his race can have power and rule. It is almost an unholy quest that he is championing. In the end, he will let certain events run their course. He will use Albany in the forthcoming battle. He will be a figurehead and rallying point of his own troops, but once victory has been won, he will stand back and let Goneril kill her husband. He certainly does not wish Albany to exercise clemency over Lear and Cordelia, who will be disposed on when captured. What is certainly clear is that Edmund appears to have no feelings for anyone, in particular Regan and Goneril, so whether he ends up with both, one or neither, is really immaterial to him."}

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and Souldiers. Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought To change the course, he's full of alteration, And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam Reg. Now sweet Lord, You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you: Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth, Do you not loue my Sister? Bast. In honour'd Loue Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way, To the fore-fended place? Bast. No by mine honour, Madam Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord Be not familiar with her Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband. Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers. Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met: Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter With others, whom the rigour of our State Forc'd to cry out Regan. Why is this reasond? Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie: For these domesticke and particular broiles, Are not the question heere Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre On our proceeding Reg. Sister you'le go with vs? Gon. No Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe. Exeunt. both the Armies. Enter Edgar. Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore, Heare me one word Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter: If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme, I can produce a Champion, that will proue What is auouched there. If you miscarry, Your businesse of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune loues you Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter Edg. I was forbid it: When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry, And Ile appeare againe. Enter. Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper. Enter Edmund. Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers, Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces, By dilligent discouerie, but your hast Is now vrg'd on you Alb. We will greet the time. Enter. Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue: Each iealous of the other, as the stung Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow, Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill, And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse His countenance for the Battaile, which being done, Let her who would be rid of him, deuise His speedy taking off. As for the mercie Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The Battaile done, and they within our power, Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state, Stands on me to defend, not to debate. Enter.

Act 5 Scene 1

Edmund and Regan have assembled their army, but they wonder whether Albany is resolute in his intention to fight against the French. They are also concerned about Oswald's disappearance and they feel sure he has met with disaster. Regan makes it clear that she lusts after Edmund, but she is also consumed with jealousy in case he chooses Goneril. Edmund reassures Regan that he has not sought or enjoyed any favors from Goneril. Goneril and Albany enter with their army. Goneril makes an aside that she would rather lose the battle than have Regan win Edmund. Albany makes it clear that he will only fight against the French invaders and not any British subjects or King Lear. Edmund and Albany have a counsel of war before the battle. Regan and Goneril keep a close eye on one another. Edgar enters, still disguised, and gives Albany a letter that he had removed from Oswald's body. This letter contains orders from Goneril to Edmund to kill her husband Albany. Edgar leaves, and Edmund re-enters with the news that the opposing army approaches. The scene ends with Edmund delivering a soliloquy where he reveals his thoughts and plans.

Interpretation This scene merely provides more information concerning the triangle between Edmund, Goneril and Regan. The two sisters' jealousy heightens and their competition over Edmund intensifies. Edgar provides Albany with the evidence of Goneril's plot to kill him in order that she may be totally free to form an alliance with Edmund. The sisters' behavior in this scene is quite pathetic and their behavior is further ridiculed when we hear Edmund's soliloquy. We read, "To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy&#8217d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and Cordelia The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate." Amidst all this turmoil, Edmund remains cool, calm and calculating. He debates with himself which sister to have, if any. His attitude is almost cavalier. He talks of the sisters as if they were livestock and he is the farmer at an auction, where in fact he is talking about two Princesses of the Kingdom. He is not the least bit intimidated by them. Perhaps that is why they are attracted to him, but we read above that he recognizes exactly what they are - two jealous, poisonous snakes, but he is not daunted by them. Shakespeare has created a different type of villain. He is not like Iago, who quests power over Othello so as to unravel him. He is not like Richard III who lusts for power. He is a manipulator and relishes the fact that he is a bastard. He regards himself as a representative of his kind and he wishes to reverse the conventions so that his race can have power and rule. It is almost an unholy quest that he is championing. In the end, he will let certain events run their course. He will use Albany in the forthcoming battle. He will be a figurehead and rallying point of his own troops, but once victory has been won, he will stand back and let Goneril kill her husband. He certainly does not wish Albany to exercise clemency over Lear and Cordelia, who will be disposed on when captured. What is certainly clear is that Edmund appears to have no feelings for anyone, in particular Regan and Goneril, so whether he ends up with both, one or neither, is really immaterial to him.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_24_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 5.scene 2

act 5 scene 2

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 2 ", "summary": "Cordelia, Lear and their army move to engage with Edmund and Albany's army. Edgar and Gloucester hide nearby to await the outcome of the battle. Once Edgar has ensured that Gloucester is safe, he leaves to see how the battle progresses. He returns with bad news that Lear's forces have lost and he and Cordelia have been taken prisoner.", "analysis": "Interpretation Shakespeare snatches away from the audience their hope that Lear's suffering has been ended. The hopes raised in Act IV Scene.vii are now dashed. This comfortless epic fascinates the audience because they can feel the power of the tragedy that Lear has to endure, like the biblical Job."}

Scena Secunda. Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia, and Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster. Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue: If euer I returne to you againe, Ile bring you comfort Glo. Grace go with you Sir. Enter. Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar. Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away: King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane, Giue me thy hand: Come on Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere Edg. What in ill thoughts againe? Men must endure Their going hence, euen as their comming hither, Ripenesse is all come on Glo. And that's true too. Exeunt.

Act 5 Scene 2

Cordelia, Lear and their army move to engage with Edmund and Albany's army. Edgar and Gloucester hide nearby to await the outcome of the battle. Once Edgar has ensured that Gloucester is safe, he leaves to see how the battle progresses. He returns with bad news that Lear's forces have lost and he and Cordelia have been taken prisoner.

Interpretation Shakespeare snatches away from the audience their hope that Lear's suffering has been ended. The hopes raised in Act IV Scene.vii are now dashed. This comfortless epic fascinates the audience because they can feel the power of the tragedy that Lear has to endure, like the biblical Job.

bookwolf

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/bookwolf/King Lear/section_25_part_0.txt

King Lear.act 5.scene 3

act 5 scene 3

{"name": "Act 5 Scene 3", "summary": "Lear and Cordelia are led in as prisoners. Edmund is their jailor. They are led away to prison and Edmund gives the officer in charge his orders that are to be followed immediately. Edmund is joined by Albany, Goneril and Regan. Albany demands that Lear and Cordelia be put into his custody, but Edmund refuses. Albany then orders that Edmund and Goneril be arrested for treason. They are charged with conspiracy for plotting Albany's death. Edgar enters still in disguise and he makes a statement denouncing Edmund. The two brothers fight and Edmund falls. Albany reveals the contents of the letter given to him by Edgar and Goneril flees. Edmund admits his villainy and Edgar reveals his identity and recounts the recent events with his father. Edgar had revealed his identity to Gloucester, but he suffered a heart attack and died. The part that Kent has played in the events is also revealed. A gentleman enters with the news that Goneril has killed herself after she had poisoned her sister Regan, who is also dead. Albany realizes that Edmund and Goneril planned to have Lear and Cordelia murdered, but he is too late to act. Lear enters carrying his dead daughter in his arms. She had been hanged. This last tragedy for the King is too much and he dies, covering his daughter's body with his own. Albany, Kent and Edgar are left to restore the Kingdom. Kent indicates that he too does not have long to live. Edgar closes the play, \"The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long.\"", "analysis": "Interpretation The final scene brings both plots in the play to their conclusion. Lear and Cordelia are prisoners of the evil Edmund. As they are led away to the cells, Edmund passes orders to the jailor that they are to be executed. Lear's only wish is to be with his daughter. What the evil Edmund orders the officer to do is to make Cordelia's death look like suicide. The efforts Lear makes to save his daughter can only be imagined, but they result in his death soon after Cordelia's. In this final scene we also witness the final transformation in Albany's character, which has grown at the same pace as the evil in his wife, Regan and Cornwall. At the end, Albany has that air of authority and takes full control at the battle's conclusion. He has been forewarned of his wife's treachery through the letter he received from Edgar. Edgar is also present to support Albany and confront his brother, whom he mortally wounds. Again there are similarities to 'Hamlet', which also ended in a duel. The difference is that in Hamlet it was staged as sport, but this duel is for real and of course it symbolizes the battle between good and evil. Paradoxically it was Edmund's attempt to be noble that led to his downfall. He could quite easily have avoided a duel with his brother, but deep down he wished to obtain his goal through honorable means at the very end. He agrees to fight the duel not knowing that it is his brother. He could have easily refused to fight with an unidentified stranger. At the last, Edmund does repent his evil actions and tries to rescind his orders to execute Cordelia and Lear, in stark contrast to Iago in Shakespeare's 'Othello'. As previously prophesized in the play, Goneril and Regan are consumed by the evil they helped generate. Shakespeare introduces another element of irony through the death of Goneril. Although there have been attempts at suicide and fake suicides throughout the play, the only actual suicide is Goneril's, who appeared as such a strong individual at the start of the play. The audience is left in a quandary concerning the role of divine justice in the play because of the death of Cordelia, who had previously been likened to an angel by her father. This ending has been controversial over the centuries since the play was first performed. Some productions have altered the ending in order to ease the tragic element of the play, but Shakespeare never intended this play to be other than the greatest tragedy of the English language. The audience should leave the theatre with pain arising from Cordelia's death. One can justify the deaths of Gloucester and Lear because they have made errors of judgement, but Cordelia was young and innocent. She shared this position with Edgar, the other pure character in the plot. Her death causes an immediate relapse for Lear who is lost in madness before he dies. In my view, Shakespeare deliberately decided to make this the greatest tragedy, and the play should not be viewed in isolation. Shakespeare has provided us with alternative endings in his other tragedies. 'King Lear' should not be interfered with and as well as being the greatest tragedy, the role of King Lear poses the greatest challenge for the acting profession. The closing scene provides us with a set littered with bodies, some who have deserved death, and others are innocent victims. The whole Lear dynasty has been destroyed. Those that are left have the task of picking up the pieces. The noblest figure in the play left standing closes it with words that are self-explanatory."}

Scena Tertia. Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and Cordelia, as prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine. Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard, Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne That are to censure them Cor. We are not the first, Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst: For thee oppressed King I am cast downe, My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne. Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters? Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison, We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage: When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues) Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too, Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out; And take vpon's the mystery of things, As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones, That ebbe and flow by th' Moone Bast. Take them away Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia, The Gods themselues throw Incense. Haue I caught thee? He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen, And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes, The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make vs weepe? Weele see 'em staru'd first: come. Enter. Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke. Take thou this note, go follow them to prison, One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men Are as the time is; to be tender minded Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't, Or thriue by other meanes Capt. Ile do't my Lord Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done, Marke I say instantly, and carry it so As I haue set it downe. Exit Captaine. Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers. Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues Who were the opposites of this dayes strife: I do require them of you so to vse them, As we shall find their merites, and our safety May equally determine Bast. Sir, I thought it fit, To send the old and miserable King to some retention, Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more, To plucke the common bosome on his side, And turne our imprest Launces in our eies Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen: My reason all the same, and they are ready To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare Where you shall hold your Session Alb. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subiect of this Warre, Not as a Brother Reg. That's as we list to grace him. Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers, Bore the Commission of my place and person, The which immediacie may well stand vp, And call it selfe your Brother Gon. Not so hot: In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe, More then in your addition Reg. In my rights, By me inuested, he compeeres the best Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets Gon. Hola, hola, That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere From a full flowing stomack. Generall, Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony, Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine: Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere My Lord, and Master Gon. Meane you to enioy him? Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will Bast. Nor in thine Lord Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest, This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters, I bare it in the interest of my wife, 'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord, And I her husband contradict your Banes. If you will marry, make your loues to me, My Lady is bespoke Gon. An enterlude Alb. Thou art armed Gloster, Let the Trumpet sound: If none appeare to proue vpon thy person, Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons, There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee Reg. Sicke, O sicke Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies, Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach; On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine My truth and honor firmely. Enter a Herald. Alb. A Herald, ho. Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers All leuied in my name, haue in my name Tooke their discharge Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent. Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound, And read out this. A Trumpet sounds. Herald reads. If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army, will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster, that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence. 1 Trumpet. Her. Againe. 2 Trumpet. Her. Againe. 3 Trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar armed. Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet Her. What are you? Your name, your quality, and why you answer This present Summons? Edg. Know my name is lost By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit, Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary I come to cope Alb. Which is that Aduersary? Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster? Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him? Edg. Draw thy Sword, That if my speech offend a Noble heart, Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine: Behold it is my priuiledge, The priuiledge of mine Honours, My oath, and my profession. I protest, Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence, Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune, Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor: False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father, Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince, And from th' extremest vpward of thy head, To the discent and dust below thy foote, A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no, This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake, Thou lyest Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name, But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike, And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes, What safe, and nicely I might well delay, By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne: Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart, Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise, This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way, Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake Alb. Saue him, saue him. Alarums. Fights. Gon. This is practise Gloster, By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd, But cozend, and beguild Alb. Shut your mouth Dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir, Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill: No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine, Who can araigne me for't? Enter. Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper? Bast. Aske me not what I know Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her Bast. What you haue charg'd me with, That haue I done, And more, much more, the time will bring it out. 'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble, I do forgiue thee Edg. Let's exchange charity: I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond, If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me. My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne, The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague vs: The darke and vitious place where thee he got, Cost him his eyes Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true, The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee, Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I Did hate thee, or thy Father Edg. Worthy Prince I know't Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe? How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father? Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale, And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst. The bloody proclamation to escape That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse, That we the paine of death would hourely dye, Rather then die at once) taught me to shift Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings, Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide, Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire. Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him, Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd, Not sure, though hoping of this good successe, I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart (Alacke too weake the conflict to support) Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe, Burst smilingly Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me, And shall perchance do good, but speake you on, You looke as you had something more to say Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in, For I am almost ready to dissolue, Hearing of this. Enter a Gentleman. Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe Edg. What kinde of helpe? Alb. Speake man Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife? Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart of- O she's dead Alb. Who dead? Speake man Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister By her is poyson'd: she confesses it Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant Edg. Here comes Kent. Enter Kent. Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead; Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out. This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble. Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he? The time will not allow the complement Which very manners vrges Kent. I am come To bid my King and Master aye good night. Is he not here? Alb. Great thing of vs forgot, Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia? Seest thou this obiect Kent? Kent. Alacke, why thus? Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd: The one the other poison'd for my sake, And after slew herselfe Alb. Euen so: couer their faces Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send, (Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia: Nay, send in time Alb. Run, run, O run Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office? Send thy token of repreeue Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword, Giue it the Captaine Edg. Hast thee for thy life Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me, To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire, That she for-did her selfe Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile. Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes. Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones, Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so, That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer. I know when one is dead, and when one liues, She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse, If that her breath will mist or staine the stone, Why then she liues Kent. Is this the promis'd end? Edg. Or image of that horror Alb. Fall and cease Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so, It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes That euer I haue felt Kent. O my good Master Lear. Prythee away Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all, I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer: Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha: What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did Lear. Did I not fellow? I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion I would haue made him skip: I am old now, And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated, One of them we behold Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent? Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent, Where is your Seruant Caius? Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that, He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man Lear. Ile see that straight Kent. That from your first of difference and decay, Haue follow'd your sad steps Lear. You are welcome hither Kent. Nor no man else: All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly, Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues, And desperately are dead Lear. I so I thinke Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it That we present vs to him. Enter a Messenger. Edg. Very bootlesse Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord Alb. That's but a trifle heere: You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent, What comfort to this great decay may come, Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne, During the life of this old Maiesty To him our absolute power, you to your rights, With boote, and such addition as your Honours Haue more then merited. All Friends shall Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes The cup of their deseruings: O see, see Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life? Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer. Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir, Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips, Looke there, looke there. He dies. Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake Edg. Looke vp my Lord Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him, That would vpon the wracke of this tough world Stretch him out longer Edg. He is gon indeed Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long, He but vsurpt his life Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine, Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go, My Master calls me, I must not say no Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey, Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say: The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong, Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long. Exeunt. with a dead March. FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.

Act 5 Scene 3

Lear and Cordelia are led in as prisoners. Edmund is their jailor. They are led away to prison and Edmund gives the officer in charge his orders that are to be followed immediately. Edmund is joined by Albany, Goneril and Regan. Albany demands that Lear and Cordelia be put into his custody, but Edmund refuses. Albany then orders that Edmund and Goneril be arrested for treason. They are charged with conspiracy for plotting Albany's death. Edgar enters still in disguise and he makes a statement denouncing Edmund. The two brothers fight and Edmund falls. Albany reveals the contents of the letter given to him by Edgar and Goneril flees. Edmund admits his villainy and Edgar reveals his identity and recounts the recent events with his father. Edgar had revealed his identity to Gloucester, but he suffered a heart attack and died. The part that Kent has played in the events is also revealed. A gentleman enters with the news that Goneril has killed herself after she had poisoned her sister Regan, who is also dead. Albany realizes that Edmund and Goneril planned to have Lear and Cordelia murdered, but he is too late to act. Lear enters carrying his dead daughter in his arms. She had been hanged. This last tragedy for the King is too much and he dies, covering his daughter's body with his own. Albany, Kent and Edgar are left to restore the Kingdom. Kent indicates that he too does not have long to live. Edgar closes the play, "The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long."

Interpretation The final scene brings both plots in the play to their conclusion. Lear and Cordelia are prisoners of the evil Edmund. As they are led away to the cells, Edmund passes orders to the jailor that they are to be executed. Lear's only wish is to be with his daughter. What the evil Edmund orders the officer to do is to make Cordelia's death look like suicide. The efforts Lear makes to save his daughter can only be imagined, but they result in his death soon after Cordelia's. In this final scene we also witness the final transformation in Albany's character, which has grown at the same pace as the evil in his wife, Regan and Cornwall. At the end, Albany has that air of authority and takes full control at the battle's conclusion. He has been forewarned of his wife's treachery through the letter he received from Edgar. Edgar is also present to support Albany and confront his brother, whom he mortally wounds. Again there are similarities to 'Hamlet', which also ended in a duel. The difference is that in Hamlet it was staged as sport, but this duel is for real and of course it symbolizes the battle between good and evil. Paradoxically it was Edmund's attempt to be noble that led to his downfall. He could quite easily have avoided a duel with his brother, but deep down he wished to obtain his goal through honorable means at the very end. He agrees to fight the duel not knowing that it is his brother. He could have easily refused to fight with an unidentified stranger. At the last, Edmund does repent his evil actions and tries to rescind his orders to execute Cordelia and Lear, in stark contrast to Iago in Shakespeare's 'Othello'. As previously prophesized in the play, Goneril and Regan are consumed by the evil they helped generate. Shakespeare introduces another element of irony through the death of Goneril. Although there have been attempts at suicide and fake suicides throughout the play, the only actual suicide is Goneril's, who appeared as such a strong individual at the start of the play. The audience is left in a quandary concerning the role of divine justice in the play because of the death of Cordelia, who had previously been likened to an angel by her father. This ending has been controversial over the centuries since the play was first performed. Some productions have altered the ending in order to ease the tragic element of the play, but Shakespeare never intended this play to be other than the greatest tragedy of the English language. The audience should leave the theatre with pain arising from Cordelia's death. One can justify the deaths of Gloucester and Lear because they have made errors of judgement, but Cordelia was young and innocent. She shared this position with Edgar, the other pure character in the plot. Her death causes an immediate relapse for Lear who is lost in madness before he dies. In my view, Shakespeare deliberately decided to make this the greatest tragedy, and the play should not be viewed in isolation. Shakespeare has provided us with alternative endings in his other tragedies. 'King Lear' should not be interfered with and as well as being the greatest tragedy, the role of King Lear poses the greatest challenge for the acting profession. The closing scene provides us with a set littered with bodies, some who have deserved death, and others are innocent victims. The whole Lear dynasty has been destroyed. Those that are left have the task of picking up the pieces. The noblest figure in the play left standing closes it with words that are self-explanatory.

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all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/1.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_0_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 1.scene 1

act 1, scene 1

{"name": "act 1, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/novel-summary", "summary": "King Lear in his old age decides it is time to divide up his kingdom among his daughters. In order to decide how much each girl and her husband gets, he makes them each publicly declare their love. The oldest daughter Goneril has no problem doing this, nor does his middle daughter Regan. His youngest and favorite daughter, Cordelia, however, does not approve of the exercise and refuses to speak the words he longs to here. Because of her refusal, he disowns her, and because she is not married, he gives her no dowry. The portion he intended to give to her he divides instead between her sisters. The Earl of Kent stands up for Cordelia and is banished by the King for doing so. The King calls Cordelia's main suitors and asks if they will take her without her dowry. The Duke of Burgundy refuses, but the King of France wants to marry her anyway. The King of France takes her away, and King Lear tells his other daughters that he will alternate living with them", "analysis": ""}

Actus Primus. Scoena Prima. Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmond. Kent. I thought the King had more affected the Duke of Albany, then Cornwall Glou. It did alwayes seeme so to vs: But now in the diuision of the Kingdome, it appeares not which of the Dukes hee valewes most, for qualities are so weigh'd, that curiosity in neither, can make choise of eithers moity Kent. Is not this your Son, my Lord? Glou. His breeding Sir, hath bin at my charge. I haue so often blush'd to acknowledge him, that now I am braz'd too't Kent. I cannot conceiue you Glou. Sir, this yong Fellowes mother could; wherevpon she grew round womb'd, and had indeede (Sir) a Sonne for her Cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed. Do you smell a fault? Kent. I cannot wish the fault vndone, the issue of it, being so proper Glou. But I haue a Sonne, Sir, by order of Law, some yeere elder then this; who, yet is no deerer in my account, though this Knaue came somthing sawcily to the world before he was sent for: yet was his Mother fayre, there was good sport at his making, and the horson must be acknowledged. Doe you know this Noble Gentleman, Edmond? Edm. No, my Lord Glou. My Lord of Kent: Remember him heereafter, as my Honourable Friend Edm. My seruices to your Lordship Kent. I must loue you, and sue to know you better Edm. Sir, I shall study deseruing Glou. He hath bin out nine yeares, and away he shall againe. The King is comming. Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Cordelia, and attendants. Lear. Attend the Lords of France & Burgundy, Gloster Glou. I shall, my Lord. Enter. Lear. Meane time we shal expresse our darker purpose. Giue me the Map there. Know, that we haue diuided In three our Kingdome: and 'tis our fast intent, To shake all Cares and Businesse from our Age, Conferring them on yonger strengths, while we Vnburthen'd crawle toward death. Our son of Cornwal, And you our no lesse louing Sonne of Albany, We haue this houre a constant will to publish Our daughters seuerall Dowers, that future strife May be preuented now. The Princes, France & Burgundy, Great Riuals in our yongest daughters loue, Long in our Court, haue made their amorous soiourne, And heere are to be answer'd. Tell me my daughters (Since now we will diuest vs both of Rule, Interest of Territory, Cares of State) Which of you shall we say doth loue vs most, That we, our largest bountie may extend Where Nature doth with merit challenge. Gonerill, Our eldest borne, speake first Gon. Sir, I loue you more then word can weild y matter, Deerer then eye-sight, space, and libertie, Beyond what can be valewed, rich or rare, No lesse then life, with grace, health, beauty, honor: As much as Childe ere lou'd, or Father found. A loue that makes breath poore, and speech vnable, Beyond all manner of so much I loue you Cor. What shall Cordelia speake? Loue, and be silent Lear. Of all these bounds euen from this Line, to this, With shadowie Forrests, and with Champains rich'd With plenteous Riuers, and wide-skirted Meades We make thee Lady. To thine and Albanies issues Be this perpetuall. What sayes our second Daughter? Our deerest Regan, wife of Cornwall? Reg. I am made of that selfe-mettle as my Sister, And prize me at her worth. In my true heart, I finde she names my very deede of loue: Onely she comes too short, that I professe My selfe an enemy to all other ioyes, Which the most precious square of sense professes, And finde I am alone felicitate In your deere Highnesse loue Cor. Then poore Cordelia, And yet not so, since I am sure my loue's More ponderous then my tongue Lear. To thee, and thine hereditarie euer, Remaine this ample third of our faire Kingdome, No lesse in space, validitie, and pleasure Then that conferr'd on Gonerill. Now our Ioy, Although our last and least; to whose yong loue, The Vines of France, and Milke of Burgundie, Striue to be interest. What can you say, to draw A third, more opilent then your Sisters? speake Cor. Nothing my Lord Lear. Nothing? Cor. Nothing Lear. Nothing will come of nothing, speake againe Cor. Vnhappie that I am, I cannot heaue My heart into my mouth: I loue your Maiesty According to my bond, no more nor lesse Lear. How, how Cordelia? Mend your speech a little, Least you may marre your Fortunes Cor. Good my Lord, You haue begot me, bred me, lou'd me. I returne those duties backe as are right fit, Obey you, Loue you, and most Honour you. Why haue my Sisters Husbands, if they say They loue you all? Happily when I shall wed, That Lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry Halfe my loue with him, halfe my Care, and Dutie, Sure I shall neuer marry like my Sisters Lear. But goes thy heart with this? Cor. I my good Lord Lear. So young, and so vntender? Cor. So young my Lord, and true Lear. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dowre: For by the sacred radience of the Sunne, The misteries of Heccat and the night: By all the operation of the Orbes, From whom we do exist, and cease to be, Heere I disclaime all my Paternall care, Propinquity and property of blood, And as a stranger to my heart and me, Hold thee from this for euer. The barbarous Scythian, Or he that makes his generation messes To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosome Be as well neighbour'd, pittied, and releeu'd, As thou my sometime Daughter Kent. Good my Liege Lear. Peace Kent, Come not betweene the Dragon and his wrath, I lou'd her most, and thought to set my rest On her kind nursery. Hence and avoid my sight: So be my graue my peace, as here I giue Her Fathers heart from her; call France, who stirres? Call Burgundy, Cornwall, and Albanie, With my two Daughters Dowres, digest the third, Let pride, which she cals plainnesse, marry her: I doe inuest you ioyntly with my power, Preheminence, and all the large effects That troope with Maiesty. Our selfe by Monthly course, With reseruation of an hundred Knights, By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode Make with you by due turne, onely we shall retaine The name, and all th' addition to a King: the Sway, Reuennew, Execution of the rest, Beloued Sonnes be yours, which to confirme, This Coronet part betweene you Kent. Royall Lear, Whom I haue euer honor'd as my King, Lou'd as my Father, as my Master follow'd, As my great Patron thought on in my praiers Le. The bow is bent & drawne, make from the shaft Kent. Let it fall rather, though the forke inuade The region of my heart, be Kent vnmannerly, When Lear is mad, what wouldest thou do old man? Think'st thou that dutie shall haue dread to speake, When power to flattery bowes? To plainnesse honour's bound, When Maiesty falls to folly, reserue thy state, And in thy best consideration checke This hideous rashnesse, answere my life, my iudgement: Thy yongest Daughter do's not loue thee least, Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sounds Reuerbe no hollownesse Lear. Kent, on thy life no more Kent. My life I neuer held but as pawne To wage against thine enemies, nere feare to loose it, Thy safety being motiue Lear. Out of my sight Kent. See better Lear, and let me still remaine The true blanke of thine eie Lear. Now by Apollo, Kent. Now by Apollo, King Thou swear'st thy Gods in vaine Lear. O Vassall! Miscreant Alb. Cor. Deare Sir forbeare Kent. Kill thy Physition, and thy fee bestow Vpon the foule disease, reuoke thy guift, Or whil'st I can vent clamour from my throate, Ile tell thee thou dost euill Lea. Heare me recreant, on thine allegeance heare me; That thou hast sought to make vs breake our vowes, Which we durst neuer yet; and with strain'd pride, To come betwixt our sentences, and our power, Which, nor our nature, nor our place can beare; Our potencie made good, take thy reward. Fiue dayes we do allot thee for prouision, To shield thee from disasters of the world, And on the sixt to turne thy hated backe Vpon our kingdome: if on the tenth day following, Thy banisht trunke be found in our Dominions, The moment is thy death, away. By Iupiter, This shall not be reuok'd, Kent. Fare thee well King, sith thus thou wilt appeare, Freedome liues hence, and banishment is here; The Gods to their deere shelter take thee Maid, That iustly think'st, and hast most rightly said: And your large speeches, may your deeds approue, That good effects may spring from words of loue: Thus Kent, O Princes, bids you all adew, Hee'l shape his old course, in a Country new. Enter. Flourish. Enter Gloster with France, and Burgundy, Attendants. Cor. Heere's France and Burgundy, my Noble Lord Lear. My Lord of Burgundie, We first addresse toward you, who with this King Hath riuald for our Daughter; what in the least Will you require in present Dower with her, Or cease your quest of Loue? Bur. Most Royall Maiesty, I craue no more then hath your Highnesse offer'd, Nor will you tender lesse? Lear. Right Noble Burgundy, When she was deare to vs, we did hold her so, But now her price is fallen: Sir, there she stands, If ought within that little seeming substance, Or all of it with our displeasure piec'd, And nothing more may fitly like your Grace, Shee's there, and she is yours Bur. I know no answer Lear. Will you with those infirmities she owes, Vnfriended, new adopted to our hate, Dow'rd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath, Take her or, leaue her Bur. Pardon me Royall Sir, Election makes not vp in such conditions Le. Then leaue her sir, for by the powre that made me, I tell you all her wealth. For you great King, I would not from your loue make such a stray, To match you where I hate, therefore beseech you T' auert your liking a more worthier way, Then on a wretch whom Nature is asham'd Almost t' acknowledge hers Fra. This is most strange, That she whom euen but now, was your obiect, The argument of your praise, balme of your age, The best, the deerest, should in this trice of time Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle So many folds of fauour: sure her offence Must be of such vnnaturall degree, That monsters it: Or your fore-voucht affection Fall into taint, which to beleeue of her Must be a faith that reason without miracle Should neuer plant in me Cor. I yet beseech your Maiesty. If for I want that glib and oylie Art, To speake and purpose not, since what I will intend, Ile do't before I speake, that you make knowne It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulenesse, No vnchaste action or dishonoured step That hath depriu'd me of your Grace and fauour, But euen for want of that, for which I am richer, A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue, That I am glad I haue not, though not to haue it, Hath lost me in your liking Lear. Better thou had'st Not beene borne, then not t'haue pleas'd me better Fra. Is it but this? A tardinesse in nature, Which often leaues the history vnspoke That it intends to do: my Lord of Burgundy, What say you to the Lady? Loue's not loue When it is mingled with regards, that stands Aloofe from th' intire point, will you haue her? She is herselfe a Dowrie Bur. Royall King, Giue but that portion which your selfe propos'd, And here I take Cordelia by the hand, Dutchesse of Burgundie Lear. Nothing, I haue sworne, I am firme Bur. I am sorry then you haue so lost a Father, That you must loose a husband Cor. Peace be with Burgundie, Since that respect and Fortunes are his loue, I shall not be his wife Fra. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poore, Most choise forsaken, and most lou'd despis'd, Thee and thy vertues here I seize vpon, Be it lawfull I take vp what's cast away. Gods, Gods! 'Tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect My Loue should kindle to enflam'd respect. Thy dowrelesse Daughter King, throwne to my chance, Is Queene of vs, of ours, and our faire France: Not all the Dukes of watrish Burgundy, Can buy this vnpriz'd precious Maid of me. Bid them farewell Cordelia, though vnkinde, Thou loosest here a better where to finde Lear. Thou hast her France, let her be thine, for we Haue no such Daughter, nor shall euer see That face of hers againe, therfore be gone, Without our Grace, our Loue, our Benizon: Come Noble Burgundie. Flourish. Exeunt. Fra. Bid farwell to your Sisters Cor. The Iewels of our Father, with wash'd eies Cordelia leaues you, I know you what you are, And like a Sister am most loth to call Your faults as they are named. Loue well our Father: To your professed bosomes I commit him, But yet alas, stood I within his Grace, I would prefer him to a better place, So farewell to you both Regn. Prescribe not vs our dutie Gon. Let your study Be to content your Lord, who hath receiu'd you At Fortunes almes, you haue obedience scanted, And well are worth the want that you haue wanted Cor. Time shall vnfold what plighted cunning hides, Who couers faults, at last with shame derides: Well may you prosper Fra. Come my faire Cordelia. Exit France and Cor. Gon. Sister, it is not little I haue to say, Of what most neerely appertaines to vs both, I thinke our Father will hence to night Reg. That's most certaine, and with you: next moneth with vs Gon. You see how full of changes his age is, the obseruation we haue made of it hath beene little; he alwaies lou'd our Sister most, and with what poore iudgement he hath now cast her off, appeares too grossely Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age, yet he hath euer but slenderly knowne himselfe Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath bin but rash, then must we looke from his age, to receiue not alone the imperfections of long ingraffed condition, but therewithall the vnruly way-wardnesse, that infirme and cholericke yeares bring with them Reg. Such vnconstant starts are we like to haue from him, as this of Kents banishment Gon. There is further complement of leaue-taking betweene France and him, pray you let vs sit together, if our Father carry authority with such disposition as he beares, this last surrender of his will but offend vs Reg. We shall further thinke of it Gon. We must do something, and i'th' heate. Exeunt.

act 1, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/novel-summary

King Lear in his old age decides it is time to divide up his kingdom among his daughters. In order to decide how much each girl and her husband gets, he makes them each publicly declare their love. The oldest daughter Goneril has no problem doing this, nor does his middle daughter Regan. His youngest and favorite daughter, Cordelia, however, does not approve of the exercise and refuses to speak the words he longs to here. Because of her refusal, he disowns her, and because she is not married, he gives her no dowry. The portion he intended to give to her he divides instead between her sisters. The Earl of Kent stands up for Cordelia and is banished by the King for doing so. The King calls Cordelia's main suitors and asks if they will take her without her dowry. The Duke of Burgundy refuses, but the King of France wants to marry her anyway. The King of France takes her away, and King Lear tells his other daughters that he will alternate living with them

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/2.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_0_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 1.scene 2

act 1, scene 2

{"name": "act 1, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/novel-summary", "summary": "Edmund, the bastard son of Gloucester, comes up with a plan to usurp his brother and gain his father's land and money. His father comes to him, and he quickly hides a forged letter from his brother, Edgar. Because of his strange behavior, his father asks to see the letter. He is disgusted by the treacherous content of his legitimate son, and Edmund defends his brother. He promises to help his father find the truth. After his father leaves, Edmund talks to Edgar and tells him that their father is angry with him. He tells his brother to be prepared to run and take solders with him. His brother believes him, and Edmund is happy that his plan is successful", "analysis": ""}

Scena Secunda. Enter Bastard. Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law My seruices are bound, wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custome, and permit The curiosity of Nations, to depriue me? For that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base? When my Dimensions are as well compact, My minde as generous, and my shape as true As honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base? Who in the lustie stealth of Nature, take More composition, and fierce qualitie, Then doth within a dull stale tyred bed Goe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops Got 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then, Legitimate Edgar, I must haue your land, Our Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond, As to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate. Well, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed, And my inuention thriue, Edmond the base Shall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper: Now Gods, stand vp for Bastards. Enter Gloucester. Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted? And the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre, Confin'd to exhibition? All this done Vpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes? Bast. So please your Lordship, none Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter? Bast. I know no newes, my Lord Glou. What Paper were you reading? Bast. Nothing my Lord Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of it into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not such neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing, I shall not neede Spectacles Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter from my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so much as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it: The Contents, as in part I vnderstand them, Are too blame Glou. Let's see, let's see Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote this but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the world bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from vs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle and fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of this I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the beloued of your Brother. Edgar. Hum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a hand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in? When came you to this? Who brought it? Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the cunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of my Closset Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers? Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear it were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it were not Glou. It is his Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is not in the Contents Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines? Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine it to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers declin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and the Sonne manage his Reuennew Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter. Abhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish Villaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile apprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he? Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to suspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can deriue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold run a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great gap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of his obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that he hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, & to no other pretence of danger Glou. Thinke you so? Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you where you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular assurance haue your satisfaction, and that without any further delay, then this very Euening Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke him out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse after your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my selfe, to be in a due resolution Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse as I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend no good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can reason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd by the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off, Brothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord; in Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt Sonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the prediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from byas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue seene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse, treacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly to our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose thee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted Kent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange. Exit Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that when we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own behauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the Moone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie, Fooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and Treachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars, and Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary influence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting on. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man, to lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre, My father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons taile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so that it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should haue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament twinkled on my bastardizing. Enter Edgar. Pat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie: my Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom o' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions. Fa, Sol, La, Me Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation are you in? Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this other day, what should follow these Eclipses Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that? Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede vnhappily. When saw you my Father last? Edg. The night gone by Bast. Spake you with him? Edg. I, two houres together Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure in him, by word, nor countenance? Edg. None at all, Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended him: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure, which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe of your person, it would scarsely alay Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will fitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe, there's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd Edg. Arm'd, Brother? Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest man, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told you what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing like the image, and horror of it, pray you away Edg. Shall I heare from you anon? Enter. Edm. I do serue you in this businesse: A Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble, Whose nature is so farre from doing harmes, That he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie My practises ride easie: I see the businesse. Let me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit, All with me's meete, that I can fashion fit. Enter.

act 1, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/novel-summary

Edmund, the bastard son of Gloucester, comes up with a plan to usurp his brother and gain his father's land and money. His father comes to him, and he quickly hides a forged letter from his brother, Edgar. Because of his strange behavior, his father asks to see the letter. He is disgusted by the treacherous content of his legitimate son, and Edmund defends his brother. He promises to help his father find the truth. After his father leaves, Edmund talks to Edgar and tells him that their father is angry with him. He tells his brother to be prepared to run and take solders with him. His brother believes him, and Edmund is happy that his plan is successful

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/5.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_2_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 1.scene 5

act 1, scene 5

{"name": "act 1, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act1-scene5-act2-scene1", "summary": "Lear sends Kent, still in disguise, ahead to his daughter Regan's house so she can prepare for his arrival. While he is gone, the Fool who is traveling with them tells the former King that he could easily be the fool. When the king asks why, the fool tells him it is because he gave away his land too soon, and made himself old before he was wise", "analysis": ""}

Scena Quinta. Enter Lear, Kent, Gentleman, and Foole. Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these Letters; acquaint my Daughter no further with any thing you know, then comes from her demand out of the Letter, if your Dilligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore you Kent. I will not sleepe my Lord, till I haue deliuered your Letter. Enter. Foole. If a mans braines were in's heeles, wert not in danger of kybes? Lear. I Boy Foole. Then I prythee be merry, thy wit shall not go slip-shod Lear. Ha, ha, ha Fool. Shalt see thy other Daughter will vse thee kindly, for though she's as like this, as a Crabbe's like an Apple, yet I can tell what I can tell Lear. What can'st tell Boy? Foole. She will taste as like this as, a Crabbe do's to a Crab: thou canst, tell why ones nose stands i'th' middle on's face? Lear. No Foole. Why to keepe ones eyes of either side 's nose, that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into Lear. I did her wrong Foole. Can'st tell how an Oyster makes his shell? Lear. No Foole. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a Snaile ha's a house Lear. Why? Foole. Why to put's head in, not to giue it away to his daughters, and leaue his hornes without a case Lear. I will forget my Nature, so kind a Father? Be my Horsses ready? Foole. Thy Asses are gone about 'em; the reason why the seuen Starres are no mo then seuen, is a pretty reason Lear. Because they are not eight Foole. Yes indeed, thou would'st make a good Foole Lear. To tak't againe perforce; Monster Ingratitude! Foole. If thou wert my Foole Nunckle, Il'd haue thee beaten for being old before thy time Lear. How's that? Foole. Thou shouldst not haue bin old, till thou hadst bin wise Lear. O let me not be mad, not mad sweet Heauen: keepe me in temper, I would not be mad. How now are the Horses ready? Gent. Ready my Lord Lear. Come Boy Fool. She that's a Maid now, & laughs at my departure, Shall not be a Maid long, vnlesse things be cut shorter. Exeunt.

act 1, Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act1-scene5-act2-scene1

Lear sends Kent, still in disguise, ahead to his daughter Regan's house so she can prepare for his arrival. While he is gone, the Fool who is traveling with them tells the former King that he could easily be the fool. When the king asks why, the fool tells him it is because he gave away his land too soon, and made himself old before he was wise

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/6.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_2_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 2.scene 1

act 2, scene 1

{"name": "Act 2, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act1-scene5-act2-scene1", "summary": "Edmund hears that the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall are coming to his father's house. He decides it is time to put his plan fully into effect. He tells his brother that more evidence has come up against him. When his father comes, he makes him draw his sword. At Edmunds behest, Edgar flees making him look like a traitor. Edmund has a wound in his arm, and his father commends him for his service. Gloucester sentences Edgar to death if he is captured. The Duke and Duchess arrive and hear of the happenings and commend Edmund for his bravery. They tell Gloucester that they have come to seek refuge because of conflicting letters that they have received from Regan's sister and her father. If her father comes to her castle, they do not want to be there. Gloucester swears to give them all the aid they need until they can figure out who's message to believe and what to do about it", "analysis": ""}

Actus Secundus. Scena Prima. Enter Bastard, and Curan, seuerally. Bast. Saue thee Curan Cur. And you Sir, I haue bin With your Father, and giuen him notice That the Duke of Cornwall, and Regan his Duchesse Will be here with him this night Bast. How comes that? Cur. Nay I know not, you haue heard of the newes abroad, I meane the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but ear-kissing arguments Bast. Not I: pray you what are they? Cur. Haue you heard of no likely Warres toward, 'Twixt the Dukes of Cornwall, and Albany? Bast. Not a word Cur. You may do then in time, Fare you well Sir. Enter. Bast. The Duke be here to night? The better best, This weaues it selfe perforce into my businesse, My Father hath set guard to take my Brother, And I haue one thing of a queazie question Which I must act, Briefenesse, and Fortune worke. Enter Edgar. Brother, a word, discend; Brother I say, My Father watches: O Sir, fly this place, Intelligence is giuen where you are hid; You haue now the good aduantage of the night, Haue you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornewall? Hee's comming hither, now i'th' night, i'th' haste, And Regan with him, haue you nothing said Vpon his partie 'gainst the Duke of Albany? Aduise your selfe Edg. I am sure on't, not a word Bast. I heare my Father comming, pardon me: In cunning, I must draw my Sword vpon you: Draw, seeme to defend your selfe, Now quit you well. Yeeld, come before my Father, light hoa, here, Fly Brother, Torches, Torches, so farewell. Exit Edgar. Some blood drawne on me, would beget opinion Of my more fierce endeauour. I haue seene drunkards Do more then this in sport; Father, Father, Stop, stop, no helpe? Enter Gloster, and Seruants with Torches. Glo. Now Edmund, where's the villaine? Bast. Here stood he in the dark, his sharpe Sword out, Mumbling of wicked charmes, coniuring the Moone To stand auspicious Mistris Glo. But where is he? Bast. Looke Sir, I bleed Glo. Where is the villaine, Edmund? Bast. Fled this way Sir, when by no meanes he could Glo. Pursue him, ho: go after. By no meanes, what? Bast. Perswade me to the murther of your Lordship, But that I told him the reuenging Gods, 'Gainst Paricides did all the thunder bend, Spoke with how manifold, and strong a Bond The Child was bound to'th' Father; Sir in fine, Seeing how lothly opposite I stood To his vnnaturall purpose, in fell motion With his prepared Sword, he charges home My vnprouided body, latch'd mine arme; And when he saw my best alarum'd spirits Bold in the quarrels right, rouz'd to th' encounter, Or whether gasted by the noyse I made, Full sodainely he fled Glost. Let him fly farre: Not in this Land shall he remaine vncaught And found; dispatch, the Noble Duke my Master, My worthy Arch and Patron comes to night, By his authoritie I will proclaime it, That he which finds him shall deserue our thankes, Bringing the murderous Coward to the stake: He that conceales him death Bast. When I disswaded him from his intent, And found him pight to doe it, with curst speech I threaten'd to discouer him; he replied, Thou vnpossessing Bastard, dost thou thinke, If I would stand against thee, would the reposall Of any trust, vertue, or worth in thee Make thy words faith'd? No, what should I denie, (As this I would, though thou didst produce My very Character) I'ld turne it all To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise: And thou must make a dullard of the world, If they not thought the profits of my death Were very pregnant and potentiall spirits To make thee seeke it. Tucket within. Glo. O strange and fastned Villaine, Would he deny his Letter, said he? Harke, the Dukes Trumpets, I know not wher he comes; All Ports Ile barre, the villaine shall not scape, The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture I will send farre and neere, that all the kingdome May haue due note of him, and of my land, (Loyall and naturall Boy) Ile worke the meanes To make thee capable. Enter Cornewall, Regan, and Attendants. Corn. How now my Noble friend, since I came hither (Which I can call but now,) I haue heard strangenesse Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short Which can pursue th' offender; how dost my Lord? Glo. O Madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd Reg. What, did my Fathers Godsonne seeke your life? He whom my Father nam'd, your Edgar? Glo. O Lady, Lady, shame would haue it hid Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous Knights That tended vpon my Father? Glo. I know not Madam, 'tis too bad, too bad Bast. Yes Madam, he was of that consort Reg. No maruaile then, though he were ill affected, 'Tis they haue put him on the old mans death, To haue th' expence and wast of his Reuenues: I haue this present euening from my Sister Beene well inform'd of them, and with such cautions, That if they come to soiourne at my house, Ile not be there Cor. Nor I, assure thee Regan; Edmund, I heare that you haue shewne your Father A Child-like Office Bast. It was my duty Sir Glo. He did bewray his practise, and receiu'd This hurt you see, striuing to apprehend him Cor. Is he pursued? Glo. I my good Lord Cor. If he be taken, he shall neuer more Be fear'd of doing harme, make your owne purpose, How in my strength you please: for you Edmund, Whose vertue and obedience doth this instant So much commend it selfe, you shall be ours, Nature's of such deepe trust, we shall much need: You we first seize on Bast. I shall serue you Sir truely, how euer else Glo. For him I thanke your Grace Cor. You know not why we came to visit you? Reg. Thus out of season, thredding darke ey'd night, Occasions Noble Gloster of some prize, Wherein we must haue vse of your aduise. Our Father he hath writ, so hath our Sister, Of differences, which I best thought it fit To answere from our home: the seuerall Messengers From hence attend dispatch, our good old Friend, Lay comforts to your bosome, and bestow Your needfull counsaile to our businesses, Which craues the instant vse Glo. I serue you Madam, Your Graces are right welcome. Exeunt. Flourish.

Act 2, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act1-scene5-act2-scene1

Edmund hears that the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall are coming to his father's house. He decides it is time to put his plan fully into effect. He tells his brother that more evidence has come up against him. When his father comes, he makes him draw his sword. At Edmunds behest, Edgar flees making him look like a traitor. Edmund has a wound in his arm, and his father commends him for his service. Gloucester sentences Edgar to death if he is captured. The Duke and Duchess arrive and hear of the happenings and commend Edmund for his bravery. They tell Gloucester that they have come to seek refuge because of conflicting letters that they have received from Regan's sister and her father. If her father comes to her castle, they do not want to be there. Gloucester swears to give them all the aid they need until they can figure out who's message to believe and what to do about it

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/7.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_3_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 2.scene 2

act 2, scene 2

{"name": "act 2, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act2-scene2-act2-scene3", "summary": "Kent and Oswald, messengers from Lear and Goneril, meet in the courtyard of Gloucester. Kent recognizes the steward and starts to berate him and challenges him to a fight because of his purpose against the king. Oswald refuses the fight, but Kent begins to beat him anyway. Gloucester, Regan, the Duke of Cornwall, and Edmund all appear and ask why they are fighting. When they explain, Regan sees the similarities between Kent, and the King's men her sister was complaining about, and has him put into the stocks. Everyone but Gloucester leaves Kent, and he promises the imprisoned messenger to help him in anyway possible", "analysis": ""}

Scena Secunda. Enter Kent, and Steward seuerally. Stew. Good dawning to thee Friend, art of this house? Kent. I Stew. Where may we set our horses? Kent. I'th' myre Stew. Prythee, if thou lou'st me, tell me Kent. I loue thee not Ste. Why then I care not for thee Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make thee care for me Ste. Why do'st thou vse me thus? I know thee not Kent. Fellow I know thee Ste. What do'st thou know me for? Kent. A Knaue, a Rascall, an eater of broken meates, a base, proud, shallow, beggerly, three-suited-hundred pound, filthy woosted-stocking knaue, a Lilly-liuered, action-taking, whoreson glasse-gazing super-seruiceable finicall Rogue, one Trunke-inheriting slaue, one that would'st be a Baud in way of good seruice, and art nothing but the composition of a Knaue, Begger, Coward, Pandar, and the Sonne and Heire of a Mungrill Bitch, one whom I will beate into clamours whining, if thou deny'st the least sillable of thy addition Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus to raile on one, that is neither knowne of thee, nor knowes thee? Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny thou knowest me? Is it two dayes since I tript vp thy heeles, and beate thee before the King? Draw you rogue, for though it be night, yet the Moone shines, Ile make a sop oth' Moonshine of you, you whoreson Cullyenly Barber-monger, draw Stew. Away, I haue nothing to do with thee Kent. Draw you Rascall, you come with Letters against the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, against the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come your waies Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe Kent. Strike you slaue: stand rogue, stand you neat slaue, strike Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther. Enter Bastard, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants. Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come, Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here? Cor. Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that strikes againe, what is the matter? Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King? Cor. What is your difference, speake? Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord Kent. No Maruell, you haue so bestir'd your valour, you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor made thee Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man? Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could not haue made him so ill, though they had bin but two yeares oth' trade Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell? Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I haue spar'd at sute of his gray-beard Kent. Thou whoreson Zed, thou vnnecessary letter: my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile? Cor. Peace sirrah, You beastly knaue, know you no reuerence? Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge Cor. Why art thou angrie? Kent. That such a slaue as this should weare a Sword, Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these, Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine, Which are t' intrince, t' vnloose: smooth euery passion That in the natures of their Lords rebell, Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes, Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes With euery gall, and varry of their Masters, Knowing naught (like dogges) but following: A plague vpon your Epilepticke visage, Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole? Goose, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine, I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow? Glost. How fell you out, say that? Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy, Then I, and such a knaue Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knaue? What is his fault? Kent. His countenance likes me not Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine, I haue seene better faces in my Time, Then stands on any shoulder that I see Before me, at this instant Corn. This is some Fellow, Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect A saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he, An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth, And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine. These kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainnesse Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends, Then twenty silly-ducking obseruants, That stretch their duties nicely Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity, Vnder th' allowance of your great aspect, Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire On flickring Phoebus front Corn. What mean'st by this? Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend so much; I know Sir, I am no flatterer, he that beguild you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knaue, which for my part I will not be, though I should win your displeasure to entreat me too't Corn. What was th' offence you gaue him? Ste. I neuer gaue him any: It pleas'd the King his Master very late To strike at me vpon his misconstruction, When he compact, and flattering his displeasure Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd, And put vpon him such a deale of Man, That worthied him, got praises of the King, For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued, And in the fleshment of this dead exploit, Drew on me here againe Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards But Aiax is there Foole Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks? You stubborne ancient Knaue, you reuerent Bragart, Wee'l teach you Kent. Sir, I am too old to learne: Call not your Stocks for me, I serue the King. On whose imployment I was sent to you, You shall doe small respects, show too bold malice Against the Grace, and Person of my Master, Stocking his Messenger Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks; As I haue life and Honour, there shall he sit till Noone Reg. Till noone? till night my Lord, and all night too Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Fathers dog, You should not vse me so Reg. Sir, being his Knaue, I will. Stocks brought out. Cor. This is a Fellow of the selfe same colour, Our Sister speakes of. Come, bring away the Stocks Glo. Let me beseech your Grace, not to do so, The King his Master, needs must take it ill That he so slightly valued in his Messenger, Should haue him thus restrained Cor. Ile answere that Reg. My Sister may recieue it much more worsse, To haue her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted Corn. Come my Lord, away. Enter. Glo. I am sorry for thee friend, 'tis the Dukes pleasure, Whose disposition all the world well knowes Will not be rub'd nor stopt, Ile entreat for thee Kent. Pray do not Sir, I haue watch'd and trauail'd hard, Some time I shall sleepe out, the rest Ile whistle: A good mans fortune may grow out at heeles: Giue you good morrow Glo. The Duke's too blame in this, 'Twill be ill taken. Enter. Kent. Good King, that must approue the common saw, Thou out of Heauens benediction com'st To the warme Sun. Approach thou Beacon to this vnder Globe, That by thy comfortable Beames I may Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees miracles But miserie. I know 'tis from Cordelia, Who hath most fortunately beene inform'd Of my obscured course. And shall finde time From this enormous State, seeking to giue Losses their remedies. All weary and o're-watch'd, Take vantage heauie eyes, not to behold This shamefull lodging. Fortune goodnight, Smile once more, turne thy wheele. Enter Edgar. Edg. I heard my selfe proclaim'd, And by the happy hollow of a Tree, Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no place That guard, and most vnusall vigilance Do's not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape I will preserue myselfe: and am bethought To take the basest, and most poorest shape That euer penury in contempt of man, Brought neere to beast; my face Ile grime with filth, Blanket my loines, else all my haires in knots, And with presented nakednesse out-face The Windes, and persecutions of the skie; The Country giues me proofe, and president Of Bedlam beggers, who with roaring voices, Strike in their num'd and mortified Armes. Pins, Wodden-prickes, Nayles, Sprigs of Rosemarie: And with this horrible obiect, from low Farmes, Poore pelting Villages, Sheeps-Coates, and Milles, Sometimes with Lunaticke bans, sometime with Praiers Inforce their charitie: poore Turlygod poore Tom, That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am. Enter. Enter Lear, Foole, and Gentleman. Lea. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home, And not send backe my Messengers Gent. As I learn'd, The night before, there was no purpose in them Of this remoue Kent. Haile to thee Noble Master Lear. Ha? Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime? Kent. No my Lord Foole. Hah, ha, he weares Cruell Garters Horses are tide by the heads, Dogges and Beares by'th' necke, Monkies by'th' loynes, and Men by'th' legs: when a man ouerlustie at legs, then he weares wodden nether-stocks Lear. What's he, That hath so much thy place mistooke To set thee heere? Kent. It is both he and she, Your Son, and Daughter Lear. No Kent. Yes Lear. No I say Kent. I say yea Lear. By Iupiter I sweare no Kent. By Iuno, I sweare I Lear. They durst not do't: They could not, would not do't: 'tis worse then murther, To do vpon respect such violent outrage: Resolue me with all modest haste, which way Thou might'st deserue, or they impose this vsage, Comming from vs Kent. My Lord, when at their home I did commend your Highnesse Letters to them, Ere I was risen from the place, that shewed My dutie kneeling, came there a reeking Poste, Stew'd in his haste, halfe breathlesse, painting forth From Gonerill his Mistris, salutations; Deliuer'd Letters spight of intermission, Which presently they read; on those contents They summon'd vp their meiney, straight tooke Horse, Commanded me to follow, and attend The leisure of their answer, gaue me cold lookes, And meeting heere the other Messenger, Whose welcome I perceiu'd had poison'd mine, Being the very fellow which of late Displaid so sawcily against your Highnesse, Hauing more man then wit about me, drew; He rais'd the house, with loud and coward cries, Your Sonne and Daughter found this trespasse worth The shame which heere it suffers Foole. Winters not gon yet, if the wil'd Geese fly that way, Fathers that weare rags, do make their Children blind, But Fathers that beare bags, shall see their children kind. Fortune that arrant whore, nere turns the key toth' poore. But for all this thou shalt haue as many Dolors for thy Daughters, as thou canst tell in a yeare Lear. Oh how this Mother swels vp toward my heart! Historica passio, downe thou climing sorrow, Thy Elements below where is this Daughter? Kent. With the Earle Sir, here within Lear. Follow me not, stay here. Enter. Gen. Made you no more offence, But what you speake of? Kent. None: How chance the King comes with so small a number? Foole. And thou hadst beene set i'th' Stockes for that question, thoud'st well deseru'd it Kent. Why Foole? Foole. Wee'l set thee to schoole to an Ant, to teach thee ther's no labouring i'th' winter. All that follow their noses, are led by their eyes, but blinde men, and there's not a nose among twenty, but can smell him that's stinking; let go thy hold when a great wheele runs downe a hill, least it breake thy necke with following. But the great one that goes vpward, let him draw thee after: when a wiseman giues thee better counsell giue me mine againe, I would haue none but knaues follow it, since a Foole giues it. That Sir, which serues and seekes for gaine, And followes but for forme; Will packe, when it begins to raine, And leaue thee in the storme, But I will tarry, the Foole will stay, And let the wiseman flie: The knaue turnes Foole that runnes away, The Foole no knaue perdie. Enter Lear, and Gloster] : Kent. Where learn'd you this Foole? Foole. Not i'th' Stocks Foole Lear. Deny to speake with me? They are sicke, they are weary, They haue trauail'd all the night? meere fetches, The images of reuolt and flying off. Fetch me a better answer Glo. My deere Lord, You know the fiery quality of the Duke, How vnremoueable and fixt he is In his owne course Lear. Vengeance, Plague, Death, Confusion: Fiery? What quality? Why Gloster, Gloster, I'ld speake with the Duke of Cornewall, and his wife Glo. Well my good Lord, I haue inform'd them so Lear. Inform'd them? Do'st thou vnderstand me man Glo. I my good Lord Lear. The King would speake with Cornwall, The deere Father Would with his Daughter speake, commands, tends, seruice, Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood: Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that- No, but not yet, may be he is not well, Infirmity doth still neglect all office, Whereto our health is bound, we are not our selues, When Nature being opprest, commands the mind To suffer with the body; Ile forbeare, And am fallen out with my more headier will, To take the indispos'd and sickly fit, For the sound man. Death on my state: wherefore Should he sit heere? This act perswades me, That this remotion of the Duke and her Is practise only. Giue me my Seruant forth; Goe tell the Duke, and's wife, Il'd speake with them: Now, presently: bid them come forth and heare me, Or at their Chamber doore Ile beate the Drum, Till it crie sleepe to death Glo. I would haue all well betwixt you. Enter. Lear. Oh me my heart! My rising heart! But downe Foole. Cry to it Nunckle, as the Cockney did to the Eeles, when she put 'em i'th' Paste aliue, she knapt 'em o'th' coxcombs with a sticke, and cryed downe wantons, downe; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindnesse to his Horse buttered his Hay. Enter Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants. Lear. Good morrow to you both Corn. Haile to your Grace. Kent here set at liberty. Reg. I am glad to see your Highnesse Lear. Regan, I thinke you are. I know what reason I haue to thinke so, if thou should'st not be glad, I would diuorce me from thy Mother Tombe, Sepulchring an Adultresse. O are you free? Some other time for that. Beloued Regan, Thy Sisters naught: oh Regan, she hath tied Sharpe-tooth'd vnkindnesse, like a vulture heere, I can scarce speake to thee, thou'lt not beleeue With how deprau'd a quality. Oh Regan Reg. I pray you Sir, take patience, I haue hope You lesse know how to value her desert, Then she to scant her dutie Lear. Say? How is that? Reg. I cannot thinke my Sister in the least Would faile her Obligation. If Sir perchance She haue restrained the Riots of your Followres, 'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end, As cleeres her from all blame Lear. My curses on her Reg. O Sir, you are old, Nature in you stands on the very Verge Of his confine: you should be rul'd, and led By some discretion, that discernes your state Better then you your selfe: therefore I pray you, That to our Sister, you do make returne, Say you haue wrong'd her Lear. Aske her forgiuenesse? Do you but marke how this becomes the house? Deere daughter, I confesse that I am old; Age is vnnecessary: on my knees I begge, That you'l vouchsafe me Rayment, Bed, and Food Reg. Good Sir, no more: these are vnsightly trickes: Returne you to my Sister Lear. Neuer Regan: She hath abated me of halfe my Traine; Look'd blacke vpon me, strooke me with her Tongue Most Serpent-like, vpon the very Heart. All the stor'd Vengeances of Heauen, fall On her ingratefull top: strike her yong bones You taking Ayres, with Lamenesse Corn. Fye sir, fie Le. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames Into her scornfull eyes: Infect her Beauty, You Fen-suck'd Fogges, drawne by the powrfull Sunne, To fall, and blister Reg. O the blest Gods! So will you wish on me, when the rash moode is on Lear. No Regan, thou shalt neuer haue my curse: Thy tender-hefted Nature shall not giue Thee o're to harshnesse: Her eyes are fierce, but thine Do comfort, and not burne. 'Tis not in thee To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my Traine, To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes, And in conclusion, to oppose the bolt Against my comming in. Thou better know'st The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood, Effects of Curtesie, dues of Gratitude: Thy halfe o'th' Kingdome hast thou not forgot, Wherein I thee endow'd Reg. Good Sir, to'th' purpose. Tucket within. Lear. Who put my man i'th' Stockes? Enter Steward. Corn. What Trumpet's that? Reg. I know't, my Sisters: this approues her Letter, That she would soone be heere. Is your Lady come? Lear. This is a Slaue, whose easie borrowed pride Dwels in the sickly grace of her he followes. Out Varlet, from my sight Corn. What meanes your Grace? Enter Gonerill. Lear. Who stockt my Seruant? Regan, I haue good hope Thou did'st not know on't. Who comes here? O Heauens! If you do loue old men; if your sweet sway Allow Obedience; if you your selues are old, Make it your cause: Send downe, and take my part. Art not asham'd to looke vpon this Beard? O Regan, will you take her by the hand? Gon. Why not by'th' hand Sir? How haue I offended? All's not offence that indiscretion findes, And dotage termes so Lear. O sides, you are too tough! Will you yet hold? How came my man i'th' Stockes? Corn. I set him there, Sir: but his owne Disorders Deseru'd much lesse aduancement Lear. You? Did you? Reg. I pray you Father being weake, seeme so. If till the expiration of your Moneth You will returne and soiourne with my Sister, Dismissing halfe your traine, come then to me, I am now from home, and out of that prouision Which shall be needfull for your entertainement Lear. Returne to her? and fifty men dismiss'd? No, rather I abiure all roofes, and chuse To wage against the enmity oth' ayre, To be a Comrade with the Wolfe, and Owle, Necessities sharpe pinch. Returne with her? Why the hot-bloodied France, that dowerlesse tooke Our yongest borne, I could as well be brought To knee his Throne, and Squire-like pension beg, To keepe base life a foote; returne with her? Perswade me rather to be slaue and sumpter To this detested groome Gon. At your choice Sir Lear. I prythee Daughter do not make me mad, I will not trouble thee my Child; farewell: Wee'l no more meete, no more see one another. But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my Daughter, Or rather a disease that's in my flesh, Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a Byle, A plague sore, or imbossed Carbuncle In my corrupted blood. But Ile not chide thee, Let shame come when it will, I do not call it, I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoote, Nor tell tales of thee to high-iudging Ioue, Mend when thou can'st, be better at thy leisure, I can be patient, I can stay with Regan, I and my hundred Knights Reg. Not altogether so, I look'd not for you yet, nor am prouided For your fit welcome, giue eare Sir to my Sister, For those that mingle reason with your passion, Must be content to thinke you old, and so, But she knowes what she doe's Lear. Is this well spoken? Reg. I dare auouch it Sir, what fifty Followers? Is it not well? What should you need of more? Yea, or so many? Sith that both charge and danger, Speake 'gainst so great a number? How in one house Should many people, vnder two commands Hold amity? 'Tis hard, almost impossible Gon. Why might not you my Lord, receiue attendance From those that she cals Seruants, or from mine? Reg. Why not my Lord? If then they chanc'd to slacke ye, We could comptroll them; if you will come to me, (For now I spie a danger) I entreate you To bring but fiue and twentie, to no more Will I giue place or notice Lear. I gaue you all Reg. And in good time you gaue it Lear. Made you my Guardians, my Depositaries, But kept a reseruation to be followed With such a number? What, must I come to you With fiue and twenty? Regan, said you so? Reg. And speak't againe my Lord, no more with me Lea. Those wicked Creatures yet do look wel fauor'd When others are more wicked, not being the worst Stands in some ranke of praise, Ile go with thee, Thy fifty yet doth double fiue and twenty, And thou art twice her Loue Gon. Heare me my Lord; What need you fiue and twenty? Ten? Or fiue? To follow in a house, where twice so many Haue a command to tend you? Reg. What need one? Lear. O reason not the need: our basest Beggers Are in the poorest thing superfluous. Allow not Nature, more then Nature needs: Mans life is cheape as Beastes. Thou art a Lady; If onely to go warme were gorgeous, Why Nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st, Which scarcely keepes thee warme, but for true need: You Heauens, giue me that patience, patience I need, You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man, As full of griefe as age, wretched in both, If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts Against their Father, foole me not so much, To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger, And let not womens weapons, water drops, Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags, I will haue such reuenges on you both, That all the world shall- I will do such things, What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe, No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping. Storme and Tempest. But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad. Exeunt. Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people, Cannot be well bestow'd Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest, And must needs taste his folly Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly, But not one follower Gon. So am I purpos'd, Where is my Lord of Gloster? Enter Gloster. Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd Glo. The King is in high rage Corn. Whether is he going? Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about There's scarce a Bush Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men, The iniuries that they themselues procure, Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores, He is attended with a desperate traine, And what they may incense him too, being apt, To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night, My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme. Exeunt.

act 2, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act2-scene2-act2-scene3

Kent and Oswald, messengers from Lear and Goneril, meet in the courtyard of Gloucester. Kent recognizes the steward and starts to berate him and challenges him to a fight because of his purpose against the king. Oswald refuses the fight, but Kent begins to beat him anyway. Gloucester, Regan, the Duke of Cornwall, and Edmund all appear and ask why they are fighting. When they explain, Regan sees the similarities between Kent, and the King's men her sister was complaining about, and has him put into the stocks. Everyone but Gloucester leaves Kent, and he promises the imprisoned messenger to help him in anyway possible

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/9.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_5_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 2

act 3, scene 2

{"name": "act 3, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene2-act3-scene3", "summary": "Lear and the Fool are caught out in the storm. The Fool begs him to go back to his daughters to seek shelter, but he refuses. Kent finds them and tells them that he has found a hovel in which they can take shelter. He leads them there to stay throughout the storm", "analysis": ""}

Scena Secunda. Storme still. Enter Lear, and Foole. Lear. Blow windes, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's spout, Till you haue drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cockes. You Sulph'rous and Thought-executing Fires, Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleauing Thunder-bolts, Sindge my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder, Strike flat the thicke Rotundity o'th' world, Cracke Natures moulds, all germaines spill at once That makes ingratefull Man Foole. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry house, is better then this Rain-water out o' doore. Good Nunkle, in, aske thy Daughters blessing, heere's a night pitties neither Wisemen, nor Fooles Lear. Rumble thy belly full: spit Fire, spowt Raine: Nor Raine, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters; I taxe not you, you Elements with vnkindnesse. I neuer gaue you Kingdome, call'd you Children; You owe me no subscription. Then let fall Your horrible pleasure. Heere I stand your Slaue, A poore, infirme, weake, and dispis'd old man: But yet I call you Seruile Ministers, That will with two pernicious Daughters ioyne Your high-engender'd Battailes, 'gainst a head So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foule Foole. He that has a house to put's head in, has a good Head-peece: The Codpiece that will house, before the head has any; The Head, and he shall Lowse: so Beggers marry many. The man y makes his Toe, what he his Hart shold make, Shall of a Corne cry woe, and turne his sleepe to wake. For there was neuer yet faire woman, but shee made mouthes in a glasse. Enter Kent Lear. No, I will be the patterne of all patience, I will say nothing Kent. Who's there? Foole. Marry here's Grace, and a Codpiece, that's a Wiseman, and a Foole Kent. Alas Sir are you here? Things that loue night, Loue not such nights as these: The wrathfull Skies Gallow the very wanderers of the darke And make them keepe their Caues: Since I was man, Such sheets of Fire, such bursts of horrid Thunder, Such groanes of roaring Winde, and Raine, I neuer Remember to haue heard. Mans Nature cannot carry Th' affliction, nor the feare Lear. Let the great Goddes That keepe this dreadfull pudder o're our heads, Finde out their enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch, That hast within thee vndivulged Crimes Vnwhipt of Iustice. Hide thee, thou Bloudy hand; Thou Periur'd, and thou Simular of Vertue That art Incestuous. Caytiffe, to peeces shake That vnder couert, and conuenient seeming Ha's practis'd on mans life. Close pent-vp guilts, Riue your concealing Continents, and cry These dreadfull Summoners grace. I am a man, More sinn'd against, then sinning Kent. Alacke, bare-headed? Gracious my Lord, hard by heere is a Houell, Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the Tempest: Repose you there, while I to this hard house, (More harder then the stones whereof 'tis rais'd, Which euen but now, demanding after you, Deny'd me to come in) returne, and force Their scanted curtesie Lear. My wits begin to turne. Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold? I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow? The Art of our Necessities is strange, And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel; Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart That's sorry yet for thee Foole. He that has and a little-tyne wit, With heigh-ho, the Winde and the Raine, Must make content with his Fortunes fit, Though the Raine it raineth euery day Le. True Boy: Come bring vs to this Houell. Enter. Foole. This is a braue night to coole a Curtizan: Ile speake a Prophesie ere I go: When Priests are more in word, then matter; When Brewers marre their Malt with water; When Nobles are their Taylors Tutors, No Heretiques burn'd, but wenches Sutors; When euery Case in Law, is right; No Squire in debt, nor no poore Knight; When Slanders do not liue in Tongues; Nor Cut-purses come not to throngs; When Vsurers tell their Gold i'th' Field, And Baudes, and whores, do Churches build, Then shal the Realme of Albion, come to great confusion: Then comes the time, who liues to see't, That going shalbe vs'd with feet. This prophecie Merlin shall make, for I liue before his time. Enter.

act 3, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene2-act3-scene3

Lear and the Fool are caught out in the storm. The Fool begs him to go back to his daughters to seek shelter, but he refuses. Kent finds them and tells them that he has found a hovel in which they can take shelter. He leads them there to stay throughout the storm

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/22.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_5_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 3

act 3, scene 3

{"name": "act 3, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene2-act3-scene3", "summary": "Gloucester does not like the way the duke and duchesses are treating their father. He tells Edmund of a letter he received about the division happening between the dukes and the French involvement. Gloucester decides to go to the ex-kings aid, and Edmund decides to capitalize on his father's decision. With instructions to make excuses for him if he is needed, Gloucester leaves, and Edmund goes to reveal what he knows to Cornwall", "analysis": ""}

Enter Gloster, and Edmund. Glo. Alacke, alacke Edmund, I like not this vnnaturall dealing; when I desired their leaue that I might pity him, they tooke from me the vse of mine owne house, charg'd me on paine of perpetuall displeasure, neither to speake of him, entreat for him, or any way sustaine him Bast. Most sauage and vnnaturall Glo. Go too; say you nothing. There is diuision betweene the Dukes, and a worsse matter then that: I haue receiued a Letter this night, 'tis dangerous to be spoken, I haue lock'd the Letter in my Closset, these iniuries the King now beares, will be reuenged home; ther is part of a Power already footed, we must incline to the King, I will looke him, and priuily relieue him; goe you and maintaine talke with the Duke, that my charity be not of him perceiued; If he aske for me, I am ill, and gone to bed, if I die for it, (as no lesse is threatned me) the King my old Master must be relieued. There is strange things toward Edmund, pray you be carefull. Enter. Bast. This Curtesie forbid thee, shall the Duke Instantly know, and of that Letter too; This seemes a faire deseruing, and must draw me That which my Father looses: no lesse then all, The yonger rises, when the old doth fall. Enter.

act 3, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene2-act3-scene3

Gloucester does not like the way the duke and duchesses are treating their father. He tells Edmund of a letter he received about the division happening between the dukes and the French involvement. Gloucester decides to go to the ex-kings aid, and Edmund decides to capitalize on his father's decision. With instructions to make excuses for him if he is needed, Gloucester leaves, and Edmund goes to reveal what he knows to Cornwall

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_6_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 4

act 3, scene 4

{"name": "act 3, Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene4-act3-scene5", "summary": "Lear and his men reach the hovel, and he mourns that his daughters have betrayed him. When they enter the hovel, they find Edgar disguised as a madman. When the madman speaks, Lear wonders if it was the man's daughters that drove him mad. He laments on how daughters are the roots of the evils in his life. The men begin talking to the beggar, and Gloucester enters telling them that he doesn't approve of the way they have been treated. Lear decides that he likes the beggar and continues having conversations with him while Gloucester tries to get the men to come to a house he has prepared for them. Kent and Gloucester think that Lear is beginning to go mad, and Gloucester himself admits that he feels like he's going mad with everything that happened with Edgar. They all remove to the house Gloucester has prepared, and Lear decides that he must take the beggar too because he enjoys talking to him", "analysis": ""}

Scena Quarta. Enter Lear, Kent, and Foole. Kent. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter, The tirrany of the open night's too rough For Nature to endure. Storme still Lear. Let me alone Kent. Good my Lord enter heere Lear. Wilt breake my heart? Kent. I had rather breake mine owne, Good my Lord enter Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee, But where the greater malady is fixt, The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare, But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea, Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free, The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind, Doth from my sences take all feeling else, Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude, Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand For lifting food too't? But I will punish home; No, I will weepe no more; in such a night, To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure: In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill, Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all, O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that: No more of that Kent. Good my Lord enter here Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease, This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in, In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie, Enter. Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe. Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme, How shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides, Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you From seasons such as these? O I haue tane Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe, Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele, That thou maist shake the superflux to them, And shew the Heauens more iust. Enter Edgar, and Foole. Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe me, helpe me Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there? Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore Tom Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th' straw? Come forth Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy bed and warme thee Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art thou come to this? Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame, through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire, that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor. Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de, blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking, do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there againe, and there. Storme still. Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe? Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all? Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all sham'd Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters. Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers, Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh: Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot Those Pelicane Daughters Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and Madmen Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents, keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not, with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on proud array. Tom's a cold Lear. What hast thou bin? Edg. A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out-Paramour'd the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand; Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes, Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman. Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy, Boy Sesey: let him trot by. Storme still. Lear. Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton heere. Enter Gloucester, with a Torch. Foole. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field, were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire Edg. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe; Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature of earth. Swithold footed thrice the old, He met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold; Bid her a-light, and her troth-plight, And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee Kent. How fares your Grace? Lear. What's he? Kent. Who's there? What is't you seeke? Glou. What are you there? Your Names? Edg. Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the Toad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats Cow-dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the ditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites to his backe, sixe shirts to his body: Horse to ride, and weapon to weare: But Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare, Haue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare: Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company? Edg. The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo he's call'd, and Mahu Glou. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so vilde, that it doth hate what gets it Edg. Poore Tom's a cold Glou. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer T' obey in all your daughters hard commands: Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores, And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you, Yet haue I ventured to come seeke you out, And bring you where both fire, and food is ready Lear. First let me talke with this Philosopher, What is the cause of Thunder? Kent. Good my Lord take his offer, Go into th' house Lear. Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban: What is your study? Edg. How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine Lear. Let me aske you one word in priuate Kent. Importune him once more to go my Lord, His wits begin t' vnsettle Glou. Canst thou blame him? Storm still His Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent, He said it would be thus: poore banish'd man: Thou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend I am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne, Now out-law'd from my blood: he sought my life But lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend) No Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee, The greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this? I do beseech your grace Lear. O cry you mercy, Sir: Noble Philosopher, your company Edg. Tom's a cold Glou. In fellow there, into th' Houel; keep thee warm Lear. Come, let's in all Kent. This way, my Lord Lear. With him; I will keepe still with my Philosopher Kent. Good my Lord, sooth him: Let him take the Fellow Glou. Take him you on Kent. Sirra, come on: go along with vs Lear. Come, good Athenian Glou. No words, no words, hush Edg. Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came, His word was still, fie, foh, and fumme, I smell the blood of a Brittish man. Exeunt.

act 3, Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene4-act3-scene5

Lear and his men reach the hovel, and he mourns that his daughters have betrayed him. When they enter the hovel, they find Edgar disguised as a madman. When the madman speaks, Lear wonders if it was the man's daughters that drove him mad. He laments on how daughters are the roots of the evils in his life. The men begin talking to the beggar, and Gloucester enters telling them that he doesn't approve of the way they have been treated. Lear decides that he likes the beggar and continues having conversations with him while Gloucester tries to get the men to come to a house he has prepared for them. Kent and Gloucester think that Lear is beginning to go mad, and Gloucester himself admits that he feels like he's going mad with everything that happened with Edgar. They all remove to the house Gloucester has prepared, and Lear decides that he must take the beggar too because he enjoys talking to him

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_6_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 5

act 3, scene 5

{"name": "act 3, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene4-act3-scene5", "summary": "Edmund gives Cornwall the incriminating letter from the French and he is very angry. For the bastard's loyalty, Cornwall makes him the Earl of Gloucester, and his father an outlaw. Cornwall tells Edmund that he must accompany him to see Regan", "analysis": ""}

Scena Quinta. Enter Cornwall, and Edmund. Corn. I will haue my reuenge, ere I depart his house Bast. How my Lord, I may be censured, that Nature thus giues way to Loyaltie, something feares mee to thinke of Cornw. I now perceiue, it was not altogether your Brothers euill disposition made him seeke his death: but a prouoking merit set a-worke by a reprouable badnesse in himselfe Bast. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent to be iust? This is the Letter which hee spoake of; which approues him an intelligent partie to the aduantages of France. O Heauens! that this Treason were not; or not I the detector Corn. Go with me to the Dutchesse Bast. If the matter of this Paper be certain, you haue mighty businesse in hand Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earle of Gloucester: seeke out where thy Father is, that hee may bee ready for our apprehension Bast. If I finde him comforting the King, it will stuffe his suspition more fully. I will perseuer in my course of Loyalty, though the conflict be sore betweene that, and my blood Corn. I will lay trust vpon thee: and thou shalt finde a deere Father in my loue. Exeunt.

act 3, Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene4-act3-scene5

Edmund gives Cornwall the incriminating letter from the French and he is very angry. For the bastard's loyalty, Cornwall makes him the Earl of Gloucester, and his father an outlaw. Cornwall tells Edmund that he must accompany him to see Regan

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_7_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 6

act 3, scene 6

{"name": "act 3, Scene 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene6-act3-scene7", "summary": "When the men in the storm arrive at the house that Gloucester has prepared for them, the king decides to put his daughters to a mock trial. Kent urges him to sleep, but in his madness he can only think about punishing his children. Gloucester has left them to go back to his castle, but promises to be back soon. When their trial is over, Lear decides to finally sleep. Gloucester returns and tells Kent that he overheard a plot to kill the king. He urges the men to take him to Dover and meet up with the French forces where he will be safe", "analysis": ""}

Scena Sexta. Enter Kent, and Gloucester. Glou. Heere is better then the open ayre, take it thankfully: I will peece out the comfort with what addition I can: I will not be long from you. Exit Kent. All the powre of his wits, haue giuen way to his impatience: the Gods reward your kindnesse. Enter Lear, Edgar, and Foole. Edg. Fraterretto cals me, and tells me Nero is an Angler in the Lake of Darknesse: pray Innocent, and beware the foule Fiend Foole. Prythee Nunkle tell me, whether a madman be a Gentleman, or a Yeoman Lear. A King, a King Foole. No, he's a Yeoman, that ha's a Gentleman to his Sonne: for hee's a mad Yeoman that sees his Sonne a Gentleman before him Lear. To haue a thousand with red burning spits Come hizzing in vpon 'em Edg. Blesse thy fiue wits Kent. O pitty: Sir, where is the patience now That you so oft haue boasted to retaine? Edg. My teares begin to take his part so much, They marre my counterfetting Lear. The little dogges, and all; Trey, Blanch, and Sweet-heart: see, they barke at me Edg. Tom, will throw his head at them: Auaunt you Curres, be thy mouth or blacke or white: Tooth that poysons if it bite: Mastiffe, Grey-hound, Mongrill, Grim, Hound or Spaniell, Brache, or Hym: Or Bobtaile tight, or Troudle taile, Tom will make him weepe and waile, For with throwing thus my head; Dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled. Do, de, de, de: sese: Come, march to Wakes and Fayres, And Market Townes: poore Tom thy horne is dry, Lear. Then let them Anatomize Regan: See what breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in Nature that make these hard-hearts. You sir, I entertaine for one of my hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments. You will say they are Persian; but let them bee chang'd. Enter Gloster. Kent. Now good my Lord, lye heere, and rest awhile Lear. Make no noise, make no noise, draw the Curtaines: so, so, wee'l go to Supper i'th' morning Foole. And Ile go to bed at noone Glou. Come hither Friend: Where is the King my Master? Kent. Here Sir, but trouble him not, his wits are gon Glou. Good friend, I prythee take him in thy armes; I haue ore-heard a plot of death vpon him: There is a Litter ready, lay him in't, And driue toward Douer friend, where thou shalt meete Both welcome, and protection. Take vp thy Master, If thou should'st dally halfe an houre, his life With thine, and all that offer to defend him, Stand in assured losse. Take vp, take vp, And follow me, that will to some prouision Giue thee quicke conduct. Come, come, away. Exeunt.

act 3, Scene 6

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene6-act3-scene7

When the men in the storm arrive at the house that Gloucester has prepared for them, the king decides to put his daughters to a mock trial. Kent urges him to sleep, but in his madness he can only think about punishing his children. Gloucester has left them to go back to his castle, but promises to be back soon. When their trial is over, Lear decides to finally sleep. Gloucester returns and tells Kent that he overheard a plot to kill the king. He urges the men to take him to Dover and meet up with the French forces where he will be safe

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/13.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_7_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 3.scene 7

act 3, scene 7

{"name": "act 3, Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene6-act3-scene7", "summary": "Cornwall gives a copy of the incriminating French letter to Goneril and instructs her to take it to her husband, the Duke of Albany. He sends men to find the traitor Duke of Gloucester and sends Edmund with Goneril so he will not have to witness his father's demise. Word comes in that the king is being taken to Dover to meet up with the French forces. Cornwall issues more orders and Gloucester enters no knowing he is considered a traitor. They bind him and torture him by forcing out his eyes. One of the servants tries to stop Cornwall but is killed. Gloucester calls for Edmund, but the Duchess tells him that his son was their informant. The Earl realizes that Edgar was innocent and it was his brother who betrayed him. The Duke was hurt in the skirmish however, and they have to retreat into the castle to take care of his wounds releasing the eyeless Earl", "analysis": ""}

Scena Septima. Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gonerill, Bastard, and Seruants. Corn. Poste speedily to my Lord your husband, shew him this Letter, the Army of France is landed: seeke out the Traitor Glouster Reg. Hang him instantly Gon. Plucke out his eyes Corn. Leaue him to my displeasure. Edmond, keepe you our Sister company: the reuenges wee are bound to take vppon your Traitorous Father, are not fit for your beholding. Aduice the Duke where you are going, to a most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our Postes shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt vs. Farewell deere Sister, farewell my Lord of Glouster. Enter Steward. How now? Where's the King? Stew. My Lord of Glouster hath conuey'd him hence Some fiue or six and thirty of his Knights Hot Questrists after him, met him at gate, Who, with some other of the Lords, dependants, Are gone with him toward Douer; where they boast To haue well armed Friends Corn. Get horses for your Mistris Gon. Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister. Exit Corn. Edmund farewell: go seek the Traitor Gloster, Pinnion him like a Theefe, bring him before vs: Though well we may not passe vpon his life Without the forme of Iustice: yet our power Shall do a curt'sie to our wrath, which men May blame, but not comptroll. Enter Gloucester, and Seruants. Who's there? the Traitor? Reg. Ingratefull Fox, 'tis he Corn. Binde fast his corky armes Glou. What meanes your Graces? Good my Friends consider you are my Ghests: Do me no foule play, Friends Corn. Binde him I say Reg. Hard, hard: O filthy Traitor Glou. Vnmercifull Lady, as you are, I'me none Corn. To this Chaire binde him, Villaine, thou shalt finde Glou. By the kinde Gods, 'tis most ignobly done To plucke me by the Beard Reg. So white, and such a Traitor? Glou. Naughty Ladie, These haires which thou dost rauish from my chin Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your Host, With Robbers hands, my hospitable fauours You should not ruffle thus. What will you do? Corn. Come Sir. What Letters had you late from France? Reg. Be simple answer'd, for we know the truth Corn. And what confederacie haue you with the Traitors, late footed in the Kingdome? Reg. To whose hands You haue sent the Lunaticke King: Speake Glou. I haue a Letter guessingly set downe Which came from one that's of a newtrall heart, And not from one oppos'd Corn. Cunning Reg. And false Corn. Where hast thou sent the King? Glou. To Douer Reg. Wherefore to Douer? Was't thou not charg'd at perill Corn. Wherefore to Douer? Let him answer that Glou. I am tyed to'th' Stake, And I must stand the Course Reg. Wherefore to Douer? Glou. Because I would not see thy cruell Nailes Plucke out his poore old eyes: nor thy fierce Sister, In his Annointed flesh, sticke boarish phangs. The Sea, with such a storme as his bare head, In Hell-blacke-night indur'd, would haue buoy'd vp And quench'd the Stelled fires: Yet poore old heart, he holpe the Heauens to raine. If Wolues had at thy Gate howl'd that sterne time, Thou should'st haue said, good Porter turne the Key: All Cruels else subscribe: but I shall see The winged Vengeance ouertake such Children Corn. See't shalt thou neuer. Fellowes hold y Chaire, Vpon these eyes of thine, Ile set my foote Glou. He that will thinke to liue, till he be old, Giue me some helpe. - O cruell! O you Gods Reg. One side will mocke another: Th' other too Corn. If you see vengeance Seru. Hold your hand, my Lord: I haue seru'd you euer since I was a Childe: But better seruice haue I neuer done you, Then now to bid you hold Reg. How now, you dogge? Ser. If you did weare a beard vpon your chin, I'ld shake it on this quarrell. What do you meane? Corn. My Villaine? Seru. Nay then come on, and take the chance of anger Reg. Giue me thy Sword. A pezant stand vp thus? Killes him. Ser. Oh I am slaine: my Lord, you haue one eye left To see some mischefe on him. Oh Corn. Lest it see more, preuent it; Out vilde gelly: Where is thy luster now? Glou. All darke and comfortlesse? Where's my Sonne Edmund? Edmund, enkindle all the sparkes of Nature To quit this horrid acte Reg. Out treacherous Villaine, Thou call'st on him, that hates thee. It was he That made the ouerture of thy Treasons to vs: Who is too good to pitty thee Glou. O my Follies! then Edgar was abus'd, Kinde Gods, forgiue me that, and prosper him Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell His way to Douer. Exit with Glouster. How is't my Lord? How looke you? Corn. I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady; Turne out that eyelesse Villaine: throw this Slaue Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace, Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme. Exeunt.

act 3, Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act3-scene6-act3-scene7

Cornwall gives a copy of the incriminating French letter to Goneril and instructs her to take it to her husband, the Duke of Albany. He sends men to find the traitor Duke of Gloucester and sends Edmund with Goneril so he will not have to witness his father's demise. Word comes in that the king is being taken to Dover to meet up with the French forces. Cornwall issues more orders and Gloucester enters no knowing he is considered a traitor. They bind him and torture him by forcing out his eyes. One of the servants tries to stop Cornwall but is killed. Gloucester calls for Edmund, but the Duchess tells him that his son was their informant. The Earl realizes that Edgar was innocent and it was his brother who betrayed him. The Duke was hurt in the skirmish however, and they have to retreat into the castle to take care of his wounds releasing the eyeless Earl

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_8_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 1

act 4, scene 1

{"name": "act 4, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene1-act4-scene2", "summary": "Gloucester is brought out of the castle by an old man who is a tenant of his. While on the road they run into Edgar disguised still as the beggar. Edgar hears his father's laments about how he wronged his rightful son. Gloucester tells the old man to let him go with Edgar to Dover, and Edgar agrees happily to take him. They journey, and Gloucester says that once they arrive to take him to a cliff", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quartus. Scena Prima. Enter Edgar. Edg. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd, Then still contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worst: The lowest, and most deiected thing of Fortune, Stands still in esperance, liues not in feare: The lamentable change is from the best, The worst returnes to laughter. Welcome then, Thou vnsubstantiall ayre that I embrace: The Wretch that thou hast blowne vnto the worst, Owes nothing to thy blasts. Enter Glouster, and an Oldman. But who comes heere? My Father poorely led? World, World, O world! But that thy strange mutations make vs hate thee, Life would not yeelde to age Oldm. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant, And your Fathers Tenant, these fourescore yeares Glou. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone, Thy comforts can do me no good at all, Thee, they may hurt Oldm. You cannot see your way Glou. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes: I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seene, Our meanes secure vs, and our meere defects Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar, The food of thy abused Fathers wrath: Might I but liue to see thee in my touch, I'ld say I had eyes againe Oldm. How now? who's there? Edg. O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst? I am worse then ere I was Old. 'Tis poore mad Tom Edg. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not, So long as we can say this is the worst Oldm. Fellow, where goest? Glou. Is it a Beggar-man? Oldm. Madman, and beggar too Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg. I'th' last nights storme, I such a fellow saw; Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne Came then into my minde, and yet my minde Was then scarse Friends with him. I haue heard more since: As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods, They kill vs for their sport Edg. How should this be? Bad is the Trade that must play Foole to sorrow, Ang'ring it selfe, and others. Blesse thee Master Glou. Is that the naked Fellow? Oldm. I, my Lord Glou. Get thee away: If for my sake Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine I'th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue, And bring some couering for this naked Soule, Which Ile intreate to leade me Old. Alacke sir, he is mad Glou. 'Tis the times plague, When Madmen leade the blinde: Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure: Aboue the rest, be gone Oldm. Ile bring him the best Parrell that I haue Come on't what will. Exit Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow Edg. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further Glou. Come hither fellow Edg. And yet I must: Blesse thy sweete eyes, they bleede Glou. Know'st thou the way to Douer? Edg. Both style, and gate; Horseway, and foot-path: poore Tom hath bin scarr'd out of his good wits. Blesse thee good mans sonne, from the foule Fiend Glou. Here take this purse, y whom the heau'ns plagues Haue humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched Makes thee the happier: Heauens deale so still: Let the superfluous, and Lust-dieted man, That slaues your ordinance, that will not see Because he do's not feele, feele your powre quickly: So distribution should vndoo excesse, And each man haue enough. Dost thou know Douer? Edg. I Master Glou. There is a Cliffe, whose high and bending head Lookes fearfully in the confined Deepe: Bring me but to the very brimme of it, And Ile repayre the misery thou do'st beare With something rich about me: from that place, I shall no leading neede Edg. Giue me thy arme; Poore Tom shall leade thee. Exeunt.

act 4, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene1-act4-scene2

Gloucester is brought out of the castle by an old man who is a tenant of his. While on the road they run into Edgar disguised still as the beggar. Edgar hears his father's laments about how he wronged his rightful son. Gloucester tells the old man to let him go with Edgar to Dover, and Edgar agrees happily to take him. They journey, and Gloucester says that once they arrive to take him to a cliff

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/15.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_8_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 2

act 4, scene 2

{"name": "act 4, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene1-act4-scene2", "summary": "When Goneril and Edmund return to Goneril's castle, they are met by Oswald and informed of the Duke of Albany's position on the French landing, and the happenings at Gloucester. Goneril, realizing that her husband feels opposite than she, sends Edmund back to her brother in law. When Albany sees his wife he berates her for her treatment of her father and they fight until a messenger enters with news of the Duke of Cornwall's death. He also tells Albany about Gloucester losing his eyes, and the Duke feels sorry for the blind Earl. With him the messenger sends a letter from Regan to Goneril, and she takes it to another room to read. Albany swears to avenge Gloucester's eyes, and goes off with the Messenger to learn more details", "analysis": ""}

Scena Secunda. Enter Gonerill, Bastard, and Steward. Gon. Welcome my Lord. I meruell our mild husband Not met vs on the way. Now, where's your Master? Stew. Madam within, but neuer man so chang'd: I told him of the Army that was Landed: He smil'd at it. I told him you were comming, His answer was, the worse. Of Glosters Treachery, And of the loyall Seruice of his Sonne When I inform'd him, then he call'd me Sot, And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out: What most he should dislike, seemes pleasant to him; What like, offensiue Gon. Then shall you go no further. It is the Cowish terror of his spirit That dares not vndertake: Hee'l not feele wrongs Which tye him to an answer: our wishes on the way May proue effects. Backe Edmond to my Brother, Hasten his Musters, and conduct his powres. I must change names at home, and giue the Distaffe Into my Husbands hands. This trustie Seruant Shall passe betweene vs: ere long you are like to heare (If you dare venture in your owne behalfe) A Mistresses command. Weare this; spare speech, Decline your head. This kisse, if it durst speake Would stretch thy Spirits vp into the ayre: Conceiue, and fare thee well Bast. Yours in the rankes of death. Enter. Gon. My most deere Gloster. Oh, the difference of man, and man, To thee a Womans seruices are due, My Foole vsurpes my body Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord. Enter Albany. Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle Alb. Oh Gonerill, You are not worth the dust which the rude winde Blowes in your face Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man, That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs, Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning Thine Honor, from thy suffering Alb. See thy selfe diuell: Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend So horrid as in woman Gon. Oh vaine Foole. Enter a Messenger. Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead, Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out The other eye of Glouster Alb. Glousters eyes Mes. A Seruant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse, Oppos'd against the act: bending his Sword To his great Master, who, threat-enrag'd Flew on him, and among'st them fell'd him dead, But not without that harmefull stroke, which since Hath pluckt him after Alb. This shewes you are aboue You Iustices, that these our neather crimes So speedily can venge. But (O poore Glouster) Lost he his other eye? Mes. Both, both, my Lord. This Leter Madam, craues a speedy answer: 'Tis from your Sister Gon. One way I like this well. But being widdow, and my Glouster with her, May all the building in my fancie plucke Vpon my hatefull life. Another way The Newes is not so tart. Ile read, and answer Alb. Where was his Sonne, When they did take his eyes? Mes. Come with my Lady hither Alb. He is not heere Mes. No my good Lord, I met him backe againe Alb. Knowes he the wickednesse? Mes. I my good Lord: 'twas he inform'd against him And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment Might haue the freer course Alb. Glouster, I liue To thanke thee for the loue thou shew'dst the King, And to reuenge thine eyes. Come hither Friend, Tell me what more thou know'st. Exeunt.

act 4, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene1-act4-scene2

When Goneril and Edmund return to Goneril's castle, they are met by Oswald and informed of the Duke of Albany's position on the French landing, and the happenings at Gloucester. Goneril, realizing that her husband feels opposite than she, sends Edmund back to her brother in law. When Albany sees his wife he berates her for her treatment of her father and they fight until a messenger enters with news of the Duke of Cornwall's death. He also tells Albany about Gloucester losing his eyes, and the Duke feels sorry for the blind Earl. With him the messenger sends a letter from Regan to Goneril, and she takes it to another room to read. Albany swears to avenge Gloucester's eyes, and goes off with the Messenger to learn more details

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/16.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_9_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 3

act 4, scene 3

{"name": "act 4, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene3-act4-scene4", "summary": "Kent and the Gentleman meet in Dover to exchange news. The Gentleman tells Kent that the King of France is not present, but leaves his army to the Marshal and his wife. He also tells him of Cordelia's reaction to her sister's treatment of her father. She is devastated for him, and angry at the things they inflicted upon him. Kent informs the Gentleman that Lear is in Dover, but refuses to see his daughter because the way he treated her. He is wracked with guilt that he cheated her out of her dowry. Kent then takes him to take care of Lear", "analysis": ""}

Scena Tertia. Enter with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Gentlemen, and Souldiours. Cor. Alacke, 'tis he: why he was met euen now As mad as the vext Sea, singing alowd. Crown'd with ranke Fenitar, and furrow weeds, With Hardokes, Hemlocke, Nettles, Cuckoo flowres, Darnell, and all the idle weedes that grow In our sustaining Corne. A Centery send forth; Search euery Acre in the high-growne field, And bring him to our eye. What can mans wisedome In the restoring his bereaued Sense; he that helpes him, Take all my outward worth Gent. There is meanes Madam: Our foster Nurse of Nature, is repose, The which he lackes: that to prouoke in him Are many Simples operatiue, whose power Will close the eye of Anguish Cord. All blest Secrets, All you vnpublish'd Vertues of the earth Spring with my teares; be aydant, and remediate In the Goodmans desires: seeke, seeke for him, Least his vngouern'd rage, dissolue the life That wants the meanes to leade it. Enter Messenger. Mes. Newes Madam, The Brittish Powres are marching hitherward Cor. 'Tis knowne before. Our preparation stands In expectation of them. O deere Father, It is thy businesse that I go about: Therfore great France My mourning, and importun'd teares hath pittied: No blowne Ambition doth our Armes incite, But loue, deere loue, and our ag'd Fathers Rite: Soone may I heare, and see him. Exeunt.

act 4, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene3-act4-scene4

Kent and the Gentleman meet in Dover to exchange news. The Gentleman tells Kent that the King of France is not present, but leaves his army to the Marshal and his wife. He also tells him of Cordelia's reaction to her sister's treatment of her father. She is devastated for him, and angry at the things they inflicted upon him. Kent informs the Gentleman that Lear is in Dover, but refuses to see his daughter because the way he treated her. He is wracked with guilt that he cheated her out of her dowry. Kent then takes him to take care of Lear

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/17.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_9_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 4

act 4, scene 4

{"name": "act 4, Scene 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene3-act4-scene4", "summary": "Cordelia speaks with the doctor in her camp and sends out men to find her father. A messenger brings her news of the British forces advancing upon them, and she says that they are prepared for them", "analysis": ""}

Scena Quarta. Enter Regan, and Steward. Reg. But are my Brothers Powres set forth? Stew. I Madam Reg. Himselfe in person there? Stew. Madam with much ado: Your Sister is the better Souldier Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your Lord at home? Stew. No Madam Reg. What might import my Sisters Letter to him? Stew. I know not, Lady Reg. Faith he is poasted hence on serious matter: It was great ignorance, Glousters eyes being out To let him liue. Where he arriues, he moues All hearts against vs: Edmund, I thinke is gone In pitty of his misery, to dispatch His nighted life: Moreouer to descry The strength o'th' Enemy Stew. I must needs after him, Madam, with my Letter Reg. Our troopes set forth to morrow, stay with vs: The wayes are dangerous Stew. I may not Madam: My Lady charg'd my dutie in this busines Reg. Why should she write to Edmund? Might not you transport her purposes by word? Belike, Some things, I know not what. Ile loue thee much Let me vnseale the Letter Stew. Madam, I had rather- Reg. I know your Lady do's not loue her Husband, I am sure of that: and at her late being heere, She gaue strange Eliads, and most speaking lookes To Noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosome Stew. I, Madam? Reg. I speake in vnderstanding: Y'are: I know't, Therefore I do aduise you take this note: My Lord is dead: Edmond, and I haue talk'd, And more conuenient is he for my hand Then for your Ladies: You may gather more: If you do finde him, pray you giue him this; And when your Mistris heares thus much from you, I pray desire her call her wisedome to her. So fare you well: If you do chance to heare of that blinde Traitor, Preferment fals on him, that cuts him off Stew. Would I could meet Madam, I should shew What party I do follow Reg. Fare thee well. Exeunt.

act 4, Scene 4

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene3-act4-scene4

Cordelia speaks with the doctor in her camp and sends out men to find her father. A messenger brings her news of the British forces advancing upon them, and she says that they are prepared for them

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/18.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_10_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 5

act 4, scene 5

{"name": "act 4, Scene 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene5-act4-scene6", "summary": "Oswald carries a message back to Regan from Goneril and Regan finds out that she has also sent a message to Edmund. Regan, now that her husband is dead, decides that she should marry Edmund. Thinking that her sister also has affection for him and not for her husband, she wants to win him before Goneril can get him. She sends a note back to her sister and sends someone out to find Edmund", "analysis": ""}

Scena Quinta. Enter Gloucester, and Edgar. Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill? Edg. You do climbe vp it now. Look how we labor Glou. Me thinkes the ground is eeuen Edg. Horrible steepe. Hearke, do you heare the Sea? Glou. No truly Edg. Why then your other Senses grow imperfect By your eyes anguish Glou. So may it be indeed. Me thinkes thy voyce is alter'd, and thou speak'st In better phrase, and matter then thou did'st Edg. Y'are much deceiu'd: In nothing am I chang'd But in my Garments Glou. Me thinkes y'are better spoken Edg. Come on Sir, Heere's the place: stand still: how fearefull And dizie 'tis, to cast ones eyes so low, The Crowes and Choughes, that wing the midway ayre Shew scarse so grosse as Beetles. Halfe way downe Hangs one that gathers Sampire: dreadfull Trade: Me thinkes he seemes no bigger then his head. The Fishermen, that walk'd vpon the beach Appeare like Mice: and yond tall Anchoring Barke, Diminish'd to her Cocke: her Cocke, a Buoy Almost too small for sight. The murmuring Surge, That on th' vnnumbred idle Pebble chafes Cannot be heard so high. Ile looke no more, Least my braine turne, and the deficient sight Topple downe headlong Glou. Set me where you stand Edg. Giue me your hand: You are now within a foote of th' extreme Verge: For all beneath the Moone would I not leape vpright Glou. Let go my hand: Heere Friend's another purse: in it, a Iewell Well worth a poore mans taking. Fayries, and Gods Prosper it with thee. Go thou further off, Bid me farewell, and let me heare thee going Edg. Now fare ye well, good Sir Glou. With all my heart Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his dispaire, Is done to cure it Glou. O you mighty Gods! This world I do renounce, and in your sights Shake patiently my great affliction off: If I could beare it longer, and not fall To quarrell with your great opposelesse willes, My snuffe, and loathed part of Nature should Burne it selfe out. If Edgar liue, O blesse him: Now Fellow, fare thee well Edg. Gone Sir, farewell: And yet I know not how conceit may rob The Treasury of life, when life it selfe Yeelds to the Theft. Had he bin where he thought, By this had thought bin past. Aliue, or dead? Hoa, you Sir: Friend, heare you Sir, speake: Thus might he passe indeed: yet he reuiues. What are you Sir? Glou. Away, and let me dye Edg. Had'st thou beene ought But Gozemore, Feathers, Ayre, (So many fathome downe precipitating) Thou'dst shiuer'd like an Egge: but thou do'st breath: Hast heauy substance, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound, Ten Masts at each, make not the altitude Which thou hast perpendicularly fell, Thy life's a Myracle. Speake yet againe Glou. But haue I falne, or no? Edg. From the dread Somnet of this Chalkie Bourne Looke vp a height, the shrill-gorg'd Larke so farre Cannot be seene, or heard: Do but looke vp Glou. Alacke, I haue no eyes: Is wretchednesse depriu'd that benefit To end it selfe by death? 'Twas yet some comfort, When misery could beguile the Tyrants rage, And frustrate his proud will Edg. Giue me your arme. Vp, so: How is't? Feele you your Legges? You stand Glou. Too well, too well Edg. This is aboue all strangenesse, Vpon the crowne o'th' Cliffe. What thing was that Which parted from you? Glou. A poore vnfortunate Beggar Edg. As I stood heere below, me thought his eyes Were two full Moones: he had a thousand Noses, Hornes wealk'd, and waued like the enraged Sea: It was some Fiend: Therefore thou happy Father, Thinke that the cleerest Gods, who make them Honors Of mens Impossibilities, haue preserued thee Glou. I do remember now: henceforth Ile beare Affliction, till it do cry out it selfe Enough, enough, and dye. That thing you speake of, I tooke it for a man: often 'twould say The Fiend, the Fiend, he led me to that place Edgar. Beare free and patient thoughts. Enter Lear. But who comes heere? The safer sense will ne're accommodate His Master thus Lear. No, they cannot touch me for crying. I am the King himselfe Edg. O thou side-piercing sight! Lear. Nature's aboue Art, in that respect. Ther's your Presse-money. That fellow handles his bow, like a Crowkeeper: draw mee a Cloathiers yard. Looke, looke, a Mouse: peace, peace, this peece of toasted Cheese will doo't. There's my Gauntlet, Ile proue it on a Gyant. Bring vp the browne Billes. O well flowne Bird: i'th' clout, i'th' clout: Hewgh. Giue the word Edg. Sweet Mariorum Lear. Passe Glou. I know that voice Lear. Ha! Gonerill with a white beard? They flatter'd me like a Dogge, and told mee I had the white hayres in my Beard, ere the blacke ones were there. To say I, and no, to euery thing that I said: I, and no too, was no good Diuinity. When the raine came to wet me once, and the winde to make me chatter: when the Thunder would not peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em out. Go too, they are not men o'their words; they told me, I was euery thing: 'Tis a Lye, I am not Agu-proofe Glou. The tricke of that voyce, I do well remember: Is't not the King? Lear. I, euery inch a King. When I do stare, see how the Subiect quakes. I pardon that mans life. What was thy cause? Adultery? thou shalt not dye: dye for Adultery? No, the Wren goes too't, and the small gilded Fly Do's letcher in my sight. Let Copulation thriue: For Glousters bastard Son was kinder to his Father, Then my Daughters got 'tweene the lawfull sheets. Too't Luxury pell-mell, for I lacke Souldiers. Behold yond simpring Dame, whose face betweene her Forkes presages Snow; that minces Vertue, & do's shake the head to heare of pleasures name. The Fitchew, nor the soyled Horse goes too't with a more riotous appetite: Downe from the waste they are Centaures, though Women all aboue: but to the Girdle do the Gods inherit, beneath is all the Fiends. There's hell, there's darkenes, there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench, consumption: Fye, fie, fie; pah, pah: Giue me an Ounce of Ciuet; good Apothecary sweeten my immagination: There's money for thee Glou. O let me kisse that hand Lear. Let me wipe it first, It smelles of Mortality Glou. O ruin'd peece of Nature, this great world Shall so weare out to naught. Do'st thou know me? Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough: dost thou squiny at me? No, doe thy worst blinde Cupid, Ile not loue. Reade thou this challenge, marke but the penning of it Glou. Were all thy Letters Sunnes, I could not see Edg. I would not take this from report, It is, and my heart breakes at it Lear. Read Glou. What with the Case of eyes? Lear. Oh ho, are you there with me? No eies in your head, nor no mony in your purse? Your eyes are in a heauy case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world goes Glou. I see it feelingly Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world goes, with no eyes. Looke with thine eares: See how yond Iustice railes vpon yond simple theefe. Hearke in thine eare: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is the Iustice, which is the theefe: Thou hast seene a Farmers dogge barke at a Beggar? Glou. I Sir Lear. And the Creature run from the Cur: there thou might'st behold the great image of Authoritie, a Dogg's obey'd in Office. Thou, Rascall Beadle, hold thy bloody hand: why dost thou lash that Whore? Strip thy owne backe, thou hotly lusts to vse her in that kind, for which thou whip'st her. The Vsurer hangs the Cozener. Thorough tatter'd cloathes great Vices do appeare: Robes, and Furr'd gownes hide all. Place sinnes with Gold, and the strong Lance of Iustice, hurtlesse breakes: Arme it in ragges, a Pigmies straw do's pierce it. None do's offend, none, I say none, Ile able 'em; take that of me my Friend, who haue the power to seale th' accusers lips. Get thee glasse-eyes, and like a scuruy Politician, seeme to see the things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my Bootes: harder, harder, so Edg. O matter, and impertinency mixt, Reason in Madnesse Lear. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes. I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster: Thou must be patient; we came crying hither: Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the Ayre We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke Glou. Alacke, alacke the day Lear. When we are borne, we cry that we are come To this great stage of Fooles. This a good blocke: It were a delicate stratagem to shoo A Troope of Horse with Felt: Ile put't in proofe, And when I haue stolne vpon these Son in Lawes, Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill. Enter a Gentleman. Gent. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir. Your most deere Daughter- Lear. No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am euen The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vse me well, You shall haue ransome. Let me haue Surgeons, I am cut to'th' Braines Gent. You shall haue any thing Lear. No Seconds? All my selfe? Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt To vse his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely, Like a smugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall: Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that? Gent. You are a Royall one, and we obey you Lear. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it, You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa. Enter. Gent. A sight most pittifull in the meanest wretch, Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter Who redeemes Nature from the generall curse Which twaine haue brought her to Edg. Haile gentle Sir Gent. Sir, speed you: what's your will? Edg. Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward Gent. Most sure, and vulgar: Euery one heares that, which can distinguish sound Edg. But by your fauour: How neere's the other Army? Gent. Neere, and on speedy foot: the maine descry Stands on the hourely thought Edg. I thanke you Sir, that's all Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here Her Army is mou'd on. Enter. Edg. I thanke you Sir Glou. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me, Let not my worser Spirit tempt me againe To dye before you please Edg. Well pray you Father Glou. Now good sir, what are you? Edg. A most poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling sorrowes, Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand, Ile leade you to some biding Glou. Heartie thankes: The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen To boot, and boot. Enter Steward. Stew. A proclaim'd prize: most happie That eyelesse head of thine, was first fram'd flesh To raise my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor, Breefely thy selfe remember: the Sword is out That must destroy thee Glou. Now let thy friendly hand Put strength enough too't Stew. Wherefore, bold Pezant, Dar'st thou support a publish'd Traitor? Hence, Least that th' infection of his fortune take Like hold on thee. Let go his arme Edg. Chill not let go Zir, Without vurther 'casion Stew. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'st Edg. Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore volke passe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life, 'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay, come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor' ye, or Ile try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder; chill be plaine with you Stew. Out Dunghill Edg. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor your foynes Stew. Slaue thou hast slaine me: Villain, take my purse; If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie, And giue the Letters which thou find'st about me, To Edmund Earle of Glouster: seeke him out Vpon the English party. Oh vntimely death, death Edg. I know thee well. A seruiceable Villaine, As duteous to the vices of thy Mistris, As badnesse would desire Glou. What, is he dead? Edg. Sit you downe Father: rest you. Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speakes of May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely sorry He had no other Deathsman. Let vs see: Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts, Their Papers is more lawfull. Reads the Letter. Let our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply the place for your Labour. Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate Seruant. Gonerill. Oh indistinguish'd space of Womans will, A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life, And the exchange my Brother: heere, in the sands Thee Ile rake vp, the poste vnsanctified Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time, With this vngracious paper strike the sight Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well, That of thy death, and businesse, I can tell Glou. The King is mad: How stiffe is my vilde sense That I stand vp, and haue ingenious feeling Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were distract, So should my thoughts be seuer'd from my greefes, Drum afarre off. And woes, by wrong imaginations loose The knowledge of themselues Edg. Giue me your hand: Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme. Come Father, Ile bestow you with a Friend. Exeunt.

act 4, Scene 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene5-act4-scene6

Oswald carries a message back to Regan from Goneril and Regan finds out that she has also sent a message to Edmund. Regan, now that her husband is dead, decides that she should marry Edmund. Thinking that her sister also has affection for him and not for her husband, she wants to win him before Goneril can get him. She sends a note back to her sister and sends someone out to find Edmund

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_11_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 4.scene 7

act 4, scene 7

{"name": "act 4, Scene 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene7-act5-scene1", "summary": "Back in the French camp, Cordelia recognizes Kent, but he asks her to keep his identity a secret still. She agrees, and tells the doctor it is ok if he wakes her father who has been sleeping in their care. He awakens, and at first thinks he is dead. He then recognizes Cordelia, but thinks that she will do him harm because of all the sisters, she has the best motive. They tell him he is safe and take him away. Only the Gentleman and Kent stay and they discuss the battle that is about to brew. Edmund is leading the Duke of Cornwall's forces, and it is rumored that Edgar is in Germany", "analysis": ""}

Scaena Septima. Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman. Cor. O thou good Kent, How shall I liue and worke To match thy goodnesse? My life will be too short, And euery measure faile me Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd, All my reports go with the modest truth, Nor more, nor clipt, but so Cor. Be better suited, These weedes are memories of those worser houres: I prythee put them off Kent. Pardon deere Madam, Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent, My boone I make it, that you know me not, Till time, and I, thinke meet Cor. Then be't so my good Lord: How do's the King? Gent. Madam sleepes still Cor. O you kind Gods! Cure this great breach in his abused Nature, Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp, Of this childe-changed Father Gent. So please your Maiesty, That we may wake the King, he hath slept long? Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd? Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants] Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe, We put fresh garments on him. Be by good Madam when we do awake him, I doubt of his Temperance Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters Haue in thy Reuerence made Kent. Kind and deere Princesse Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face To be oppos'd against the iarring windes? Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me, Should haue stood that night against my fire, And was't thou faine (poore Father) To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne, In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke, 'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest Cor. How does my Royall Lord? How fares your Maiesty? Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue, Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares Do scal'd, like molten Lead Cor. Sir, do you know me? Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye? Cor. Still, still, farre wide Gen. He's scarse awake, Let him alone a while Lear. Where haue I bin? Where am I? Faire day light? I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty To see another thus. I know not what to say: I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see, I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd Of my condition Cor. O looke vpon me Sir, And hold your hand in benediction o're me, You must not kneele Lear. Pray do not mocke me: I am a very foolish fond old man, Fourescore and vpward, Not an houre more, nor lesse: And to deale plainely, I feare I am not in my perfect mind. Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man, Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant What place this is: and all the skill I haue Remembers not these garments: nor I know not Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me, For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady To be my childe Cordelia Cor. And so I am: I am Lear. Be your teares wet? Yes faith: I pray weepe not, If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it: I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong. You haue some cause, they haue not Cor. No cause, no cause Lear. Am I in France? Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir Lear. Do not abuse me Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in, Trouble him no more till further setling Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke? Lear. You must beare with me: Pray you now forget, and forgiue, I am old and foolish. Exeunt.

act 4, Scene 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene7-act5-scene1

Back in the French camp, Cordelia recognizes Kent, but he asks her to keep his identity a secret still. She agrees, and tells the doctor it is ok if he wakes her father who has been sleeping in their care. He awakens, and at first thinks he is dead. He then recognizes Cordelia, but thinks that she will do him harm because of all the sisters, she has the best motive. They tell him he is safe and take him away. Only the Gentleman and Kent stay and they discuss the battle that is about to brew. Edmund is leading the Duke of Cornwall's forces, and it is rumored that Edgar is in Germany

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/19.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_11_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 5.scene 1

act 5, scene 1

{"name": "Act 5, Scene 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene7-act5-scene1", "summary": "Edmund and Regan are speaking, and Regan asks Edmund if he loves Goneril. He answers that he does, and Regan is disappointed. The Duke of Albany and Edmund decide to join forces against the invading French army when Edgar comes to them dressed in his disguise and gives a paper to Albany. Edmund enters and gives another paper to Albany all the while, trying to figure out which sister he will choose since he's sworn his love to both. He decides to wait until the battle is over, and unlike Albany intends to show no mercy to Cordelia or Lear", "analysis": ""}

Actus Quintus. Scena Prima. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and Souldiers. Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold, Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought To change the course, he's full of alteration, And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam Reg. Now sweet Lord, You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you: Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth, Do you not loue my Sister? Bast. In honour'd Loue Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way, To the fore-fended place? Bast. No by mine honour, Madam Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord Be not familiar with her Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband. Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers. Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met: Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter With others, whom the rigour of our State Forc'd to cry out Regan. Why is this reasond? Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie: For these domesticke and particular broiles, Are not the question heere Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre On our proceeding Reg. Sister you'le go with vs? Gon. No Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe. Exeunt. both the Armies. Enter Edgar. Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore, Heare me one word Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter: If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme, I can produce a Champion, that will proue What is auouched there. If you miscarry, Your businesse of the world hath so an end, And machination ceases. Fortune loues you Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter Edg. I was forbid it: When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry, And Ile appeare againe. Enter. Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper. Enter Edmund. Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers, Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces, By dilligent discouerie, but your hast Is now vrg'd on you Alb. We will greet the time. Enter. Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue: Each iealous of the other, as the stung Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow, Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill, And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse His countenance for the Battaile, which being done, Let her who would be rid of him, deuise His speedy taking off. As for the mercie Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia, The Battaile done, and they within our power, Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state, Stands on me to defend, not to debate. Enter.

Act 5, Scene 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act4-scene7-act5-scene1

Edmund and Regan are speaking, and Regan asks Edmund if he loves Goneril. He answers that he does, and Regan is disappointed. The Duke of Albany and Edmund decide to join forces against the invading French army when Edgar comes to them dressed in his disguise and gives a paper to Albany. Edmund enters and gives another paper to Albany all the while, trying to figure out which sister he will choose since he's sworn his love to both. He decides to wait until the battle is over, and unlike Albany intends to show no mercy to Cordelia or Lear

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/20.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_12_part_1.txt

King Lear.act 5.scene 2

act 5, scene 2

{"name": "act 5, Scene 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act5-scene2-act5-scene3", "summary": "Edgar drags his father along and tells him that the French army has been defeated, and Cordelia and Lear wear captured", "analysis": ""}

Scena Secunda. Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia, and Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster. Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue: If euer I returne to you againe, Ile bring you comfort Glo. Grace go with you Sir. Enter. Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar. Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away: King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane, Giue me thy hand: Come on Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere Edg. What in ill thoughts againe? Men must endure Their going hence, euen as their comming hither, Ripenesse is all come on Glo. And that's true too. Exeunt.

act 5, Scene 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act5-scene2-act5-scene3

Edgar drags his father along and tells him that the French army has been defeated, and Cordelia and Lear wear captured

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2266-chapters/21.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/King Lear/section_12_part_2.txt

King Lear.act 5.scene 3

act 5, scene 3

{"name": "act 5, Scene 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act5-scene2-act5-scene3", "summary": "Cordelia and Lear are sent to prison but plan happy ways to spend their time there. Edmund tells his captain as he's taking them that they are to be assassinated. Albany enters to discuss the conditions of the prisoners, and Edmund tells him they will discuss it later. The women then get in a fight over Edmund, and Albany challenges him for trying to steal his wife. Goneril poisons Regan, and Edgar comes forward to fight Edmund in hand-to-hand combat. They battle and Edmund is wounded. Albany then asks Goneril about her involvement in the plot to kill him and she refuses to answer. Edmund then asks his challengers name, and Edgar reveals himself. He tells his tale of dressing as a madman, and how he just witnessed his father's death. Afterwards, he pleads for Kent because of all he's done for the king. A man enters with a bloody knife and says that Goneril has killed her self and confessed to poisoning her sister. Kent arrives and asks after the king. Edmund admits that he ordered the king and Cordelia killed, and they send a man after them to prevent it. Lear comes out with a dead Cordelia in his arms, and Kent reveals himself to his king and Albany decides to give Lear back his thrown. But because of his sadness at Cordelia's death, Lear dies as well much to the sadness of his loyal followers", "analysis": ""}

Scena Tertia. Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and Cordelia, as prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine. Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard, Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne That are to censure them Cor. We are not the first, Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst: For thee oppressed King I am cast downe, My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne. Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters? Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison, We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage: When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue, And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues) Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too, Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out; And take vpon's the mystery of things, As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones, That ebbe and flow by th' Moone Bast. Take them away Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia, The Gods themselues throw Incense. Haue I caught thee? He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen, And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes, The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell, Ere they shall make vs weepe? Weele see 'em staru'd first: come. Enter. Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke. Take thou this note, go follow them to prison, One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men Are as the time is; to be tender minded Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't, Or thriue by other meanes Capt. Ile do't my Lord Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done, Marke I say instantly, and carry it so As I haue set it downe. Exit Captaine. Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers. Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues Who were the opposites of this dayes strife: I do require them of you so to vse them, As we shall find their merites, and our safety May equally determine Bast. Sir, I thought it fit, To send the old and miserable King to some retention, Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more, To plucke the common bosome on his side, And turne our imprest Launces in our eies Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen: My reason all the same, and they are ready To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare Where you shall hold your Session Alb. Sir, by your patience, I hold you but a subiect of this Warre, Not as a Brother Reg. That's as we list to grace him. Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers, Bore the Commission of my place and person, The which immediacie may well stand vp, And call it selfe your Brother Gon. Not so hot: In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe, More then in your addition Reg. In my rights, By me inuested, he compeeres the best Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets Gon. Hola, hola, That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere From a full flowing stomack. Generall, Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony, Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine: Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere My Lord, and Master Gon. Meane you to enioy him? Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will Bast. Nor in thine Lord Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest, This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters, I bare it in the interest of my wife, 'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord, And I her husband contradict your Banes. If you will marry, make your loues to me, My Lady is bespoke Gon. An enterlude Alb. Thou art armed Gloster, Let the Trumpet sound: If none appeare to proue vpon thy person, Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons, There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee Reg. Sicke, O sicke Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies, Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach; On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine My truth and honor firmely. Enter a Herald. Alb. A Herald, ho. Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers All leuied in my name, haue in my name Tooke their discharge Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent. Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound, And read out this. A Trumpet sounds. Herald reads. If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army, will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster, that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence. 1 Trumpet. Her. Againe. 2 Trumpet. Her. Againe. 3 Trumpet. Trumpet answers within. Enter Edgar armed. Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet Her. What are you? Your name, your quality, and why you answer This present Summons? Edg. Know my name is lost By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit, Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary I come to cope Alb. Which is that Aduersary? Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster? Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him? Edg. Draw thy Sword, That if my speech offend a Noble heart, Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine: Behold it is my priuiledge, The priuiledge of mine Honours, My oath, and my profession. I protest, Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence, Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune, Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor: False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father, Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince, And from th' extremest vpward of thy head, To the discent and dust below thy foote, A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no, This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake, Thou lyest Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name, But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike, And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes, What safe, and nicely I might well delay, By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne: Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head, With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart, Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise, This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way, Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake Alb. Saue him, saue him. Alarums. Fights. Gon. This is practise Gloster, By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd, But cozend, and beguild Alb. Shut your mouth Dame, Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir, Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill: No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine, Who can araigne me for't? Enter. Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper? Bast. Aske me not what I know Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her Bast. What you haue charg'd me with, That haue I done, And more, much more, the time will bring it out. 'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble, I do forgiue thee Edg. Let's exchange charity: I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond, If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me. My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne, The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices Make instruments to plague vs: The darke and vitious place where thee he got, Cost him his eyes Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true, The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee, Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I Did hate thee, or thy Father Edg. Worthy Prince I know't Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe? How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father? Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale, And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst. The bloody proclamation to escape That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse, That we the paine of death would hourely dye, Rather then die at once) taught me to shift Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings, Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide, Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire. Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him, Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd, Not sure, though hoping of this good successe, I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart (Alacke too weake the conflict to support) Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe, Burst smilingly Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me, And shall perchance do good, but speake you on, You looke as you had something more to say Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in, For I am almost ready to dissolue, Hearing of this. Enter a Gentleman. Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe Edg. What kinde of helpe? Alb. Speake man Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife? Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart of- O she's dead Alb. Who dead? Speake man Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister By her is poyson'd: she confesses it Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three Now marry in an instant Edg. Here comes Kent. Enter Kent. Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead; Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out. This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble. Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he? The time will not allow the complement Which very manners vrges Kent. I am come To bid my King and Master aye good night. Is he not here? Alb. Great thing of vs forgot, Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia? Seest thou this obiect Kent? Kent. Alacke, why thus? Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd: The one the other poison'd for my sake, And after slew herselfe Alb. Euen so: couer their faces Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send, (Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia: Nay, send in time Alb. Run, run, O run Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office? Send thy token of repreeue Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword, Giue it the Captaine Edg. Hast thee for thy life Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me, To hang Cordelia in the prison, and To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire, That she for-did her selfe Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile. Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes. Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones, Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so, That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer. I know when one is dead, and when one liues, She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse, If that her breath will mist or staine the stone, Why then she liues Kent. Is this the promis'd end? Edg. Or image of that horror Alb. Fall and cease Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so, It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes That euer I haue felt Kent. O my good Master Lear. Prythee away Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all, I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer: Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha: What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft, Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman. I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did Lear. Did I not fellow? I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion I would haue made him skip: I am old now, And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you? Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated, One of them we behold Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent? Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent, Where is your Seruant Caius? Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that, He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man Lear. Ile see that straight Kent. That from your first of difference and decay, Haue follow'd your sad steps Lear. You are welcome hither Kent. Nor no man else: All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly, Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues, And desperately are dead Lear. I so I thinke Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it That we present vs to him. Enter a Messenger. Edg. Very bootlesse Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord Alb. That's but a trifle heere: You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent, What comfort to this great decay may come, Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne, During the life of this old Maiesty To him our absolute power, you to your rights, With boote, and such addition as your Honours Haue more then merited. All Friends shall Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes The cup of their deseruings: O see, see Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life? Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life, And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more, Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer. Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir, Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips, Looke there, looke there. He dies. Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake Edg. Looke vp my Lord Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him, That would vpon the wracke of this tough world Stretch him out longer Edg. He is gon indeed Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long, He but vsurpt his life Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine, Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go, My Master calls me, I must not say no Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey, Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say: The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong, Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long. Exeunt. with a dead March. FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.

act 5, Scene 3

https://web.archive.org/web/20201205114447/https://www.novelguide.com/king-lear/summaries/act5-scene2-act5-scene3

Cordelia and Lear are sent to prison but plan happy ways to spend their time there. Edmund tells his captain as he's taking them that they are to be assassinated. Albany enters to discuss the conditions of the prisoners, and Edmund tells him they will discuss it later. The women then get in a fight over Edmund, and Albany challenges him for trying to steal his wife. Goneril poisons Regan, and Edgar comes forward to fight Edmund in hand-to-hand combat. They battle and Edmund is wounded. Albany then asks Goneril about her involvement in the plot to kill him and she refuses to answer. Edmund then asks his challengers name, and Edgar reveals himself. He tells his tale of dressing as a madman, and how he just witnessed his father's death. Afterwards, he pleads for Kent because of all he's done for the king. A man enters with a bloody knife and says that Goneril has killed her self and confessed to poisoning her sister. Kent arrives and asks after the king. Edmund admits that he ordered the king and Cordelia killed, and they send a man after them to prevent it. Lear comes out with a dead Cordelia in his arms, and Kent reveals himself to his king and Albany decides to give Lear back his thrown. But because of his sadness at Cordelia's death, Lear dies as well much to the sadness of his loyal followers

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_0_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part i.chapter i

chapter i

{"name": "Chapter I", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820032827/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmGreenwood12.asp", "summary": "The book begins on a cold and starry Christmas Eve in Mellstock. Dick Dewy, an ordinary looking young man, is singing on his way home through the woods. Five other villagers, also traveling towards the Dewy house, join Dick, including Michael Mail , Robert Penny , Elias Spinks , Joseph Bowman , and Thomas Leaf . Dick tells all five of them that his father and grandfather have been eagerly awaiting their arrival. In fact, all of the Mellstock men's choir will be meeting at Dick's house, assembling for the annual carol sing. The five villagers tell Dick that they are delighted at the thought of drinking from the new barrel of cider that Dick's father is going to tap for them.", "analysis": "Notes This first chapter is largely introductory. Hardy begins his description of the lovely Mellstock landscape in the very first paragraph of the novel. He also establishes the harmonious co- existence of the villagers with one another and with nature. In fact, the song that Dick Dewy is singing recalls the kinship between human life and the seasons. The structure of the novel will actually follow the seasons. The mood is immediately light and cheerful. The night is cold, crisp, and starry. Dick Dewy is obviously in a jovial mood as he sings a happy song. When he encounters other villagers, he is genuinely delighted to see them and tells them that his family eagerly awaits their arrival. The unusual physical characteristics of the rustic villagers are even humorously described by the author, adding to the light mood. There is a sense of festivity about everything, for the choir is gathering to have cider at the Dewy home and then proceeding to have their annual Christmas carol sing. This first chapter clearly establishes that Hardy is writing about a setting that he knows and loves."}

To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality. On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his voice as he sang in a rural cadence: "With the rose and the lily And the daffodowndilly, The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes, casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes. After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side. The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees. "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured. "Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness. "Ay, sure, Michael Mail." "Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house too, as we be, and knowen us so well?" Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle, implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship. Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat, an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of sky low enough to picture him on. Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir. The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm, and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to Dick. The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who, though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes, denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form. The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically. The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf. "Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched assembly. The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great depth. "We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on." "Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my feet." "To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap." "'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing parenthetically-- "The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." "Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore bedtime?" said Mail. "True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman cheerfully. This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church- bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden, and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house.

Chapter I

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820032827/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmGreenwood12.asp

The book begins on a cold and starry Christmas Eve in Mellstock. Dick Dewy, an ordinary looking young man, is singing on his way home through the woods. Five other villagers, also traveling towards the Dewy house, join Dick, including Michael Mail , Robert Penny , Elias Spinks , Joseph Bowman , and Thomas Leaf . Dick tells all five of them that his father and grandfather have been eagerly awaiting their arrival. In fact, all of the Mellstock men's choir will be meeting at Dick's house, assembling for the annual carol sing. The five villagers tell Dick that they are delighted at the thought of drinking from the new barrel of cider that Dick's father is going to tap for them.

Notes This first chapter is largely introductory. Hardy begins his description of the lovely Mellstock landscape in the very first paragraph of the novel. He also establishes the harmonious co- existence of the villagers with one another and with nature. In fact, the song that Dick Dewy is singing recalls the kinship between human life and the seasons. The structure of the novel will actually follow the seasons. The mood is immediately light and cheerful. The night is cold, crisp, and starry. Dick Dewy is obviously in a jovial mood as he sings a happy song. When he encounters other villagers, he is genuinely delighted to see them and tells them that his family eagerly awaits their arrival. The unusual physical characteristics of the rustic villagers are even humorously described by the author, adding to the light mood. There is a sense of festivity about everything, for the choir is gathering to have cider at the Dewy home and then proceeding to have their annual Christmas carol sing. This first chapter clearly establishes that Hardy is writing about a setting that he knows and loves.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_1_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part i.chapter ii

chapter ii

{"name": "Chapter II", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820032827/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmGreenwood13.asp", "summary": "The Dewy's house, a low-roofed cottage, has three chimneys and a thatched roof. The walls of the house are covered with creeping plants, and the door appears to be worn out from the coming and going of many people. A little away from the cottage is a building from which comes the sound of woodcutting. The sound of horses can also be heard. The men's church choir enters the house, wiping their boots clean on the doorstep. As they enter, they spy Dick's father, Reuben Dewy. Known to the townsfolk as the Tranter, Reuben, a stout, red-faced man of about forty, is busily engaged in opening a barrel of cider. He does not bother to look up when they enter, but he welcomes the men and tells them that the cider is made from the finest apples. The main room to the left of the cottage is decorated with a Christmas tree. The Tranter's wife and four of his children are gathered there; Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley are all between the ages of four and sixteen; Dick, the oldest, is twenty years old. Mrs. Dewy invites the choir to sit round the fire. She warmly asks Thomas Leaf to sit beside her and inquires about Mr. Penny's daughter, who is expecting her fifth baby. As Reuben is about to open the barrel, he remembers the deceased Sam Lawson, who had given him the cider. When the cider shoots out in a stream, he sends his daughter to get mugs and tells Michael to put his thumb over the hole while he retrieves a cork. The choir sits drinking around the table. Reuben wonders if his father, known as Grandfather William, is cutting wood or playing the violin. He goes to find him and ask him to join the party.", "analysis": "Notes In this chapter, traditional rustic hospitality and family life are introduced. The Dewy home is warmly described in careful detail. Even though the Dewys are not wealthy, they are a close family unit. They have put up a Christmas tree in the big room of their picturesque cottage and have gathered around it, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the choir. Mrs. Dewy and four of her children are also eager for the return of Dick, the oldest son. As they wait, Reuben Dewy, Dick's father, is attempting to open a barrel of cider, which he plans to share with the men from the church choir. When the choir members enter, they are warmly welcomed with familiarity, even though Reuben never looks up from the task at hand. He feels totally comfortable with these rustics and feels no need to be formal. The group gathers around the table to enjoy the cider and good-humored conversation about their lives, past and present; it is obvious that they like and enjoy one another. When Reuben realizes that his own father, Grandfather William, has not yet joined them, he calls him to the party. In totality, the chapter is a warm picture of close community filled with a festive mood."}

It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding within it. The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a "tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the expected old comrades. The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children, Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal interval. Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney, to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time. "Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length, standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards, Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard- rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is as good as most people's best cider is." "Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an excuse. Watered cider is too common among us." "Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent." "Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan, you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and sit here in the settle." This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before he had had time to get used to his height he was higher. "Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in view as the most conspicuous members of his body. "Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?" "Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's better, 'a b'lieve." "Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?" "Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well. However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it." Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?" she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night." "Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy. "Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork. "Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man indoors." "Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,' says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,' he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens, Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'" "I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to be deceived." "That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben. Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement of some more brown paper for the broaching operation. "Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of affairs. "No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing with everybody. "Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a' open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that that was coming it very close, Reuben?" "'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice. "Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty, first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these." "Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively. "Sam was!" said Bowman. "Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter. "Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny. The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready, "Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!" The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his father. "There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy. "Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger tap, my sonnies." "Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole. "What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!" Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts of the world put together." All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board upon which the gaze might precipitate itself. "Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it. "Father!" "Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner. "Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!" A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past, now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family appeared.

Chapter II

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820032827/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmGreenwood13.asp

The Dewy's house, a low-roofed cottage, has three chimneys and a thatched roof. The walls of the house are covered with creeping plants, and the door appears to be worn out from the coming and going of many people. A little away from the cottage is a building from which comes the sound of woodcutting. The sound of horses can also be heard. The men's church choir enters the house, wiping their boots clean on the doorstep. As they enter, they spy Dick's father, Reuben Dewy. Known to the townsfolk as the Tranter, Reuben, a stout, red-faced man of about forty, is busily engaged in opening a barrel of cider. He does not bother to look up when they enter, but he welcomes the men and tells them that the cider is made from the finest apples. The main room to the left of the cottage is decorated with a Christmas tree. The Tranter's wife and four of his children are gathered there; Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley are all between the ages of four and sixteen; Dick, the oldest, is twenty years old. Mrs. Dewy invites the choir to sit round the fire. She warmly asks Thomas Leaf to sit beside her and inquires about Mr. Penny's daughter, who is expecting her fifth baby. As Reuben is about to open the barrel, he remembers the deceased Sam Lawson, who had given him the cider. When the cider shoots out in a stream, he sends his daughter to get mugs and tells Michael to put his thumb over the hole while he retrieves a cork. The choir sits drinking around the table. Reuben wonders if his father, known as Grandfather William, is cutting wood or playing the violin. He goes to find him and ask him to join the party.

Notes In this chapter, traditional rustic hospitality and family life are introduced. The Dewy home is warmly described in careful detail. Even though the Dewys are not wealthy, they are a close family unit. They have put up a Christmas tree in the big room of their picturesque cottage and have gathered around it, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the choir. Mrs. Dewy and four of her children are also eager for the return of Dick, the oldest son. As they wait, Reuben Dewy, Dick's father, is attempting to open a barrel of cider, which he plans to share with the men from the church choir. When the choir members enter, they are warmly welcomed with familiarity, even though Reuben never looks up from the task at hand. He feels totally comfortable with these rustics and feels no need to be formal. The group gathers around the table to enjoy the cider and good-humored conversation about their lives, past and present; it is obvious that they like and enjoy one another. When Reuben realizes that his own father, Grandfather William, has not yet joined them, he calls him to the party. In totality, the chapter is a warm picture of close community filled with a festive mood.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_2_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part i.chapter iii

chapter iii

{"name": "Chapter III", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820032827/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmGreenwood14.asp", "summary": "Even though Grandfather William is seventy, he is still very active although sometimes weak-minded. His bright face would remind a gardener of the \"sunny side of a ripe ribstone - pippin.\" William, a religious man, is also very good-hearted. When he joins the party, he wishes everyone a merry Christmas and throws an armful of logs on the fire. Before coming in, William has invited Grandfather James, Mrs. Dewy's father, to join them. He is a miserly stone mason who lives alone in his cottage. Grandfather William and the choir talk about which carols they will sing, for they need to practice in order to do well. Robert Penny, the local shoemaker, interrupts to exclaim that he has forgotten to deliver a pair of boots to the schoolhouse; he curses his weak-mindedness in forgetting important matters. Seeing that the mention of the boots has generated greater interest than expected, Penny explains that he has made boots for Geoffrey Day, Geoffrey's father, and Geoffrey's sister, Fancy Day. The boots that he has forgotten to deliver are the ones for Miss Day, who wanted to wear them to church the next morning. Talk turns to the new schoolmistress, whom they call \"a figure of fun\" and \"just husband-high.\" Penny then tells the story of John Woodward's brother. When he drowned, no one could identify the body; but Penny was able to identify his boots. Spinks, considered the town scholar and a good teacher, says that he can identify the ways of a man's heart from his feet. Reuben expresses surprise at the fact that a person's character could be read from his feet. Grandfather William again turns the talk to the carol sing. He wonders whether they should sing for the new schoolmistress. Dick Dewy's interest is aroused because he has heard that Fancy Day is young and beautiful.", "analysis": "Notes In this chapter the Mellstock rustics are brought to life through their conversation and the stories that they tell. They perform an almost choric function as they give information on various characters and events. Penny's discussion on boot making and his digression on John Woodward's brother are very interesting and earthy, lending realism to the dialogue. The discussion of Fancy Day is humorous, but significant, since she will become the protagonist of the story and the object of Dick's affection. Much time is spent in the description of Grandfather William, Reuben's father. He is a kind-hearted man of seventy; although he is still very active, he is often forgetful. His cheerfulness is a sharp contrast to Mrs. Dewy's father, Grandfather James, who is a miserly loner."}

William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely thought him old William Dewy. "Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too, Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving 'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James." Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well- illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner, by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals, hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My buttery," he said, with a pinched smile. "Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table. "Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally. "Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever since I was growing up a hard boy-chap." "But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael. "He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no denying that." "The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to 'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't." "We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel. Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll warn it." "'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate at all!" "The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a night-school, and always spoke up to that level. "Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four followed it. "Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well, when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly. "Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm making." During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim of the vessel. "However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the first thing to-morrow will do." He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating. "The new schoolmistress's!" "Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I see, and just husband-high." "Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them. "Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his daughter was in training?" "Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?" "Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve." "I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children. "Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest. "Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's what she's come for!" "And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father always comes to me." There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's permission. "Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and- sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses." "I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough to see it, perhaps." Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles. "Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used to know Johnson the dairyman, William?" "Ay, sure; I did." "Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving, 'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'" "Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy. "'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks. "'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that man's heart." "You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the tranter. "Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have." "Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master Spinks." "I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground. I am over forty-five." Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished, nobody's head ever could be. "Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put together, oftentimes." "But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently, moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her." "What about her face?" said young Dewy. "Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a face, when all is said and done." "Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi' her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel.

Chapter III

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820032827/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmGreenwood14.asp

Even though Grandfather William is seventy, he is still very active although sometimes weak-minded. His bright face would remind a gardener of the "sunny side of a ripe ribstone - pippin." William, a religious man, is also very good-hearted. When he joins the party, he wishes everyone a merry Christmas and throws an armful of logs on the fire. Before coming in, William has invited Grandfather James, Mrs. Dewy's father, to join them. He is a miserly stone mason who lives alone in his cottage. Grandfather William and the choir talk about which carols they will sing, for they need to practice in order to do well. Robert Penny, the local shoemaker, interrupts to exclaim that he has forgotten to deliver a pair of boots to the schoolhouse; he curses his weak-mindedness in forgetting important matters. Seeing that the mention of the boots has generated greater interest than expected, Penny explains that he has made boots for Geoffrey Day, Geoffrey's father, and Geoffrey's sister, Fancy Day. The boots that he has forgotten to deliver are the ones for Miss Day, who wanted to wear them to church the next morning. Talk turns to the new schoolmistress, whom they call "a figure of fun" and "just husband-high." Penny then tells the story of John Woodward's brother. When he drowned, no one could identify the body; but Penny was able to identify his boots. Spinks, considered the town scholar and a good teacher, says that he can identify the ways of a man's heart from his feet. Reuben expresses surprise at the fact that a person's character could be read from his feet. Grandfather William again turns the talk to the carol sing. He wonders whether they should sing for the new schoolmistress. Dick Dewy's interest is aroused because he has heard that Fancy Day is young and beautiful.

Notes In this chapter the Mellstock rustics are brought to life through their conversation and the stories that they tell. They perform an almost choric function as they give information on various characters and events. Penny's discussion on boot making and his digression on John Woodward's brother are very interesting and earthy, lending realism to the dialogue. The discussion of Fancy Day is humorous, but significant, since she will become the protagonist of the story and the object of Dick's affection. Much time is spent in the description of Grandfather William, Reuben's father. He is a kind-hearted man of seventy; although he is still very active, he is often forgetful. His cheerfulness is a sharp contrast to Mrs. Dewy's father, Grandfather James, who is a miserly loner.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/part_1_chapters_1_to_6.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_0_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part 1.chapters 1-6

part 1 chapter 1 - 6

{"name": "Part One Chapter 1 to 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part1-chapter1-6", "summary": "'Mellstock-lane', Chapter Two 'The Tranter's and Chapter Three 'The Assembled Choir' The novel begins with the following sentence: 'To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature'. This reference to individuality is continued as the narrative focuses on a man passing a plantation on a Christmas Eve 'less than a generation ago'. He sings as he walks and someone answers his song and the voice then asks if that is Dick Dewy. Dick replies, \"'Ay, sure, Michael Mail!'\" Michael asks Dick to stop and wait as they are all going to the home of Dick's father. Irregular footsteps can be heard and five men of different ages emerge from the grove. They are all villagers of the parish of Mellstock and represented 'the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir'. Michael Mail is the first and eldest of them and he carries a fiddle. The next is Robert Penny, a boot and shoemaker, and then Elias Spinks. The fourth is Joseph Bowman and the fifth is Thomas Leaf. Dick asks where the boys are and Michael tells him they have been told to stay at home for a while. They head off for the hamlet Lewgate and the 'faint sound of church bells ringing a Christmas peal' can be heard. They enter a garden and go up the path to Dick's house. In Chapter Two, the cottage is described as small, low and thatched. The men enter and Dick's father, Reuben, is there and he is referred to as a 'tranter, an irregular carrier' and is aged around 40. The main room is decked with holly and other evergreens, and mistletoe is hung from the middle of a huge beam. Ann Dewy, Dick's mother, and the four other children are here and they are aged from 16 to 4. The men are welcomed in by the Dewys and Ann tells Tommy to come and sit down and asks Mr Penny about his daughter, Mrs Brownjohn. He says \"'pretty fair'\" and adds that \"'she'll be worse before she's better'\". He also says how she has had five children and buried three. Reuben is 'tapping' his barrel of cider and Ann warns him to not make a mess indoors. When he makes a hole and cider spurts out, he asks Michael to put his thumb in while he gets a bigger tap. Reuben then calls for his father and tells him the barrel is ready . Chapter Three introduces William Dewy, the father of Reuben, and he is described as being about 70. He throws down an armful of logs and calls in Grandfather James . The choir talk about the carols they will sing. Mr Penny interrupts and remembers he should have gone to the schoolhouse as he has a boot to take there. He takes a last from his pocket and then a boot which he says belongs to Fancy Day, the daughter of Geoffrey. He places the boot on the table and they converge around it like 'wheel-spokes'. Mr Penny says how he can see a resemblance between the last, which is Geoffrey's, and his daughter's boot.", "analysis": "'Mellstock-lane', Chapter Two ' The Tranter's and Chapter Three 'The Assembled Choir' These first few chapters set the scene and lay out the landscape of the novel. The rural backdrop is seen to be inhabited by these men who form a choir and they are introduced to the readers as they prepare to sing carols to those who live nearby. The tone of these and later chapters is amiable and purposely light. Furthermore, by beginning at Christmas time there is a sense of anticipation of pleasure as well as a gesture to Christianity. Many of the characters are revealed here as they chat together about the forthcoming night's events. The readers are also made aware of Fancy, although this is done via her shoe than by her presence in the text. The way the men gather around the table hints to the future as men are later seen to be attracted to her in this manner in the flesh. Chapter Four 'Going the Rounds', Chapter Five 'The Listeners', and Chapter Six 'Christmas Morning' The singing boys arrive at the tranter's house just after 10 o'clock. The older men and musicians are described as wearing thick coats and colored handkerchiefs round their necks. The others are mainly dressed in white 'smock-frocks' that are embroidered with patterns. The boys light the lanterns and because there has been a thin fall of snow those without leggings put hay round their ankles to keep the flakes from the interior of their boots. They sing in the parish of Mellstock, which is spread over a large area, and several hours are taken in singing within the hearing of each family. This includes East and West Mellstock and Lewgate. William Dewy plays the 'violincello' and his grandson, Dick, the treble violin. Reuben and Michael Mail play the tenor and second violin respectively. They set out at midnight and by 2 o'clock they pass the Home Plantation toward the main village. Michael Mail talks about how times have changed and how he thinks \"'we must be almost the last left in the country of the old string players'\". He also says barrel organs and harmoniums are replacing them. They cross toward the school and form a semi-circle and sing hymn number 78, which refers to Adam's fall. No movement comes from the schoolhouse and they sing another and again no notice is shown to have been taken of their performance. The tranter wonders if she 'sneers' at their 'doings' as she has come from the city, and Mr Penny says \"'od rabbit her!'\" They sing one more song and still no sign is given that they have been heard. A light appears in an upper floor window in Chapter Five. A young woman opens the window and thanks them and goes back inside. The men note her prettiness and agree \"'that such a sight was worth singing for'\". They go to Farmer Shinar's after this and he shouts at them for making a noise when he has a headache. They continue and William says they cannot be insulted in this way. The farmer opens a window and they play louder to drown out what he says. When they retire, William says how Shinar has been \"'unseemly'\" especially as the farmer is a churchwarden. The tranter says he has had a drink and is in \"'his worldly frame'\" now. He adds that they will invite him to their party and bear no ill will against him. They proceed to the lower village and have food and drink. William notices Dick's absence then and the tranter shouts for him. They retrace their steps and find him at the schoolhouse. The 'lost man' is leant against a wall and is looking up at the window. His father asks him what he is doing and he says nothing. They go to the vicarage after this and perform there. Mr Maybold, the vicar, does not stir at first, but cries \"'thanks villagers'\" from his bedclothes. The tranter predicts that \"'that young vision'\" will wind the \"'tinner-voiced parson'\" round her finger. In Chapter Six, Dick's sleep is disturbed with the thought of Fancy and in the morning he keeps thinking of her, 'the Vision', and wonders if she will be in church. They prepare to attend the service and grandfather, father and son take their instruments with them. The difference between the people in the gallery and the nave at church is referred to. The choir is at the back of the gallery and Dick sees Fancy enter the porch door. 'Ever afterwards' he remembers everything of the service of that Christmas morning, including the tunes, the text, the dust on the piers and the holly in the chancel archway. Mr Maybold also notices Fancy and he 'sedulously endeavoured to reduce himself to his normal state of mind'. When the singing is 'in progress', a 'strong and shrill reinforcement' comes from the schoolgirls. This has never happened before 'within the memory of man'. The girls like the others had previously been 'humble' and followed the lead of the gallery. 'A good deal of desperation' is evident among the choir. Mr Bowman calls them \"'brazen-faced hussies'\" and Mr Spinks asks \"'Shall anything bolder be found that united woman?'\" The tranter says he wants to know what business people have telling them to sing like that when they are not sat in the gallery and have never been in one. Mr Spinks says \"'we useless ones'\" should march out with their fiddles and all and laughs. Only the 'initiated body of men' understood the 'horrible bitterness of irony' of these words. The chapter ends with the information that Ann tells the family at breakfast that she intends to invite Fancy - the 'youthful leader of the culprits' - to their party that night and this brightens Dick. Chapter Four 'Going the Rounds', Chapter Five 'The Listeners', and Chapter Six 'Christmas Morning' Chapter Four 'Going the Rounds', Chapter Five 'The Listeners', and Chapter Six 'Christmas Morning' The spirit of change is strongly suggested as the music made by the men in the choir is diminished in church by the united voices of the schoolgirls. These are referred to variously as 'united women' and 'brazen-faced hussies' and their behavior signals a challenge to the past and possibly patriarchy in the way they no longer perform in the usual 'humble' fashion. Change is also alluded to earlier in Chapter Four when Michael Mail points out they must be among the last of their kind now, of 'old string players', and considers how the harmonium and barrel organ are replacing them. Progress, it is suggested, is tied up with improvements in technology and with the redundancy of men."}

To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality. On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his voice as he sang in a rural cadence: "With the rose and the lily And the daffodowndilly, The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes, casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes. After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side. The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees. "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured. "Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness. "Ay, sure, Michael Mail." "Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house too, as we be, and knowen us so well?" Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle, implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship. Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat, an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of sky low enough to picture him on. Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir. The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm, and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to Dick. The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who, though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes, denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form. The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically. The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf. "Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched assembly. The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great depth. "We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on." "Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my feet." "To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap." "'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing parenthetically-- "The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go." "Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore bedtime?" said Mail. "True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman cheerfully. This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church- bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden, and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house. It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding within it. The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a "tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the expected old comrades. The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children, Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal interval. Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney, to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time. "Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length, standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards, Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard- rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is as good as most people's best cider is." "Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an excuse. Watered cider is too common among us." "Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent." "Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan, you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and sit here in the settle." This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before he had had time to get used to his height he was higher. "Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in view as the most conspicuous members of his body. "Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?" "Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's better, 'a b'lieve." "Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?" "Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well. However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it." Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?" she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night." "Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy. "Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork. "Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man indoors." "Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,' says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,' he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens, Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'" "I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to be deceived." "That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben. Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement of some more brown paper for the broaching operation. "Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of affairs. "No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing with everybody. "Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a' open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that that was coming it very close, Reuben?" "'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice. "Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty, first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these." "Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively. "Sam was!" said Bowman. "Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter. "Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny. The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready, "Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!" The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his father. "There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy. "Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger tap, my sonnies." "Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole. "What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!" Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts of the world put together." All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board upon which the gaze might precipitate itself. "Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it. "Father!" "Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner. "Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!" A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past, now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family appeared. William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely thought him old William Dewy. "Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too, Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving 'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James." Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well- illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner, by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals, hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My buttery," he said, with a pinched smile. "Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table. "Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally. "Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever since I was growing up a hard boy-chap." "But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael. "He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no denying that." "The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to 'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't." "We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel. Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll warn it." "'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate at all!" "The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a night-school, and always spoke up to that level. "Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four followed it. "Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well, when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly. "Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm making." During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim of the vessel. "However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the first thing to-morrow will do." He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating. "The new schoolmistress's!" "Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I see, and just husband-high." "Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them. "Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his daughter was in training?" "Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?" "Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve." "I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children. "Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest. "Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's what she's come for!" "And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father always comes to me." There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's permission. "Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and- sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses." "I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough to see it, perhaps." Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles. "Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used to know Johnson the dairyman, William?" "Ay, sure; I did." "Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving, 'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'" "Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy. "'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks. "'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that man's heart." "You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the tranter. "Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have." "Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master Spinks." "I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground. I am over forty-five." Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished, nobody's head ever could be. "Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put together, oftentimes." "But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently, moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her." "What about her face?" said young Dewy. "Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a face, when all is said and done." "Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi' her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel. Shortly after ten o'clock the singing-boys arrived at the tranter's house, which was invariably the place of meeting, and preparations were made for the start. The older men and musicians wore thick coats, with stiff perpendicular collars, and coloured handkerchiefs wound round and round the neck till the end came to hand, over all which they just showed their ears and noses, like people looking over a wall. The remainder, stalwart ruddy men and boys, were dressed mainly in snow-white smock-frocks, embroidered upon the shoulders and breasts, in ornamental forms of hearts, diamonds, and zigzags. The cider-mug was emptied for the ninth time, the music-books were arranged, and the pieces finally decided upon. The boys in the meantime put the old horn-lanterns in order, cut candles into short lengths to fit the lanterns; and, a thin fleece of snow having fallen since the early part of the evening, those who had no leggings went to the stable and wound wisps of hay round their ankles to keep the insidious flakes from the interior of their boots. Mellstock was a parish of considerable acreage, the hamlets composing it lying at a much greater distance from each other than is ordinarily the case. Hence several hours were consumed in playing and singing within hearing of every family, even if but a single air were bestowed on each. There was Lower Mellstock, the main village; half a mile from this were the church and vicarage, and a few other houses, the spot being rather lonely now, though in past centuries it had been the most thickly-populated quarter of the parish. A mile north-east lay the hamlet of Upper Mellstock, where the tranter lived; and at other points knots of cottages, besides solitary farmsteads and dairies. Old William Dewy, with the violoncello, played the bass; his grandson Dick the treble violin; and Reuben and Michael Mail the tenor and second violins respectively. The singers consisted of four men and seven boys, upon whom devolved the task of carrying and attending to the lanterns, and holding the books open for the players. Directly music was the theme, old William ever and instinctively came to the front. "Now mind, neighbours," he said, as they all went out one by one at the door, he himself holding it ajar and regarding them with a critical face as they passed, like a shepherd counting out his sheep. "You two counter- boys, keep your ears open to Michael's fingering, and don't ye go straying into the treble part along o' Dick and his set, as ye did last year; and mind this especially when we be in 'Arise, and hail.' Billy Chimlen, don't you sing quite so raving mad as you fain would; and, all o' ye, whatever ye do, keep from making a great scuffle on the ground when we go in at people's gates; but go quietly, so as to strike up all of a sudden, like spirits." "Farmer Ledlow's first?" "Farmer Ledlow's first; the rest as usual." "And, Voss," said the tranter terminatively, "you keep house here till about half-past two; then heat the metheglin and cider in the warmer you'll find turned up upon the copper; and bring it wi' the victuals to church-hatch, as th'st know." * * * * * Just before the clock struck twelve they lighted the lanterns and started. The moon, in her third quarter, had risen since the snowstorm; but the dense accumulation of snow-cloud weakened her power to a faint twilight, which was rather pervasive of the landscape than traceable to the sky. The breeze had gone down, and the rustle of their feet and tones of their speech echoed with an alert rebound from every post, boundary-stone, and ancient wall they passed, even where the distance of the echo's origin was less than a few yards. Beyond their own slight noises nothing was to be heard, save the occasional bark of foxes in the direction of Yalbury Wood, or the brush of a rabbit among the grass now and then, as it scampered out of their way. Most of the outlying homesteads and hamlets had been visited by about two o'clock; they then passed across the outskirts of a wooded park toward the main village, nobody being at home at the Manor. Pursuing no recognized track, great care was necessary in walking lest their faces should come in contact with the low-hanging boughs of the old lime-trees, which in many spots formed dense over-growths of interlaced branches. "Times have changed from the times they used to be," said Mail, regarding nobody can tell what interesting old panoramas with an inward eye, and letting his outward glance rest on the ground, because it was as convenient a position as any. "People don't care much about us now! I've been thinking we must be almost the last left in the county of the old string players? Barrel-organs, and the things next door to 'em that you blow wi' your foot, have come in terribly of late years." "Ay!" said Bowman, shaking his head; and old William, on seeing him, did the same thing. "More's the pity," replied another. "Time was--long and merry ago now!--when not one of the varmits was to be heard of; but it served some of the quires right. They should have stuck to strings as we did, and kept out clarinets, and done away with serpents. If you'd thrive in musical religion, stick to strings, says I." "Strings be safe soul-lifters, as far as that do go," said Mr. Spinks. "Yet there's worse things than serpents," said Mr. Penny. "Old things pass away, 'tis true; but a serpent was a good old note: a deep rich note was the serpent." "Clar'nets, however, be bad at all times," said Michael Mail. "One Christmas--years agone now, years--I went the rounds wi' the Weatherbury quire. 'Twas a hard frosty night, and the keys of all the clar'nets froze--ah, they did freeze!--so that 'twas like drawing a cork every time a key was opened; and the players o' 'em had to go into a hedger-and-ditcher's chimley-corner, and thaw their clar'nets every now and then. An icicle o' spet hung down from the end of every man's clar'net a span long; and as to fingers--well, there, if ye'll believe me, we had no fingers at all, to our knowing." "I can well bring back to my mind," said Mr. Penny, "what I said to poor Joseph Ryme (who took the treble part in Chalk-Newton Church for two-and- forty year) when they thought of having clar'nets there. 'Joseph,' I said, says I, 'depend upon't, if so be you have them tooting clar'nets you'll spoil the whole set-out. Clar'nets were not made for the service of the Lard; you can see it by looking at 'em,' I said. And what came o't? Why, souls, the parson set up a barrel-organ on his own account within two years o' the time I spoke, and the old quire went to nothing." "As far as look is concerned," said the tranter, "I don't for my part see that a fiddle is much nearer heaven than a clar'net. 'Tis further off. There's always a rakish, scampish twist about a fiddle's looks that seems to say the Wicked One had a hand in making o'en; while angels be supposed to play clar'nets in heaven, or som'at like 'em, if ye may believe picters." "Robert Penny, you was in the right," broke in the eldest Dewy. "They should ha' stuck to strings. Your brass-man is a rafting dog--well and good; your reed-man is a dab at stirring ye--well and good; your drum-man is a rare bowel-shaker--good again. But I don't care who hears me say it, nothing will spak to your heart wi' the sweetness o' the man of strings!" "Strings for ever!" said little Jimmy. "Strings alone would have held their ground against all the new comers in creation." ("True, true!" said Bowman.) "But clarinets was death." ("Death they was!" said Mr. Penny.) "And harmonions," William continued in a louder voice, and getting excited by these signs of approval, "harmonions and barrel-organs" ("Ah!" and groans from Spinks) "be miserable--what shall I call 'em?--miserable--" "Sinners," suggested Jimmy, who made large strides like the men, and did not lag behind like the other little boys. "Miserable dumbledores!" "Right, William, and so they be--miserable dumbledores!" said the choir with unanimity. By this time they were crossing to a gate in the direction of the school, which, standing on a slight eminence at the junction of three ways, now rose in unvarying and dark flatness against the sky. The instruments were retuned, and all the band entered the school enclosure, enjoined by old William to keep upon the grass. "Number seventy-eight," he softly gave out as they formed round in a semicircle, the boys opening the lanterns to get a clearer light, and directing their rays on the books. Then passed forth into the quiet night an ancient and time-worn hymn, embodying a quaint Christianity in words orally transmitted from father to son through several generations down to the present characters, who sang them out right earnestly: "Remember Adam's fall, O thou Man: Remember Adam's fall From Heaven to Hell. Remember Adam's fall; How he hath condemn'd all In Hell perpetual There for to dwell. Remember God's goodnesse, O thou Man: Remember God's goodnesse, His promise made. Remember God's goodnesse; He sent His Son sinlesse Our ails for to redress; Be not afraid! In Bethlehem He was born, O thou Man: In Bethlehem He was born, For mankind's sake. In Bethlehem He was born, Christmas-day i' the morn: Our Saviour thought no scorn Our faults to take. Give thanks to God alway, O thou Man: Give thanks to God alway With heart-most joy. Give thanks to God alway On this our joyful day: Let all men sing and say, Holy, Holy!" Having concluded the last note, they listened for a minute or two, but found that no sound issued from the schoolhouse. "Four breaths, and then, 'O, what unbounded goodness!' number fifty-nine," said William. This was duly gone through, and no notice whatever seemed to be taken of the performance. "Good guide us, surely 'tisn't a' empty house, as befell us in the year thirty-nine and forty-three!" said old Dewy. "Perhaps she's jist come from some musical city, and sneers at our doings?" the tranter whispered. "'Od rabbit her!" said Mr. Penny, with an annihilating look at a corner of the school chimney, "I don't quite stomach her, if this is it. Your plain music well done is as worthy as your other sort done bad, a' b'lieve, souls; so say I." "Four breaths, and then the last," said the leader authoritatively. "'Rejoice, ye Tenants of the Earth,' number sixty-four." At the close, waiting yet another minute, he said in a clear loud voice, as he had said in the village at that hour and season for the previous forty years--"A merry Christmas to ye!" When the expectant stillness consequent upon the exclamation had nearly died out of them all, an increasing light made itself visible in one of the windows of the upper floor. It came so close to the blind that the exact position of the flame could be perceived from the outside. Remaining steady for an instant, the blind went upward from before it, revealing to thirty concentrated eyes a young girl, framed as a picture by the window architrave, and unconsciously illuminating her countenance to a vivid brightness by a candle she held in her left hand, close to her face, her right hand being extended to the side of the window. She was wrapped in a white robe of some kind, whilst down her shoulders fell a twining profusion of marvellously rich hair, in a wild disorder which proclaimed it to be only during the invisible hours of the night that such a condition was discoverable. Her bright eyes were looking into the grey world outside with an uncertain expression, oscillating between courage and shyness, which, as she recognized the semicircular group of dark forms gathered before her, transformed itself into pleasant resolution. Opening the window, she said lightly and warmly--"Thank you, singers, thank you!" Together went the window quickly and quietly, and the blind started downward on its return to its place. Her fair forehead and eyes vanished; her little mouth; her neck and shoulders; all of her. Then the spot of candlelight shone nebulously as before; then it moved away. "How pretty!" exclaimed Dick Dewy. "If she'd been rale wexwork she couldn't ha' been comelier," said Michael Mail. "As near a thing to a spiritual vision as ever I wish to see!" said tranter Dewy. "O, sich I never, never see!" said Leaf fervently. All the rest, after clearing their throats and adjusting their hats, agreed that such a sight was worth singing for. "Now to Farmer Shiner's, and then replenish our insides, father?" said the tranter. "Wi' all my heart," said old William, shouldering his bass-viol. Farmer Shiner's was a queer lump of a house, standing at the corner of a lane that ran into the principal thoroughfare. The upper windows were much wider than they were high, and this feature, together with a broad bay-window where the door might have been expected, gave it by day the aspect of a human countenance turned askance, and wearing a sly and wicked leer. To-night nothing was visible but the outline of the roof upon the sky. The front of this building was reached, and the preliminaries arranged as usual. "Four breaths, and number thirty-two, 'Behold the Morning Star,'" said old William. They had reached the end of the second verse, and the fiddlers were doing the up bow-stroke previously to pouring forth the opening chord of the third verse, when, without a light appearing or any signal being given, a roaring voice exclaimed-- "Shut up, woll 'ee! Don't make your blaring row here! A feller wi' a headache enough to split his skull likes a quiet night!" Slam went the window. "Hullo, that's a' ugly blow for we!" said the tranter, in a keenly appreciative voice, and turning to his companions. "Finish the carrel, all who be friends of harmony!" commanded old William; and they continued to the end. "Four breaths, and number nineteen!" said William firmly. "Give it him well; the quire can't be insulted in this manner!" A light now flashed into existence, the window opened, and the farmer stood revealed as one in a terrific passion. "Drown en!--drown en!" the tranter cried, fiddling frantically. "Play fortissimy, and drown his spaking!" "Fortissimy!" said Michael Mail, and the music and singing waxed so loud that it was impossible to know what Mr. Shiner had said, was saying, or was about to say; but wildly flinging his arms and body about in the forms of capital Xs and Ys, he appeared to utter enough invectives to consign the whole parish to perdition. "Very onseemly--very!" said old William, as they retired. "Never such a dreadful scene in the whole round o' my carrel practice--never! And he a churchwarden!" "Only a drap o' drink got into his head," said the tranter. "Man's well enough when he's in his religious frame. He's in his worldly frame now. Must ask en to our bit of a party to-morrow night, I suppose, and so put en in humour again. We bear no mortal man ill-will." They now crossed Mellstock Bridge, and went along an embowered path beside the Froom towards the church and vicarage, meeting Voss with the hot mead and bread-and-cheese as they were approaching the churchyard. This determined them to eat and drink before proceeding further, and they entered the church and ascended to the gallery. The lanterns were opened, and the whole body sat round against the walls on benches and whatever else was available, and made a hearty meal. In the pauses of conversation there could be heard through the floor overhead a little world of undertones and creaks from the halting clockwork, which never spread further than the tower they were born in, and raised in the more meditative minds a fancy that here lay the direct pathway of Time. Having done eating and drinking, they again tuned the instruments, and once more the party emerged into the night air. "Where's Dick?" said old Dewy. Every man looked round upon every other man, as if Dick might have been transmuted into one or the other; and then they said they didn't know. "Well now, that's what I call very nasty of Master Dicky, that I do," said Michael Mail. "He've clinked off home-along, depend upon't," another suggested, though not quite believing that he had. "Dick!" exclaimed the tranter, and his voice rolled sonorously forth among the yews. He suspended his muscles rigid as stone whilst listening for an answer, and finding he listened in vain, turned to the assemblage. "The treble man too! Now if he'd been a tenor or counter chap, we might ha' contrived the rest o't without en, you see. But for a quire to lose the treble, why, my sonnies, you may so well lose your . . . " The tranter paused, unable to mention an image vast enough for the occasion. "Your head at once," suggested Mr. Penny. The tranter moved a pace, as if it were puerile of people to complete sentences when there were more pressing things to be done. "Was ever heard such a thing as a young man leaving his work half done and turning tail like this!" "Never," replied Bowman, in a tone signifying that he was the last man in the world to wish to withhold the formal finish required of him. "I hope no fatal tragedy has overtook the lad!" said his grandfather. "O no," replied tranter Dewy placidly. "Wonder where he's put that there fiddle of his. Why that fiddle cost thirty shillings, and good words besides. Somewhere in the damp, without doubt; that instrument will be unglued and spoilt in ten minutes--ten! ay, two." "What in the name o' righteousness can have happened?" said old William, more uneasily. "Perhaps he's drownded!" Leaving their lanterns and instruments in the belfry they retraced their steps along the waterside track. "A strapping lad like Dick d'know better than let anything happen onawares," Reuben remarked. "There's sure to be some poor little scram reason for't staring us in the face all the while." He lowered his voice to a mysterious tone: "Neighbours, have ye noticed any sign of a scornful woman in his head, or suchlike?" "Not a glimmer of such a body. He's as clear as water yet." "And Dicky said he should never marry," cried Jimmy, "but live at home always along wi' mother and we!" "Ay, ay, my sonny; every lad has said that in his time." They had now again reached the precincts of Mr. Shiner's, but hearing nobody in that direction, one or two went across to the schoolhouse. A light was still burning in the bedroom, and though the blind was down, the window had been slightly opened, as if to admit the distant notes of the carollers to the ears of the occupant of the room. Opposite the window, leaning motionless against a beech tree, was the lost man, his arms folded, his head thrown back, his eyes fixed upon the illuminated lattice. "Why, Dick, is that thee? What b'st doing here?" Dick's body instantly flew into a more rational attitude, and his head was seen to turn east and west in the gloom, as if endeavouring to discern some proper answer to that question; and at last he said in rather feeble accents--"Nothing, father." "Th'st take long enough time about it then, upon my body," said the tranter, as they all turned anew towards the vicarage. "I thought you hadn't done having snap in the gallery," said Dick. "Why, we've been traypsing and rambling about, looking everywhere, and thinking you'd done fifty deathly things, and here have you been at nothing at all!" "The stupidness lies in that point of it being nothing at all," murmured Mr. Spinks. The vicarage front was their next field of operation, and Mr. Maybold, the lately-arrived incumbent, duly received his share of the night's harmonies. It was hoped that by reason of his profession he would have been led to open the window, and an extra carol in quick time was added to draw him forth. But Mr. Maybold made no stir. "A bad sign!" said old William, shaking his head. However, at that same instant a musical voice was heard exclaiming from inner depths of bedclothes--"Thanks, villagers!" "What did he say?" asked Bowman, who was rather dull of hearing. Bowman's voice, being therefore loud, had been heard by the vicar within. "I said, 'Thanks, villagers!'" cried the vicar again. "Oh, we didn't hear 'ee the first time!" cried Bowman. "Now don't for heaven's sake spoil the young man's temper by answering like that!" said the tranter. "You won't do that, my friends!" the vicar shouted. "Well to be sure, what ears!" said Mr. Penny in a whisper. "Beats any horse or dog in the parish, and depend upon't, that's a sign he's a proper clever chap." "We shall see that in time," said the tranter. Old William, in his gratitude for such thanks from a comparatively new inhabitant, was anxious to play all the tunes over again; but renounced his desire on being reminded by Reuben that it would be best to leave well alone. "Now putting two and two together," the tranter continued, as they went their way over the hill, and across to the last remaining houses; "that is, in the form of that young female vision we zeed just now, and this young tenor-voiced parson, my belief is she'll wind en round her finger, and twist the pore young feller about like the figure of 8--that she will so, my sonnies." The choir at last reached their beds, and slept like the rest of the parish. Dick's slumbers, through the three or four hours remaining for rest, were disturbed and slight; an exhaustive variation upon the incidents that had passed that night in connection with the school-window going on in his brain every moment of the time. In the morning, do what he would--go upstairs, downstairs, out of doors, speak of the wind and weather, or what not--he could not refrain from an unceasing renewal, in imagination, of that interesting enactment. Tilted on the edge of one foot he stood beside the fireplace, watching his mother grilling rashers; but there was nothing in grilling, he thought, unless the Vision grilled. The limp rasher hung down between the bars of the gridiron like a cat in a child's arms; but there was nothing in similes, unless She uttered them. He looked at the daylight shadows of a yellow hue, dancing with the firelight shadows in blue on the whitewashed chimney corner, but there was nothing in shadows. "Perhaps the new young wom--sch--Miss Fancy Day will sing in church with us this morning," he said. The tranter looked a long time before he replied, "I fancy she will; and yet I fancy she won't." Dick implied that such a remark was rather to be tolerated than admired; though deliberateness in speech was known to have, as a rule, more to do with the machinery of the tranter's throat than with the matter enunciated. They made preparations for going to church as usual; Dick with extreme alacrity, though he would not definitely consider why he was so religious. His wonderful nicety in brushing and cleaning his best light boots had features which elevated it to the rank of an art. Every particle and speck of last week's mud was scraped and brushed from toe and heel; new blacking from the packet was carefully mixed and made use of, regardless of expense. A coat was laid on and polished; then another coat for increased blackness; and lastly a third, to give the perfect and mirror-like jet which the hoped-for rencounter demanded. It being Christmas-day, the tranter prepared himself with Sunday particularity. Loud sousing and snorting noises were heard to proceed from a tub in the back quarters of the dwelling, proclaiming that he was there performing his great Sunday wash, lasting half-an-hour, to which his washings on working-day mornings were mere flashes in the pan. Vanishing into the outhouse with a large brown towel, and the above-named bubblings and snortings being carried on for about twenty minutes, the tranter would appear round the edge of the door, smelling like a summer fog, and looking as if he had just narrowly escaped a watery grave with the loss of much of his clothes, having since been weeping bitterly till his eyes were red; a crystal drop of water hanging ornamentally at the bottom of each ear, one at the tip of his nose, and others in the form of spangles about his hair. After a great deal of crunching upon the sanded stone floor by the feet of father, son, and grandson as they moved to and fro in these preparations, the bass-viol and fiddles were taken from their nook, and the strings examined and screwed a little above concert-pitch, that they might keep their tone when the service began, to obviate the awkward contingency of having to retune them at the back of the gallery during a cough, sneeze, or amen--an inconvenience which had been known to arise in damp wintry weather. The three left the door and paced down Mellstock-lane and across the ewe- lease, bearing under their arms the instruments in faded green-baize bags, and old brown music-books in their hands; Dick continually finding himself in advance of the other two, and the tranter moving on with toes turned outwards to an enormous angle. At the foot of an incline the church became visible through the north gate, or 'church hatch,' as it was called here. Seven agile figures in a clump were observable beyond, which proved to be the choristers waiting; sitting on an altar-tomb to pass the time, and letting their heels dangle against it. The musicians being now in sight, the youthful party scampered off and rattled up the old wooden stairs of the gallery like a regiment of cavalry; the other boys of the parish waiting outside and observing birds, cats, and other creatures till the vicar entered, when they suddenly subsided into sober church-goers, and passed down the aisle with echoing heels. The gallery of Mellstock Church had a status and sentiment of its own. A stranger there was regarded with a feeling altogether differing from that of the congregation below towards him. Banished from the nave as an intruder whom no originality could make interesting, he was received above as a curiosity that no unfitness could render dull. The gallery, too, looked down upon and knew the habits of the nave to its remotest peculiarity, and had an extensive stock of exclusive information about it; whilst the nave knew nothing of the gallery folk, as gallery folk, beyond their loud-sounding minims and chest notes. Such topics as that the clerk was always chewing tobacco except at the moment of crying amen; that he had a dust-hole in his pew; that during the sermon certain young daughters of the village had left off caring to read anything so mild as the marriage service for some years, and now regularly studied the one which chronologically follows it; that a pair of lovers touched fingers through a knot-hole between their pews in the manner ordained by their great exemplars, Pyramus and Thisbe; that Mrs. Ledlow, the farmer's wife, counted her money and reckoned her week's marketing expenses during the first lesson--all news to those below--were stale subjects here. Old William sat in the centre of the front row, his violoncello between his knees and two singers on each hand. Behind him, on the left, came the treble singers and Dick; and on the right the tranter and the tenors. Farther back was old Mail with the altos and supernumeraries. But before they had taken their places, and whilst they were standing in a circle at the back of the gallery practising a psalm or two, Dick cast his eyes over his grandfather's shoulder, and saw the vision of the past night enter the porch-door as methodically as if she had never been a vision at all. A new atmosphere seemed suddenly to be puffed into the ancient edifice by her movement, which made Dick's body and soul tingle with novel sensations. Directed by Shiner, the churchwarden, she proceeded to the small aisle on the north side of the chancel, a spot now allotted to a throng of Sunday-school girls, and distinctly visible from the gallery-front by looking under the curve of the furthermost arch on that side. Before this moment the church had seemed comparatively empty--now it was thronged; and as Miss Fancy rose from her knees and looked around her for a permanent place in which to deposit herself--finally choosing the remotest corner--Dick began to breathe more freely the warm new air she had brought with her; to feel rushings of blood, and to have impressions that there was a tie between her and himself visible to all the congregation. Ever afterwards the young man could recollect individually each part of the service of that bright Christmas morning, and the trifling occurrences which took place as its minutes slowly drew along; the duties of that day dividing themselves by a complete line from the services of other times. The tunes they that morning essayed remained with him for years, apart from all others; also the text; also the appearance of the layer of dust upon the capitals of the piers; that the holly-bough in the chancel archway was hung a little out of the centre--all the ideas, in short, that creep into the mind when reason is only exercising its lowest activity through the eye. By chance or by fate, another young man who attended Mellstock Church on that Christmas morning had towards the end of the service the same instinctive perception of an interesting presence, in the shape of the same bright maiden, though his emotion reached a far less developed stage. And there was this difference, too, that the person in question was surprised at his condition, and sedulously endeavoured to reduce himself to his normal state of mind. He was the young vicar, Mr. Maybold. The music on Christmas mornings was frequently below the standard of church-performances at other times. The boys were sleepy from the heavy exertions of the night; the men were slightly wearied; and now, in addition to these constant reasons, there was a dampness in the atmosphere that still further aggravated the evil. Their strings, from the recent long exposure to the night air, rose whole semitones, and snapped with a loud twang at the most silent moment; which necessitated more retiring than ever to the back of the gallery, and made the gallery throats quite husky with the quantity of coughing and hemming required for tuning in. The vicar looked cross. When the singing was in progress there was suddenly discovered to be a strong and shrill reinforcement from some point, ultimately found to be the school-girls' aisle. At every attempt it grew bolder and more distinct. At the third time of singing, these intrusive feminine voices were as mighty as those of the regular singers; in fact, the flood of sound from this quarter assumed such an individuality, that it had a time, a key, almost a tune of its own, surging upwards when the gallery plunged downwards, and the reverse. Now this had never happened before within the memory of man. The girls, like the rest of the congregation, had always been humble and respectful followers of the gallery; singing at sixes and sevens if without gallery leaders; never interfering with the ordinances of these practised artists--having no will, union, power, or proclivity except it was given them from the established choir enthroned above them. A good deal of desperation became noticeable in the gallery throats and strings, which continued throughout the musical portion of the service. Directly the fiddles were laid down, Mr. Penny's spectacles put in their sheath, and the text had been given out, an indignant whispering began. "Did ye hear that, souls?" Mr. Penny said, in a groaning breath. "Brazen-faced hussies!" said Bowman. "True; why, they were every note as loud as we, fiddles and all, if not louder!" "Fiddles and all!" echoed Bowman bitterly. "Shall anything saucier be found than united 'ooman?" Mr. Spinks murmured. "What I want to know is," said the tranter (as if he knew already, but that civilization required the form of words), "what business people have to tell maidens to sing like that when they don't sit in a gallery, and never have entered one in their lives? That's the question, my sonnies." "'Tis the gallery have got to sing, all the world knows," said Mr. Penny. "Why, souls, what's the use o' the ancients spending scores of pounds to build galleries if people down in the lowest depths of the church sing like that at a moment's notice?" "Really, I think we useless ones had better march out of church, fiddles and all!" said Mr. Spinks, with a laugh which, to a stranger, would have sounded mild and real. Only the initiated body of men he addressed could understand the horrible bitterness of irony that lurked under the quiet words 'useless ones,' and the ghastliness of the laughter apparently so natural. "Never mind! Let 'em sing too--'twill make it all the louder--hee, hee!" said Leaf. "Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf! Where have you lived all your life?" said grandfather William sternly. The quailing Leaf tried to look as if he had lived nowhere at all. "When all's said and done, my sonnies," Reuben said, "there'd have been no real harm in their singing if they had let nobody hear 'em, and only jined in now and then." "None at all," said Mr. Penny. "But though I don't wish to accuse people wrongfully, I'd say before my lord judge that I could hear every note o' that last psalm come from 'em as much as from us--every note as if 'twas their own." "Know it! ah, I should think I did know it!" Mr. Spinks was heard to observe at this moment, without reference to his fellow players--shaking his head at some idea he seemed to see floating before him, and smiling as if he were attending a funeral at the time. "Ah, do I or don't I know it!" No one said "Know what?" because all were aware from experience that what he knew would declare itself in process of time. "I could fancy last night that we should have some trouble wi' that young man," said the tranter, pending the continuance of Spinks's speech, and looking towards the unconscious Mr. Maybold in the pulpit. "I fancy," said old William, rather severely, "I fancy there's too much whispering going on to be of any spiritual use to gentle or simple." Then folding his lips and concentrating his glance on the vicar, he implied that none but the ignorant would speak again; and accordingly there was silence in the gallery, Mr. Spinks's telling speech remaining for ever unspoken. Dick had said nothing, and the tranter little, on this episode of the morning; for Mrs. Dewy at breakfast expressed it as her intention to invite the youthful leader of the culprits to the small party it was customary with them to have on Christmas night--a piece of knowledge which had given a particular brightness to Dick's reflections since he had received it. And in the tranter's slightly-cynical nature, party feeling was weaker than in the other members of the choir, though friendliness and faithful partnership still sustained in him a hearty earnestness on their account.

Part One Chapter 1 to 6

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'Mellstock-lane', Chapter Two 'The Tranter's and Chapter Three 'The Assembled Choir' The novel begins with the following sentence: 'To dwellers in a wood, almost every species of tree has its voice as well as its feature'. This reference to individuality is continued as the narrative focuses on a man passing a plantation on a Christmas Eve 'less than a generation ago'. He sings as he walks and someone answers his song and the voice then asks if that is Dick Dewy. Dick replies, "'Ay, sure, Michael Mail!'" Michael asks Dick to stop and wait as they are all going to the home of Dick's father. Irregular footsteps can be heard and five men of different ages emerge from the grove. They are all villagers of the parish of Mellstock and represented 'the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir'. Michael Mail is the first and eldest of them and he carries a fiddle. The next is Robert Penny, a boot and shoemaker, and then Elias Spinks. The fourth is Joseph Bowman and the fifth is Thomas Leaf. Dick asks where the boys are and Michael tells him they have been told to stay at home for a while. They head off for the hamlet Lewgate and the 'faint sound of church bells ringing a Christmas peal' can be heard. They enter a garden and go up the path to Dick's house. In Chapter Two, the cottage is described as small, low and thatched. The men enter and Dick's father, Reuben, is there and he is referred to as a 'tranter, an irregular carrier' and is aged around 40. The main room is decked with holly and other evergreens, and mistletoe is hung from the middle of a huge beam. Ann Dewy, Dick's mother, and the four other children are here and they are aged from 16 to 4. The men are welcomed in by the Dewys and Ann tells Tommy to come and sit down and asks Mr Penny about his daughter, Mrs Brownjohn. He says "'pretty fair'" and adds that "'she'll be worse before she's better'". He also says how she has had five children and buried three. Reuben is 'tapping' his barrel of cider and Ann warns him to not make a mess indoors. When he makes a hole and cider spurts out, he asks Michael to put his thumb in while he gets a bigger tap. Reuben then calls for his father and tells him the barrel is ready . Chapter Three introduces William Dewy, the father of Reuben, and he is described as being about 70. He throws down an armful of logs and calls in Grandfather James . The choir talk about the carols they will sing. Mr Penny interrupts and remembers he should have gone to the schoolhouse as he has a boot to take there. He takes a last from his pocket and then a boot which he says belongs to Fancy Day, the daughter of Geoffrey. He places the boot on the table and they converge around it like 'wheel-spokes'. Mr Penny says how he can see a resemblance between the last, which is Geoffrey's, and his daughter's boot.

'Mellstock-lane', Chapter Two ' The Tranter's and Chapter Three 'The Assembled Choir' These first few chapters set the scene and lay out the landscape of the novel. The rural backdrop is seen to be inhabited by these men who form a choir and they are introduced to the readers as they prepare to sing carols to those who live nearby. The tone of these and later chapters is amiable and purposely light. Furthermore, by beginning at Christmas time there is a sense of anticipation of pleasure as well as a gesture to Christianity. Many of the characters are revealed here as they chat together about the forthcoming night's events. The readers are also made aware of Fancy, although this is done via her shoe than by her presence in the text. The way the men gather around the table hints to the future as men are later seen to be attracted to her in this manner in the flesh. Chapter Four 'Going the Rounds', Chapter Five 'The Listeners', and Chapter Six 'Christmas Morning' The singing boys arrive at the tranter's house just after 10 o'clock. The older men and musicians are described as wearing thick coats and colored handkerchiefs round their necks. The others are mainly dressed in white 'smock-frocks' that are embroidered with patterns. The boys light the lanterns and because there has been a thin fall of snow those without leggings put hay round their ankles to keep the flakes from the interior of their boots. They sing in the parish of Mellstock, which is spread over a large area, and several hours are taken in singing within the hearing of each family. This includes East and West Mellstock and Lewgate. William Dewy plays the 'violincello' and his grandson, Dick, the treble violin. Reuben and Michael Mail play the tenor and second violin respectively. They set out at midnight and by 2 o'clock they pass the Home Plantation toward the main village. Michael Mail talks about how times have changed and how he thinks "'we must be almost the last left in the country of the old string players'". He also says barrel organs and harmoniums are replacing them. They cross toward the school and form a semi-circle and sing hymn number 78, which refers to Adam's fall. No movement comes from the schoolhouse and they sing another and again no notice is shown to have been taken of their performance. The tranter wonders if she 'sneers' at their 'doings' as she has come from the city, and Mr Penny says "'od rabbit her!'" They sing one more song and still no sign is given that they have been heard. A light appears in an upper floor window in Chapter Five. A young woman opens the window and thanks them and goes back inside. The men note her prettiness and agree "'that such a sight was worth singing for'". They go to Farmer Shinar's after this and he shouts at them for making a noise when he has a headache. They continue and William says they cannot be insulted in this way. The farmer opens a window and they play louder to drown out what he says. When they retire, William says how Shinar has been "'unseemly'" especially as the farmer is a churchwarden. The tranter says he has had a drink and is in "'his worldly frame'" now. He adds that they will invite him to their party and bear no ill will against him. They proceed to the lower village and have food and drink. William notices Dick's absence then and the tranter shouts for him. They retrace their steps and find him at the schoolhouse. The 'lost man' is leant against a wall and is looking up at the window. His father asks him what he is doing and he says nothing. They go to the vicarage after this and perform there. Mr Maybold, the vicar, does not stir at first, but cries "'thanks villagers'" from his bedclothes. The tranter predicts that "'that young vision'" will wind the "'tinner-voiced parson'" round her finger. In Chapter Six, Dick's sleep is disturbed with the thought of Fancy and in the morning he keeps thinking of her, 'the Vision', and wonders if she will be in church. They prepare to attend the service and grandfather, father and son take their instruments with them. The difference between the people in the gallery and the nave at church is referred to. The choir is at the back of the gallery and Dick sees Fancy enter the porch door. 'Ever afterwards' he remembers everything of the service of that Christmas morning, including the tunes, the text, the dust on the piers and the holly in the chancel archway. Mr Maybold also notices Fancy and he 'sedulously endeavoured to reduce himself to his normal state of mind'. When the singing is 'in progress', a 'strong and shrill reinforcement' comes from the schoolgirls. This has never happened before 'within the memory of man'. The girls like the others had previously been 'humble' and followed the lead of the gallery. 'A good deal of desperation' is evident among the choir. Mr Bowman calls them "'brazen-faced hussies'" and Mr Spinks asks "'Shall anything bolder be found that united woman?'" The tranter says he wants to know what business people have telling them to sing like that when they are not sat in the gallery and have never been in one. Mr Spinks says "'we useless ones'" should march out with their fiddles and all and laughs. Only the 'initiated body of men' understood the 'horrible bitterness of irony' of these words. The chapter ends with the information that Ann tells the family at breakfast that she intends to invite Fancy - the 'youthful leader of the culprits' - to their party that night and this brightens Dick. Chapter Four 'Going the Rounds', Chapter Five 'The Listeners', and Chapter Six 'Christmas Morning' Chapter Four 'Going the Rounds', Chapter Five 'The Listeners', and Chapter Six 'Christmas Morning' The spirit of change is strongly suggested as the music made by the men in the choir is diminished in church by the united voices of the schoolgirls. These are referred to variously as 'united women' and 'brazen-faced hussies' and their behavior signals a challenge to the past and possibly patriarchy in the way they no longer perform in the usual 'humble' fashion. Change is also alluded to earlier in Chapter Four when Michael Mail points out they must be among the last of their kind now, of 'old string players', and considers how the harmonium and barrel organ are replacing them. Progress, it is suggested, is tied up with improvements in technology and with the redundancy of men.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/part_2_chapters_1_to_5.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_1_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part 2.chapters 1-5

part 2 chapter 1 - 5

{"name": "Part Two Chapter 1 to 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part2-chapter1-5", "summary": "'Passing By the School', Chapter Two 'A Meeting of the Choir' and Chapter Three 'A Turn in the Discussion' As spring advances, Dick often walks near the school on his way to or from home. The nineteenth time of doing this he sees her at her window and receives a friendly greeting. At other times, he is rewarded with 'an actual meeting face to face on the open ground'. He thinks about her 'every little movements' for hours later and is not sure how she feels about him. Chapter Two refers to the main members of the Mellstock parish choir, who are standing outside Mr Penny's workshop. His premises are described and it is explained that he has no sign over his door as 'advertising in any shape was scorned' as with 'old banks and mercantile houses': '... it would have been felt as beneath his dignity to paint, for the benefit of strangers, the name of an establishment the trade of which came solely by connection based on personal respect.' The men talk about the vicar and one says 'he' is not to blame, she is as, \"'she's the bitter weed'\". The changes brought in by the vicar are mentioned, such as how he does not let men put their hats in the font during service and now, the tranter says, \"'tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop'\". They move on to talk about the previous vicar, Mr Grinham, and how he never troubled them: \"'And he was a very honourable good man in not wanting any of us to come and hear him if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring the babies to be christened if they were inclined to squalling.'\" Old William goes on to defend Mr Maybold, the latest vicar, and his son does the same as he recalls how he speaks to them whether they are dirty or clean. This chapter ends with them seeing Dick coming up the street. In Chapter Three, the tranter says his son, Dick, is \"'a lost man'\" and says it is his mother's fault for inviting \"'the young woman'\" to the party at Christmas. Mr Spinks turns the conversation slightly and asks how Mr Maybold knew that she could play the organ. When Dick approaches, they tell him of the 'alteration' and he blushes and says Miss Day particularly wished not to play because she is a friend of theirs. The tranter proposes they go down to the vicar and say they know that every tradesman likes to have his own way in his workshop and the church is his. They just ask if they can stay on until Christmas and then give way to the young woman. They agree to this and decide to go to Reuben's house for bacon and cider for fortification beforehand.", "analysis": "' Passing By the School', Chapter Two 'A Meeting of the Choir' and Chapter Three 'A Turn in the Discussion' The earlier references to change and the fear of replacement are emphasized at this point as it transpires that Fancy is to play the organ in church and will replace the choir. The older tradition is set to be replaced by the more modern individual and with the help of technology. The choir is all but made redundant. The choir's allegiance to the past is also exemplified in Mr Penny's decision to not submit to the practice of advertising his trade. By refusing to lower his dignity, in his interpretation, he avoids engaging with capitalism and lives according to his means. Both the choir and Mr Penny belong to an era which has disappeared, if it ever existed, and the narrative invites us to mourn over this loss of simplicity and relative innocence. Chapter Four 'The Interview With the Vicar' and Chapter Five 'Returning Homeward' The next day at 6 pm they leave the tranter's house and he tells them to keep in step as this looks better. They are shown into the vicar's house and Reuben, William and Tommy Leaf go in to the study to talk with him. After some preamble, Reuben tells the vicar how he likes to look things in the face, and gazes out of the window. William and the vicar do the same, 'apparently under the impression that the thing's face alluded to were there visible'. Reuben asks for the choir to be given more time, till Christmas, and \"'as a fair thing between man and man'\". The vicar says he will give them more time and has no personal fault to find with the choir. He does not want to change the church music in a \"'forcible'\" manner and does not want to hurt his parishioners' feelings either. He has spoken definitely on the subject at last because one of his churchwardens has brought to his notice that he knows a player of the organ. Reuben says they understand the young lady did not want to play particularly and the vicar agrees and explains that the churchwarden \"'has been so anxious for a change'\" that he could not keep refusing his consent. The vicar then blushes and explains he has also thought of asking Miss Day to play. On being questioned, he also tells them that it was Mr Shinar who wanted the change and Reuben exclaims and says he has no ear for music and adds that he took against the choir at Christmas. The vicar says he does not think Mr Shinar bears any ill feelings toward them. The others come to the study door when they hear movement . Mr Penny tells the vicar how his chin is bleeding from a shaving cut and everyone else looks too. The vicar brings the conversation back to the choir and says he knows they will meet him half way and Michaelmas would be convenient for both parties. Reuben agrees and says, \"'then we make room for the next generation'\". On the walk home, in Chapter Five, Reuben says that Shinar is \"'at the root of the mischief'\" and sees that Shinar is for putting Miss Day forwards. Bowman blames 'Fancy Day' for them having to leave the gallery and Mr Penny says his wife thinks Mr Maybold is in love with Miss Day. They also talk of her father, Geoffrey, and how silent he is. Chapter Four 'The Interview With the Vicar' and Chapter Five 'Returning Homeward' Chapter Four 'The Interview With the Vicar' and Chapter Five 'Returning Homeward' As Reuben says, the choir must now 'make room for the next generation' as Fancy is to take over the playing of the organ in church at Michaelmas. This change will occur on the instigation of Shinar and at the final request of the vicar and so the choir are relegated to the past. Fancy is used as the means to oust the choir, but by showing her preference the vicar and Shinar also demonstration an affection for her in their bid to elevate her in front of the congregation. All of these machinations occur while Fancy is off-stage, so to speak, and as yet is known only by her absence."}

It followed that, as the spring advanced, Dick walked abroad much more frequently than had hitherto been usual with him, and was continually finding that his nearest way to or from home lay by the road which skirted the garden of the school. The first-fruits of his perseverance were that, on turning the angle on the nineteenth journey by that track, he saw Miss Fancy's figure, clothed in a dark-gray dress, looking from a high open window upon the crown of his hat. The friendly greeting resulting from this rencounter was considered so valuable an elixir that Dick passed still oftener; and by the time he had almost trodden a little path under the fence where never a path was before, he was rewarded with an actual meeting face to face on the open road before her gate. This brought another meeting, and another, Fancy faintly showing by her bearing that it was a pleasure to her of some kind to see him there; but the sort of pleasure she derived, whether exultation at the hope her exceeding fairness inspired, or the true feeling which was alone Dick's concern, he could not anyhow decide, although he meditated on her every little movement for hours after it was made. It was the evening of a fine spring day. The descending sun appeared as a nebulous blaze of amber light, its outline being lost in cloudy masses hanging round it, like wild locks of hair. The chief members of Mellstock parish choir were standing in a group in front of Mr. Penny's workshop in the lower village. They were all brightly illuminated, and each was backed up by a shadow as long as a steeple; the lowness of the source of light rendering the brims of their hats of no use at all as a protection to the eyes. Mr. Penny's was the last house in that part of the parish, and stood in a hollow by the roadside so that cart-wheels and horses' legs were about level with the sill of his shop-window. This was low and wide, and was open from morning till evening, Mr. Penny himself being invariably seen working inside, like a framed portrait of a shoemaker by some modern Moroni. He sat facing the road, with a boot on his knees and the awl in his hand, only looking up for a moment as he stretched out his arms and bent forward at the pull, when his spectacles flashed in the passer's face with a shine of flat whiteness, and then returned again to the boot as usual. Rows of lasts, small and large, stout and slender, covered the wall which formed the background, in the extreme shadow of which a kind of dummy was seen sitting, in the shape of an apprentice with a string tied round his hair (probably to keep it out of his eyes). He smiled at remarks that floated in from without, but was never known to answer them in Mr. Penny's presence. Outside the window the upper-leather of a Wellington-boot was usually hung, pegged to a board as if to dry. No sign was over his door; in fact--as with old banks and mercantile houses--advertising in any shape was scorned, and it would have been felt as beneath his dignity to paint up, for the benefit of strangers, the name of an establishment whose trade came solely by connection based on personal respect. His visitors now came and stood on the outside of his window, sometimes leaning against the sill, sometimes moving a pace or two backwards and forwards in front of it. They talked with deliberate gesticulations to Mr. Penny, enthroned in the shadow of the interior. "I do like a man to stick to men who be in the same line o' life--o' Sundays, anyway--that I do so." "'Tis like all the doings of folk who don't know what a day's work is, that's what I say." "My belief is the man's not to blame; 'tis she--she's the bitter weed!" "No, not altogether. He's a poor gawk-hammer. Look at his sermon yesterday." "His sermon was well enough, a very good guessable sermon, only he couldn't put it into words and speak it. That's all was the matter wi' the sermon. He hadn't been able to get it past his pen." "Well--ay, the sermon might have been good; for, 'tis true, the sermon of Old Eccl'iastes himself lay in Eccl'iastes's ink-bottle afore he got it out." Mr. Penny, being in the act of drawing the last stitch tight, could afford time to look up and throw in a word at this point. "He's no spouter--that must be said, 'a b'lieve." "'Tis a terrible muddle sometimes with the man, as far as spout do go," said Spinks. "Well, we'll say nothing about that," the tranter answered; "for I don't believe 'twill make a penneth o' difference to we poor martels here or hereafter whether his sermons be good or bad, my sonnies." Mr. Penny made another hole with his awl, pushed in the thread, and looked up and spoke again at the extension of arms. "'Tis his goings-on, souls, that's what it is." He clenched his features for an Herculean addition to the ordinary pull, and continued, "The first thing he done when he came here was to be hot and strong about church business." "True," said Spinks; "that was the very first thing he done." Mr. Penny, having now been offered the ear of the assembly, accepted it, ceased stitching, swallowed an unimportant quantity of air as if it were a pill, and continued: "The next thing he do do is to think about altering the church, until he found 'twould be a matter o' cost and what not, and then not to think no more about it." "True: that was the next thing he done." "And the next thing was to tell the young chaps that they were not on no account to put their hats in the christening font during service." "True." "And then 'twas this, and then 'twas that, and now 'tis--" Words were not forcible enough to conclude the sentence, and Mr. Penny gave a huge pull to signify the concluding word. "Now 'tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop," said the tranter after an interval of half a minute, not by way of explaining the pause and pull, which had been quite understood, but as a means of keeping the subject well before the meeting. Mrs. Penny came to the door at this point in the discussion. Like all good wives, however much she was inclined to play the Tory to her husband's Whiggism, and vice versa, in times of peace, she coalesced with him heartily enough in time of war. "It must be owned he's not all there," she replied in a general way to the fragments of talk she had heard from indoors. "Far below poor Mr. Grinham" (the late vicar). "Ay, there was this to be said for he, that you were quite sure he'd never come mumbudgeting to see ye, just as you were in the middle of your work, and put you out with his fuss and trouble about ye." "Never. But as for this new Mr. Maybold, though he mid be a very well- intending party in that respect, he's unbearable; for as to sifting your cinders, scrubbing your floors, or emptying your slops, why, you can't do it. I assure you I've not been able to empt them for several days, unless I throw 'em up the chimley or out of winder; for as sure as the sun you meet him at the door, coming to ask how you are, and 'tis such a confusing thing to meet a gentleman at the door when ye are in the mess o' washing." "'Tis only for want of knowing better, poor gentleman," said the tranter. "His meaning's good enough. Ay, your pa'son comes by fate: 'tis heads or tails, like pitch-halfpenny, and no choosing; so we must take en as he is, my sonnies, and thank God he's no worse, I suppose." "I fancy I've seen him look across at Miss Day in a warmer way than Christianity asked for," said Mrs. Penny musingly; "but I don't quite like to say it." "O no; there's nothing in that," said grandfather William. "If there's nothing, we shall see nothing," Mrs. Penny replied, in the tone of a woman who might possibly have private opinions still. "Ah, Mr. Grinham was the man!" said Bowman. "Why, he never troubled us wi' a visit from year's end to year's end. You might go anywhere, do anything: you'd be sure never to see him." "Yes, he was a right sensible pa'son," said Michael. "He never entered our door but once in his life, and that was to tell my poor wife--ay, poor soul, dead and gone now, as we all shall!--that as she was such a' old aged person, and lived so far from the church, he didn't at all expect her to come any more to the service." "And 'a was a very jinerous gentleman about choosing the psalms and hymns o' Sundays. 'Confound ye,' says he, 'blare and scrape what ye will, but don't bother me!'" "And he was a very honourable man in not wanting any of us to come and hear him if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring the babies to be christened if they were inclined to squalling. There's good in a man's not putting a parish to unnecessary trouble." "And there's this here man never letting us have a bit o' peace; but keeping on about being good and upright till 'tis carried to such a pitch as I never see the like afore nor since!" "No sooner had he got here than he found the font wouldn't hold water, as it hadn't for years off and on; and when I told him that Mr. Grinham never minded it, but used to spet upon his vinger and christen 'em just as well, 'a said, 'Good Heavens! Send for a workman immediate. What place have I come to!' Which was no compliment to us, come to that." "Still, for my part," said old William, "though he's arrayed against us, I like the hearty borussnorus ways of the new pa'son." "You, ready to die for the quire," said Bowman reproachfully, "to stick up for the quire's enemy, William!" "Nobody will feel the loss of our church-work so much as I," said the old man firmly; "that you d'all know. I've a-been in the quire man and boy ever since I was a chiel of eleven. But for all that 'tisn't in me to call the man a bad man, because I truly and sincerely believe en to be a good young feller." Some of the youthful sparkle that used to reside there animated William's eye as he uttered the words, and a certain nobility of aspect was also imparted to him by the setting sun, which gave him a Titanic shadow at least thirty feet in length, stretching away to the east in outlines of imposing magnitude, his head finally terminating upon the trunk of a grand old oak-tree. "Mayble's a hearty feller enough," the tranter replied, "and will spak to you be you dirty or be you clane. The first time I met en was in a drong, and though 'a didn't know me no more than the dead, 'a passed the time of day. 'D'ye do?' he said, says he, nodding his head. 'A fine day.' Then the second time I met en was full-buff in town street, when my breeches were tore into a long strent by getting through a copse of thorns and brimbles for a short cut home-along; and not wanting to disgrace the man by spaking in that state, I fixed my eye on the weathercock to let en pass me as a stranger. But no: 'How d'ye do, Reuben?' says he, right hearty, and shook my hand. If I'd been dressed in silver spangles from top to toe, the man couldn't have been civiller." At this moment Dick was seen coming up the village-street, and they turned and watched him. "I'm afraid Dick's a lost man," said the tranter. "What?--no!" said Mail, implying by his manner that it was a far commoner thing for his ears to report what was not said than that his judgment should be at fault. "Ay," said the tranter, still gazing at Dick's unconscious advance. "I don't at all like what I see! There's too many o' them looks out of the winder without noticing anything; too much shining of boots; too much peeping round corners; too much looking at the clock; telling about clever things she did till you be sick of it; and then upon a hint to that effect a horrible silence about her. I've walked the path once in my life and know the country, neighbours; and Dick's a lost man!" The tranter turned a quarter round and smiled a smile of miserable satire at the setting new moon, which happened to catch his eye. The others became far too serious at this announcement to allow them to speak; and they still regarded Dick in the distance. "'Twas his mother's fault," the tranter continued, "in asking the young woman to our party last Christmas. When I eyed the blue frock and light heels o' the maid, I had my thoughts directly. 'God bless thee, Dicky my sonny,' I said to myself; 'there's a delusion for thee!'" "They seemed to be rather distant in manner last Sunday, I thought?" Mail tentatively observed, as became one who was not a member of the family. "Ay, that's a part of the zickness. Distance belongs to it, slyness belongs to it, queerest things on earth belongs to it! There, 'tmay as well come early as late s'far as I know. The sooner begun, the sooner over; for come it will." "The question I ask is," said Mr. Spinks, connecting into one thread the two subjects of discourse, as became a man learned in rhetoric, and beating with his hand in a way which signified that the manner rather than the matter of his speech was to be observed, "how did Mr. Maybold know she could play the organ? You know we had it from her own lips, as far as lips go, that she has never, first or last, breathed such a thing to him; much less that she ever would play." In the midst of this puzzle Dick joined the party, and the news which had caused such a convulsion among the ancient musicians was unfolded to him. "Well," he said, blushing at the allusion to Miss Day, "I know by some words of hers that she has a particular wish not to play, because she is a friend of ours; and how the alteration comes, I don't know." "Now, this is my plan," said the tranter, reviving the spirit of the discussion by the infusion of new ideas, as was his custom--"this is my plan; if you don't like it, no harm's done. We all know one another very well, don't we, neighbours?" That they knew one another very well was received as a statement which, though familiar, should not be omitted in introductory speeches. "Then I say this"--and the tranter in his emphasis slapped down his hand on Mr. Spinks's shoulder with a momentum of several pounds, upon which Mr. Spinks tried to look not in the least startled--"I say that we all move down-along straight as a line to Pa'son Mayble's when the clock has gone six to-morrow night. There we one and all stand in the passage, then one or two of us go in and spak to en, man and man; and say, 'Pa'son Mayble, every tradesman d'like to have his own way in his workshop, and Mellstock Church is yours. Instead of turning us out neck and crop, let us stay on till Christmas, and we'll gie way to the young woman, Mr. Mayble, and make no more ado about it. And we shall always be quite willing to touch our hats when we meet ye, Mr. Mayble, just as before.' That sounds very well? Hey?" "Proper well, in faith, Reuben Dewy." "And we won't sit down in his house; 'twould be looking too familiar when only just reconciled?" "No need at all to sit down. Just do our duty man and man, turn round, and march out--he'll think all the more of us for it." "I hardly think Leaf had better go wi' us?" said Michael, turning to Leaf and taking his measure from top to bottom by the eye. "He's so terrible silly that he might ruin the concern." "He don't want to go much; do ye, Thomas Leaf?" said William. "Hee-hee! no; I don't want to. Only a teeny bit!" "I be mortal afeard, Leaf, that you'll never be able to tell how many cuts d'take to sharpen a spar," said Mail. "I never had no head, never! that's how it happened to happen, hee-hee!" They all assented to this, not with any sense of humiliating Leaf by disparaging him after an open confession, but because it was an accepted thing that Leaf didn't in the least mind having no head, that deficiency of his being an unimpassioned matter of parish history. "But I can sing my treble!" continued Thomas Leaf, quite delighted at being called a fool in such a friendly way; "I can sing my treble as well as any maid, or married woman either, and better! And if Jim had lived, I should have had a clever brother! To-morrow is poor Jim's birthday. He'd ha' been twenty-six if he'd lived till to-morrow." "You always seem very sorry for Jim," said old William musingly. "Ah! I do. Such a stay to mother as he'd always ha' been! She'd never have had to work in her old age if he had continued strong, poor Jim!" "What was his age when 'a died?" "Four hours and twenty minutes, poor Jim. 'A was born as might be at night; and 'a didn't last as might be till the morning. No, 'a didn't last. Mother called en Jim on the day that would ha' been his christening day if he had lived; and she's always thinking about en. You see he died so very young." "Well, 'twas rather youthful," said Michael. "Now to my mind that woman is very romantical on the matter o' children?" said the tranter, his eye sweeping his audience. "Ah, well she mid be," said Leaf. "She had twelve regular one after another, and they all, except myself, died very young; either before they was born or just afterwards." "Pore feller, too. I suppose th'st want to come wi' us?" the tranter murmured. "Well, Leaf, you shall come wi' us as yours is such a melancholy family," said old William rather sadly. "I never see such a melancholy family as that afore in my life," said Reuben. "There's Leaf's mother, poor woman! Every morning I see her eyes mooning out through the panes of glass like a pot-sick winder-flower; and as Leaf sings a very high treble, and we don't know what we should do without en for upper G, we'll let en come as a trate, poor feller." "Ay, we'll let en come, 'a b'lieve," said Mr. Penny, looking up, as the pull happened to be at that moment. "Now," continued the tranter, dispersing by a new tone of voice these digressions about Leaf; "as to going to see the pa'son, one of us might call and ask en his meaning, and 'twould be just as well done; but it will add a bit of flourish to the cause if the quire waits on him as a body. Then the great thing to mind is, not for any of our fellers to be nervous; so before starting we'll one and all come to my house and have a rasher of bacon; then every man-jack het a pint of cider into his inside; then we'll warm up an extra drop wi' some mead and a bit of ginger; every one take a thimbleful--just a glimmer of a drop, mind ye, no more, to finish off his inner man--and march off to Pa'son Mayble. Why, sonnies, a man's not himself till he is fortified wi' a bit and a drop? We shall be able to look any gentleman in the face then without shrink or shame." Mail recovered from a deep meditation and downward glance into the earth in time to give a cordial approval to this line of action, and the meeting adjourned. At six o'clock the next day, the whole body of men in the choir emerged from the tranter's door, and advanced with a firm step down the lane. This dignity of march gradually became obliterated as they went on, and by the time they reached the hill behind the vicarage a faint resemblance to a flock of sheep might have been discerned in the venerable party. A word from the tranter, however, set them right again; and as they descended the hill, the regular tramp, tramp, tramp of the united feet was clearly audible from the vicarage garden. At the opening of the gate there was another short interval of irregular shuffling, caused by a rather peculiar habit the gate had, when swung open quickly, of striking against the bank and slamming back into the opener's face. "Now keep step again, will ye?" said the tranter. "It looks better, and more becomes the high class of arrant which has brought us here." Thus they advanced to the door. At Reuben's ring the more modest of the group turned aside, adjusted their hats, and looked critically at any shrub that happened to lie in the line of vision; endeavouring thus to give a person who chanced to look out of the windows the impression that their request, whatever it was going to be, was rather a casual thought occurring whilst they were inspecting the vicar's shrubbery and grass-plot than a predetermined thing. The tranter, who, coming frequently to the vicarage with luggage, coals, firewood, etc., had none of the awe for its precincts that filled the breasts of most of the others, fixed his eyes firmly on the knocker during this interval of waiting. The knocker having no characteristic worthy of notice, he relinquished it for a knot in one of the door-panels, and studied the winding lines of the grain. "O, sir, please, here's Tranter Dewy, and old William Dewy, and young Richard Dewy, O, and all the quire too, sir, except the boys, a-come to see you!" said Mr. Maybold's maid-servant to Mr. Maybold, the pupils of her eyes dilating like circles in a pond. "All the choir?" said the astonished vicar (who may be shortly described as a good-looking young man with courageous eyes, timid mouth, and neutral nose), abandoning his writing and looking at his parlour-maid after speaking, like a man who fancied he had seen her face before but couldn't recollect where. "And they looks very firm, and Tranter Dewy do turn neither to the right hand nor to the left, but stares quite straight and solemn with his mind made up!" "O, all the choir," repeated the vicar to himself, trying by that simple device to trot out his thoughts on what the choir could come for. "Yes; every man-jack of 'em, as I be alive!" (The parlour-maid was rather local in manner, having in fact been raised in the same village.) "Really, sir, 'tis thoughted by many in town and country that--" "Town and country!--Heavens, I had no idea that I was public property in this way!" said the vicar, his face acquiring a hue somewhere between that of the rose and the peony. "Well, 'It is thought in town and country that--'" "It is thought that you be going to get it hot and strong!--excusen my incivility, sir." The vicar suddenly recalled to his recollection that he had long ago settled it to be decidedly a mistake to encourage his servant Jane in giving personal opinions. The servant Jane saw by the vicar's face that he recalled this fact to his mind; and removing her forehead from the edge of the door, and rubbing away the indent that edge had made, vanished into the passage as Mr. Maybold remarked, "Show them in, Jane." A few minutes later a shuffling and jostling (reduced to as refined a form as was compatible with the nature of shuffles and jostles) was heard in the passage; then an earnest and prolonged wiping of shoes, conveying the notion that volumes of mud had to be removed; but the roads being so clean that not a particle of dirt appeared on the choir's boots (those of all the elder members being newly oiled, and Dick's brightly polished), this wiping might have been set down simply as a desire to show that respectable men had no wish to take a mean advantage of clean roads for curtailing proper ceremonies. Next there came a powerful whisper from the same quarter:- "Now stand stock-still there, my sonnies, one and all! And don't make no noise; and keep your backs close to the wall, that company may pass in and out easy if they want to without squeezing through ye: and we two are enough to go in." . . . The voice was the tranter's. "I wish I could go in too and see the sight!" said a reedy voice--that of Leaf. "'Tis a pity Leaf is so terrible silly, or else he might," said another. "I never in my life seed a quire go into a study to have it out about the playing and singing," pleaded Leaf; "and I should like to see it just once!" "Very well; we'll let en come in," said the tranter. "You'll be like chips in porridge, {1} Leaf--neither good nor hurt. All right, my sonny, come along;" and immediately himself, old William, and Leaf appeared in the room. "We took the liberty to come and see 'ee, sir," said Reuben, letting his hat hang in his left hand, and touching with his right the brim of an imaginary one on his head. "We've come to see 'ee, sir, man and man, and no offence, I hope?" "None at all," said Mr. Maybold. "This old aged man standing by my side is father; William Dewy by name, sir." "Yes; I see it is," said the vicar, nodding aside to old William, who smiled. "I thought you mightn't know en without his bass-viol," the tranter apologized. "You see, he always wears his best clothes and his bass-viol a-Sundays, and it do make such a difference in a' old man's look." "And who's that young man?" the vicar said. "Tell the pa'son yer name," said the tranter, turning to Leaf, who stood with his elbows nailed back to a bookcase. "Please, Thomas Leaf, your holiness!" said Leaf, trembling. "I hope you'll excuse his looks being so very thin," continued the tranter deprecatingly, turning to the vicar again. "But 'tisn't his fault, poor feller. He's rather silly by nature, and could never get fat; though he's a' excellent treble, and so we keep him on." "I never had no head, sir," said Leaf, eagerly grasping at this opportunity for being forgiven his existence. "Ah, poor young man!" said Mr. Maybold. "Bless you, he don't mind it a bit, if you don't, sir," said the tranter assuringly. "Do ye, Leaf?" "Not I--not a morsel--hee, hee! I was afeard it mightn't please your holiness, sir, that's all." The tranter, finding Leaf get on so very well through his negative qualities, was tempted in a fit of generosity to advance him still higher, by giving him credit for positive ones. "He's very clever for a silly chap, good-now, sir. You never knowed a young feller keep his smock-frocks so clane; very honest too. His ghastly looks is all there is against en, poor feller; but we can't help our looks, you know, sir." "True: we cannot. You live with your mother, I think, Leaf?" The tranter looked at Leaf to express that the most friendly assistant to his tongue could do no more for him now, and that he must be left to his own resources. "Yes, sir: a widder, sir. Ah, if brother Jim had lived she'd have had a clever son to keep her without work!" "Indeed! poor woman. Give her this half-crown. I'll call and see your mother." "Say, 'Thank you, sir,'" the tranter whispered imperatively towards Leaf. "Thank you, sir!" said Leaf. "That's it, then; sit down, Leaf," said Mr. Maybold. "Y-yes, sir!" The tranter cleared his throat after this accidental parenthesis about Leaf, rectified his bodily position, and began his speech. "Mr. Mayble," he said, "I hope you'll excuse my common way, but I always like to look things in the face." Reuben made a point of fixing this sentence in the vicar's mind by gazing hard at him at the conclusion of it, and then out of the window. Mr. Maybold and old William looked in the same direction, apparently under the impression that the things' faces alluded to were there visible. "What I have been thinking"--the tranter implied by this use of the past tense that he was hardly so discourteous as to be positively thinking it then--"is that the quire ought to be gie'd a little time, and not done away wi' till Christmas, as a fair thing between man and man. And, Mr. Mayble, I hope you'll excuse my common way?" "I will, I will. Till Christmas," the vicar murmured, stretching the two words to a great length, as if the distance to Christmas might be measured in that way. "Well, I want you all to understand that I have no personal fault to find, and that I don't wish to change the church music by forcible means, or in a way which should hurt the feelings of any parishioners. Why I have at last spoken definitely on the subject is that a player has been brought under--I may say pressed upon--my notice several times by one of the churchwardens. And as the organ I brought with me is here waiting" (pointing to a cabinet-organ standing in the study), "there is no reason for longer delay." "We made a mistake I suppose then, sir? But we understood the young woman didn't want to play particularly?" The tranter arranged his countenance to signify that he did not want to be inquisitive in the least. "No, nor did she. Nor did I definitely wish her to just yet; for your playing is very good. But, as I said, one of the churchwardens has been so anxious for a change, that, as matters stand, I couldn't consistently refuse my consent." Now for some reason or other, the vicar at this point seemed to have an idea that he had prevaricated; and as an honest vicar, it was a thing he determined not to do. He corrected himself, blushing as he did so, though why he should blush was not known to Reuben. "Understand me rightly," he said: "the church-warden proposed it to me, but I had thought myself of getting--Miss Day to play." "Which churchwarden might that be who proposed her, sir?--excusing my common way." The tranter intimated by his tone that, so far from being inquisitive, he did not even wish to ask a single question. "Mr. Shiner, I believe." "Clk, my sonny!--beg your pardon, sir, that's only a form of words of mine, and slipped out accidental--he nourishes enmity against us for some reason or another; perhaps because we played rather hard upon en Christmas night. Anyhow 'tis certain sure that Mr. Shiner's real love for music of a particular kind isn't his reason. He've no more ear than that chair. But let that be." "I don't think you should conclude that, because Mr. Shiner wants a different music, he has any ill-feeling for you. I myself, I must own, prefer organ-music to any other. I consider it most proper, and feel justified in endeavouring to introduce it; but then, although other music is better, I don't say yours is not good." "Well then, Mr. Mayble, since death's to be, we'll die like men any day you name (excusing my common way)." Mr. Maybold bowed his head. "All we thought was, that for us old ancient singers to be choked off quiet at no time in particular, as now, in the Sundays after Easter, would seem rather mean in the eyes of other parishes, sir. But if we fell glorious with a bit of a flourish at Christmas, we should have a respectable end, and not dwindle away at some nameless paltry second-Sunday-after or Sunday-next-before something, that's got no name of his own." "Yes, yes, that's reasonable; I own it's reasonable." "You see, Mr. Mayble, we've got--do I keep you inconvenient long, sir?" "No, no." "We've got our feelings--father there especially." The tranter, in his earnestness, had advanced his person to within six inches of the vicar's. "Certainly, certainly!" said Mr. Maybold, retreating a little for convenience of seeing. "You are all enthusiastic on the subject, and I am all the more gratified to find you so. A Laodicean lukewarmness is worse than wrongheadedness itself." "Exactly, sir. In fact now, Mr. Mayble," Reuben continued, more impressively, and advancing a little closer still to the vicar, "father there is a perfect figure o' wonder, in the way of being fond of music!" The vicar drew back a little further, the tranter suddenly also standing back a foot or two, to throw open the view of his father, and pointing to him at the same time. Old William moved uneasily in the large chair, and with a minute smile on the mere edge of his lips, for good-manners, said he was indeed very fond of tunes. "Now, you see exactly how it is," Reuben continued, appealing to Mr. Maybold's sense of justice by looking sideways into his eyes. The vicar seemed to see how it was so well that the gratified tranter walked up to him again with even vehement eagerness, so that his waistcoat-buttons almost rubbed against the vicar's as he continued: "As to father, if you or I, or any man or woman of the present generation, at the time music is a-playing, was to shake your fist in father's face, as may be this way, and say, 'Don't you be delighted with that music!'"--the tranter went back to where Leaf was sitting, and held his fist so close to Leaf's face that the latter pressed his head back against the wall: "All right, Leaf, my sonny, I won't hurt you; 'tis just to show my meaning to Mr. Mayble.--As I was saying, if you or I, or any man, was to shake your fist in father's face this way, and say, 'William, your life or your music!' he'd say, 'My life!' Now that's father's nature all over; and you see, sir, it must hurt the feelings of a man of that kind for him and his bass- viol to be done away wi' neck and crop." The tranter went back to the vicar's front and again looked earnestly at his face. "True, true, Dewy," Mr. Maybold answered, trying to withdraw his head and shoulders without moving his feet; but finding this impracticable, edging back another inch. These frequent retreats had at last jammed Mr. Maybold between his easy-chair and the edge of the table. And at the moment of the announcement of the choir, Mr. Maybold had just re-dipped the pen he was using; at their entry, instead of wiping it, he had laid it on the table with the nib overhanging. At the last retreat his coat-tails came in contact with the pen, and down it rolled, first against the back of the chair, thence turning a summersault into the seat, thence falling to the floor with a rattle. The vicar stooped for his pen, and the tranter, wishing to show that, however great their ecclesiastical differences, his mind was not so small as to let this affect his social feelings, stooped also. "And have you anything else you want to explain to me, Dewy?" said Mr. Maybold from under the table. "Nothing, sir. And, Mr. Mayble, you be not offended? I hope you see our desire is reason?" said the tranter from under the chair. "Quite, quite; and I shouldn't think of refusing to listen to such a reasonable request," the vicar replied. Seeing that Reuben had secured the pen, he resumed his vertical position, and added, "You know, Dewy, it is often said how difficult a matter it is to act up to our convictions and please all parties. It may be said with equal truth, that it is difficult for a man of any appreciativeness to have convictions at all. Now in my case, I see right in you, and right in Shiner. I see that violins are good, and that an organ is good; and when we introduce the organ, it will not be that fiddles were bad, but that an organ was better. That you'll clearly understand, Dewy?" "I will; and thank you very much for such feelings, sir. Piph-h-h-h! How the blood do get into my head, to be sure, whenever I quat down like that!" said Reuben, who having also risen to his feet stuck the pen vertically in the inkstand and almost through the bottom, that it might not roll down again under any circumstances whatever. Now the ancient body of minstrels in the passage felt their curiosity surging higher and higher as the minutes passed. Dick, not having much affection for this errand, soon grew tired, and went away in the direction of the school. Yet their sense of propriety would probably have restrained them from any attempt to discover what was going on in the study had not the vicar's pen fallen to the floor. The conviction that the movement of chairs, etc., necessitated by the search, could only have been caused by the catastrophe of a bloody fight beginning, overpowered all other considerations; and they advanced to the door, which had only just fallen to. Thus, when Mr. Maybold raised his eyes after the stooping he beheld glaring through the door Mr. Penny in full- length portraiture, Mail's face and shoulders above Mr. Penny's head, Spinks's forehead and eyes over Mail's crown, and a fractional part of Bowman's countenance under Spinks's arm--crescent-shaped portions of other heads and faces being visible behind these--the whole dozen and odd eyes bristling with eager inquiry. Mr. Penny, as is the case with excitable boot-makers and men, seeing the vicar look at him and hearing no word spoken, thought it incumbent upon himself to say something of any kind. Nothing suggested itself till he had looked for about half a minute at the vicar. "You'll excuse my naming of it, sir," he said, regarding with much commiseration the mere surface of the vicar's face; "but perhaps you don't know that your chin have bust out a-bleeding where you cut yourself a-shaving this morning, sir." "Now, that was the stooping, depend upon't," the tranter suggested, also looking with much interest at the vicar's chin. "Blood always will bust out again if you hang down the member that's been bleeding." Old William raised his eyes and watched the vicar's bleeding chin likewise; and Leaf advanced two or three paces from the bookcase, absorbed in the contemplation of the same phenomenon, with parted lips and delighted eyes. "Dear me, dear me!" said Mr. Maybold hastily, looking very red, and brushing his chin with his hand, then taking out his handkerchief and wiping the place. "That's it, sir; all right again now, 'a b'lieve--a mere nothing," said Mr. Penny. "A little bit of fur off your hat will stop it in a minute if it should bust out again." "I'll let 'ee have a bit off mine," said Reuben, to show his good feeling; "my hat isn't so new as yours, sir, and 'twon't hurt mine a bit." "No, no; thank you, thank you," Mr. Maybold again nervously replied. "'Twas rather a deep cut seemingly?" said Reuben, feeling these to be the kindest and best remarks he could make. "O, no; not particularly." "Well, sir, your hand will shake sometimes a-shaving, and just when it comes into your head that you may cut yourself, there's the blood." "I have been revolving in my mind that question of the time at which we make the change," said Mr. Maybold, "and I know you'll meet me half-way. I think Christmas-day as much too late for me as the present time is too early for you. I suggest Michaelmas or thereabout as a convenient time for both parties; for I think your objection to a Sunday which has no name is not one of any real weight." "Very good, sir. I suppose mortal men mustn't expect their own way entirely; and I express in all our names that we'll make shift and be satisfied with what you say." The tranter touched the brim of his imaginary hat again, and all the choir did the same. "About Michaelmas, then, as far as you are concerned, sir, and then we make room for the next generation." "About Michaelmas," said the vicar. "'A took it very well, then?" said Mail, as they all walked up the hill. "He behaved like a man, 'a did so," said the tranter. "And I'm glad we've let en know our minds. And though, beyond that, we ha'n't got much by going, 'twas worth while. He won't forget it. Yes, he took it very well. Supposing this tree here was Pa'son Mayble, and I standing here, and thik gr't stone is father sitting in the easy-chair. 'Dewy,' says he, 'I don't wish to change the church music in a forcible way.'" "That was very nice o' the man, even though words be wind." "Proper nice--out and out nice. The fact is," said Reuben confidentially, "'tis how you take a man. Everybody must be managed. Queens must be managed: kings must be managed; for men want managing almost as much as women, and that's saying a good deal." "'Tis truly!" murmured the husbands. "Pa'son Mayble and I were as good friends all through it as if we'd been sworn brothers. Ay, the man's well enough; 'tis what's put in his head that spoils him, and that's why we've got to go." "There's really no believing half you hear about people nowadays." "Bless ye, my sonnies! 'tisn't the pa'son's move at all. That gentleman over there" (the tranter nodded in the direction of Shiner's farm) "is at the root of the mischty." "What! Shiner?" "Ay; and I see what the pa'son don't see. Why, Shiner is for putting forward that young woman that only last night I was saying was our Dick's sweet-heart, but I suppose can't be, and making much of her in the sight of the congregation, and thinking he'll win her by showing her off. Well, perhaps 'a woll." "Then the music is second to the woman, the other churchwarden is second to Shiner, the pa'son is second to the churchwardens, and God A'mighty is nowhere at all." "That's true; and you see," continued Reuben, "at the very beginning it put me in a stud as to how to quarrel wi' en. In short, to save my soul, I couldn't quarrel wi' such a civil man without belying my conscience. Says he to father there, in a voice as quiet as a lamb's, 'William, you are a' old aged man, as all shall be, so sit down in my easy-chair, and rest yourself.' And down father zot. I could fain ha' laughed at thee, father; for thou'st take it so unconcerned at first, and then looked so frightened when the chair-bottom sunk in." "You see," said old William, hastening to explain, "I was scared to find the bottom gie way--what should I know o' spring bottoms?--and thought I had broke it down: and of course as to breaking down a man's chair, I didn't wish any such thing." "And, neighbours, when a feller, ever so much up for a miff, d'see his own father sitting in his enemy's easy-chair, and a poor chap like Leaf made the best of, as if he almost had brains--why, it knocks all the wind out of his sail at once: it did out of mine." "If that young figure of fun--Fance Day, I mean," said Bowman, "hadn't been so mighty forward wi' showing herself off to Shiner and Dick and the rest, 'tis my belief we should never ha' left the gallery." "'Tis my belief that though Shiner fired the bullets, the parson made 'em," said Mr. Penny. "My wife sticks to it that he's in love wi' her." "That's a thing we shall never know. I can't onriddle her, nohow." "Thou'st ought to be able to onriddle such a little chiel as she," the tranter observed. "The littler the maid, the bigger the riddle, to my mind. And coming of such a stock, too, she may well be a twister." "Yes; Geoffrey Day is a clever man if ever there was one. Never says anything: not he." "Never." "You might live wi' that man, my sonnies, a hundred years, and never know there was anything in him." "Ay; one o' these up-country London ink-bottle chaps would call Geoffrey a fool." "Ye never find out what's in that man: never," said Spinks. "Close? ah, he is close! He can hold his tongue well. That man's dumbness is wonderful to listen to." "There's so much sense in it. Every moment of it is brimmen over wi' sound understanding." "'A can hold his tongue very clever--very clever truly," echoed Leaf. "'A do look at me as if 'a could see my thoughts running round like the works of a clock." "Well, all will agree that the man can halt well in his talk, be it a long time or be it a short time. And though we can't expect his daughter to inherit his closeness, she may have a few dribblets from his sense." "And his pocket, perhaps." "Yes; the nine hundred pound that everybody says he's worth; but I call it four hundred and fifty; for I never believe more than half I hear." "Well, he've made a pound or two, and I suppose the maid will have it, since there's nobody else. But 'tis rather sharp upon her, if she's been born to fortune, to bring her up as if not born for it, and letting her work so hard." "'Tis all upon his principle. A long-headed feller!" "Ah," murmured Spinks, "'twould be sharper upon her if she were born for fortune, and not to it! I suffer from that affliction."

Part Two Chapter 1 to 5

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'Passing By the School', Chapter Two 'A Meeting of the Choir' and Chapter Three 'A Turn in the Discussion' As spring advances, Dick often walks near the school on his way to or from home. The nineteenth time of doing this he sees her at her window and receives a friendly greeting. At other times, he is rewarded with 'an actual meeting face to face on the open ground'. He thinks about her 'every little movements' for hours later and is not sure how she feels about him. Chapter Two refers to the main members of the Mellstock parish choir, who are standing outside Mr Penny's workshop. His premises are described and it is explained that he has no sign over his door as 'advertising in any shape was scorned' as with 'old banks and mercantile houses': '... it would have been felt as beneath his dignity to paint, for the benefit of strangers, the name of an establishment the trade of which came solely by connection based on personal respect.' The men talk about the vicar and one says 'he' is not to blame, she is as, "'she's the bitter weed'". The changes brought in by the vicar are mentioned, such as how he does not let men put their hats in the font during service and now, the tranter says, "'tis to turn us out of the quire neck and crop'". They move on to talk about the previous vicar, Mr Grinham, and how he never troubled them: "'And he was a very honourable good man in not wanting any of us to come and hear him if we were all on-end for a jaunt or spree, or to bring the babies to be christened if they were inclined to squalling.'" Old William goes on to defend Mr Maybold, the latest vicar, and his son does the same as he recalls how he speaks to them whether they are dirty or clean. This chapter ends with them seeing Dick coming up the street. In Chapter Three, the tranter says his son, Dick, is "'a lost man'" and says it is his mother's fault for inviting "'the young woman'" to the party at Christmas. Mr Spinks turns the conversation slightly and asks how Mr Maybold knew that she could play the organ. When Dick approaches, they tell him of the 'alteration' and he blushes and says Miss Day particularly wished not to play because she is a friend of theirs. The tranter proposes they go down to the vicar and say they know that every tradesman likes to have his own way in his workshop and the church is his. They just ask if they can stay on until Christmas and then give way to the young woman. They agree to this and decide to go to Reuben's house for bacon and cider for fortification beforehand.

' Passing By the School', Chapter Two 'A Meeting of the Choir' and Chapter Three 'A Turn in the Discussion' The earlier references to change and the fear of replacement are emphasized at this point as it transpires that Fancy is to play the organ in church and will replace the choir. The older tradition is set to be replaced by the more modern individual and with the help of technology. The choir is all but made redundant. The choir's allegiance to the past is also exemplified in Mr Penny's decision to not submit to the practice of advertising his trade. By refusing to lower his dignity, in his interpretation, he avoids engaging with capitalism and lives according to his means. Both the choir and Mr Penny belong to an era which has disappeared, if it ever existed, and the narrative invites us to mourn over this loss of simplicity and relative innocence. Chapter Four 'The Interview With the Vicar' and Chapter Five 'Returning Homeward' The next day at 6 pm they leave the tranter's house and he tells them to keep in step as this looks better. They are shown into the vicar's house and Reuben, William and Tommy Leaf go in to the study to talk with him. After some preamble, Reuben tells the vicar how he likes to look things in the face, and gazes out of the window. William and the vicar do the same, 'apparently under the impression that the thing's face alluded to were there visible'. Reuben asks for the choir to be given more time, till Christmas, and "'as a fair thing between man and man'". The vicar says he will give them more time and has no personal fault to find with the choir. He does not want to change the church music in a "'forcible'" manner and does not want to hurt his parishioners' feelings either. He has spoken definitely on the subject at last because one of his churchwardens has brought to his notice that he knows a player of the organ. Reuben says they understand the young lady did not want to play particularly and the vicar agrees and explains that the churchwarden "'has been so anxious for a change'" that he could not keep refusing his consent. The vicar then blushes and explains he has also thought of asking Miss Day to play. On being questioned, he also tells them that it was Mr Shinar who wanted the change and Reuben exclaims and says he has no ear for music and adds that he took against the choir at Christmas. The vicar says he does not think Mr Shinar bears any ill feelings toward them. The others come to the study door when they hear movement . Mr Penny tells the vicar how his chin is bleeding from a shaving cut and everyone else looks too. The vicar brings the conversation back to the choir and says he knows they will meet him half way and Michaelmas would be convenient for both parties. Reuben agrees and says, "'then we make room for the next generation'". On the walk home, in Chapter Five, Reuben says that Shinar is "'at the root of the mischief'" and sees that Shinar is for putting Miss Day forwards. Bowman blames 'Fancy Day' for them having to leave the gallery and Mr Penny says his wife thinks Mr Maybold is in love with Miss Day. They also talk of her father, Geoffrey, and how silent he is. Chapter Four 'The Interview With the Vicar' and Chapter Five 'Returning Homeward' Chapter Four 'The Interview With the Vicar' and Chapter Five 'Returning Homeward' As Reuben says, the choir must now 'make room for the next generation' as Fancy is to take over the playing of the organ in church at Michaelmas. This change will occur on the instigation of Shinar and at the final request of the vicar and so the choir are relegated to the past. Fancy is used as the means to oust the choir, but by showing her preference the vicar and Shinar also demonstration an affection for her in their bid to elevate her in front of the congregation. All of these machinations occur while Fancy is off-stage, so to speak, and as yet is known only by her absence.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/part_2_chapters_6_to_8.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_2_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part 2.chapters 6-8

part 2 chapter 6 - 8

{"name": "Part Two Chapter 6 to 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part2-chapter6-8", "summary": "'Yalbury Wood and the Keeper's House', Chapter Seven 'Dick Makes Himself Useful' and Chapter Eight 'Dick Meets His Father' The chapter begins with Dick going to pick up Fancy from her father's home in Yalbury Wood in order to take her and some household goods to Mellstock. Reuben has not told his son about what he thinks of 'the state of Shinar's heart' as he prefers to let 'such delicate affairs right themselves'. Fancy's father is a gamekeeper and lives in the woods. The furniture in the house is detailed and it is explained that there are two of every item as one set is for Fancy. Her mother bought these things from the time she was born. The room is described further as is the curiosity of the window in the back of the chimney. Fancy is preparing dinner and her father comes in. He is depicted as taciturn and his trapper, Enoch, is also present. Her father asks after the whereabouts of her stepmother, but before she answers they hear the Dewy cart approach. Dick is invited in and asked to eat with them, and Geoffrey talks about his absent wife and how it is 'trying' for females to be second wives especially when they have been first wives before. He also says, \"'...wives be such a provoking class of society, because though they be never right, they be never more than half wrong.'\" At the table, Fancy sits next to Dick and at one point he puts her hand on his while her father looks at his plate. They slide apart and Geoffrey speaks of Shinar and says how Fancy knows him well. Dick looks anxious and Fancy says to Dick that she has never done anything to warrant this. Following this, Geoffrey's wife comes downstairs and criticizes the tablecloth. She goes back upstairs and brings a newer and less shabby one. She also replaces the cutlery with more 'decent' ones. In Chapter Seven, Dick drives Fancy back to her home and his conversation is restrained after her father's 'incidental allusions' to Shinar. At her home, they drink tea together and she has the cup while he has the saucer. They see the vicar coming down her path to visit her, and she says she wishes he were not here as she feels awkward. Dick bids her good afternoon in 'a huff' and leaves. As he prepares his horse, he looks through the window and sees the vicar drive a nail into the wall as she holds the canary cage up to him. On the drive home in Chapter Nine, Dick is caught between thinking Fancy is and is not a coquette. His father appears and is coming down the hill and they stop and talk. His father points out that 'the maid' is taking up his thoughts more than is good for him and it is making him miserable. Dick says of his fears about the vicar and Reuben tries to comfort him. He then says how the 'bitter weed' in their being turned out of the choir is Shinar, because he is in love with \"'thy young woman'\". Dick doubts this and doubts she has \"'made up'\" to Shinar. His father questions this and also says if he \"'can't read a maid's mind by her motions, nater'd seem to say thou'st ought to be a bachelor'\". Reuben goes on his way and Dick stays where he is for a while. He goes too and at home in his room he writes a letter. He takes this to Fancy's home and wearing a 'resolute expression' at her gate he takes it off again, turns for home and tears up the letter. He decides he needs to use the tone of 'a heartless man-of-the-world'. He writes another letter asking in plain terms if she means anything by her bearing to him or not. He gets a little boy to take the note for him and takes the precaution of telling him to not turn back if he shouts for him. He waits for a response from Fancy, but hears nothing.", "analysis": "'Yalbury Wood and the Keeper's House', Chapter Seven ' Dick Makes Himself Useful' and Chapter Eight 'Dick Meets His Father' The relationships between the sexes is given more airing as Dick attempts to get closer to Fancy and Geoffrey refers to wives as a 'provoking class of society'. Such misunderstandings between men and women are emphasized when Reuben advises his son about staying a bachelor if he cannot understand a 'maid'. The comments of these older men border on misogyny at times, that is until one sees them at home in their relationships and their wives shows a certain lack of comprehension of them too. Men and women are characterized here, then, as contrasting and occasionally inexplicable to each other, and despite or rather because of this, the attraction remains."}

A mood of blitheness rarely experienced even by young men was Dick's on the following Monday morning. It was the week after the Easter holidays, and he was journeying along with Smart the mare and the light spring-cart, watching the damp slopes of the hill-sides as they streamed in the warmth of the sun, which at this unsettled season shone on the grass with the freshness of an occasional inspector rather than as an accustomed proprietor. His errand was to fetch Fancy, and some additional household goods, from her father's house in the neighbouring parish to her dwelling at Mellstock. The distant view was darkly shaded with clouds; but the nearer parts of the landscape were whitely illumined by the visible rays of the sun streaming down across the heavy gray shade behind. The tranter had not yet told his son of the state of Shiner's heart that had been suggested to him by Shiner's movements. He preferred to let such delicate affairs right themselves; experience having taught him that the uncertain phenomenon of love, as it existed in other people, was not a groundwork upon which a single action of his own life could be founded. Geoffrey Day lived in the depths of Yalbury Wood, which formed portion of one of the outlying estates of the Earl of Wessex, to whom Day was head game-keeper, timber-steward, and general overlooker for this district. The wood was intersected by the highway from Casterbridge to London at a place not far from the house, and some trees had of late years been felled between its windows and the ascent of Yalbury Hill, to give the solitary cottager a glimpse of the passers-by. It was a satisfaction to walk into the keeper's house, even as a stranger, on a fine spring morning like the present. A curl of wood-smoke came from the chimney, and drooped over the roof like a blue feather in a lady's hat; and the sun shone obliquely upon the patch of grass in front, which reflected its brightness through the open doorway and up the staircase opposite, lighting up each riser with a shiny green radiance, and leaving the top of each step in shade. The window-sill of the front room was between four and five feet from the floor, dropping inwardly to a broad low bench, over which, as well as over the whole surface of the wall beneath, there always hung a deep shade, which was considered objectionable on every ground save one, namely, that the perpetual sprinkling of seeds and water by the caged canary above was not noticed as an eyesore by visitors. The window was set with thickly-leaded diamond glazing, formed, especially in the lower panes, of knotty glass of various shades of green. Nothing was better known to Fancy than the extravagant manner in which these circular knots or eyes distorted everything seen through them from the outside--lifting hats from heads, shoulders from bodies; scattering the spokes of cart- wheels, and bending the straight fir-trunks into semicircles. The ceiling was carried by a beam traversing its midst, from the side of which projected a large nail, used solely and constantly as a peg for Geoffrey's hat; the nail was arched by a rainbow-shaped stain, imprinted by the brim of the said hat when it was hung there dripping wet. The most striking point about the room was the furniture. This was a repetition upon inanimate objects of the old principle introduced by Noah, consisting for the most part of two articles of every sort. The duplicate system of furnishing owed its existence to the forethought of Fancy's mother, exercised from the date of Fancy's birthday onwards. The arrangement spoke for itself: nobody who knew the tone of the household could look at the goods without being aware that the second set was a provision for Fancy, when she should marry and have a house of her own. The most noticeable instance was a pair of green-faced eight-day clocks, ticking alternately, which were severally two and half minutes and three minutes striking the hour of twelve, one proclaiming, in Italian flourishes, Thomas Wood as the name of its maker, and the other--arched at the top, and altogether of more cynical appearance--that of Ezekiel Saunders. They were two departed clockmakers of Casterbridge, whose desperate rivalry throughout their lives was nowhere more emphatically perpetuated than here at Geoffrey's. These chief specimens of the marriage provision were supported on the right by a couple of kitchen dressers, each fitted complete with their cups, dishes, and plates, in their turn followed by two dumb-waiters, two family Bibles, two warming- pans, and two intermixed sets of chairs. But the position last reached--the chimney-corner--was, after all, the most attractive side of the parallelogram. It was large enough to admit, in addition to Geoffrey himself, Geoffrey's wife, her chair, and her work- table, entirely within the line of the mantel, without danger or even inconvenience from the heat of the fire; and was spacious enough overhead to allow of the insertion of wood poles for the hanging of bacon, which were cloaked with long shreds of soot, floating on the draught like the tattered banners on the walls of ancient aisles. These points were common to most chimney corners of the neighbourhood; but one feature there was which made Geoffrey's fireside not only an object of interest to casual aristocratic visitors--to whom every cottage fireside was more or less a curiosity--but the admiration of friends who were accustomed to fireplaces of the ordinary hamlet model. This peculiarity was a little window in the chimney-back, almost over the fire, around which the smoke crept caressingly when it left the perpendicular course. The window-board was curiously stamped with black circles, burnt thereon by the heated bottoms of drinking-cups, which had rested there after previously standing on the hot ashes of the hearth for the purpose of warming their contents, the result giving to the ledge the look of an envelope which has passed through innumerable post-offices. Fancy was gliding about the room preparing dinner, her head inclining now to the right, now to the left, and singing the tips and ends of tunes that sprang up in her mind like mushrooms. The footsteps of Mrs. Day could be heard in the room overhead. Fancy went finally to the door. "Father! Dinner." A tall spare figure was seen advancing by the window with periodical steps, and the keeper entered from the garden. He appeared to be a man who was always looking down, as if trying to recollect something he said yesterday. The surface of his face was fissured rather than wrinkled, and over and under his eyes were folds which seemed as a kind of exterior eyelids. His nose had been thrown backwards by a blow in a poaching fray, so that when the sun was low and shining in his face, people could see far into his head. There was in him a quiet grimness, which would in his moments of displeasure have become surliness, had it not been tempered by honesty of soul, and which was often wrongheadedness because not allied with subtlety. Although not an extraordinarily taciturn man among friends slightly richer than himself, he never wasted words upon outsiders, and to his trapper Enoch his ideas were seldom conveyed by any other means than nods and shakes of the head. Their long acquaintance with each other's ways, and the nature of their labours, rendered words between them almost superfluous as vehicles of thought, whilst the coincidence of their horizons, and the astonishing equality of their social views, by startling the keeper from time to time as very damaging to the theory of master and man, strictly forbade any indulgence in words as courtesies. Behind the keeper came Enoch (who had been assisting in the garden) at the well-considered chronological distance of three minutes--an interval of non-appearance on the trapper's part not arrived at without some reflection. Four minutes had been found to express indifference to indoor arrangements, and simultaneousness had implied too great an anxiety about meals. "A little earlier than usual, Fancy," the keeper said, as he sat down and looked at the clocks. "That Ezekiel Saunders o' thine is tearing on afore Thomas Wood again." "I kept in the middle between them," said Fancy, also looking at the two clocks. "Better stick to Thomas," said her father. "There's a healthy beat in Thomas that would lead a man to swear by en offhand. He is as true as the town time. How is it your stap-mother isn't here?" As Fancy was about to reply, the rattle of wheels was heard, and "Weh- hey, Smart!" in Mr. Richard Dewy's voice rolled into the cottage from round the corner of the house. "Hullo! there's Dewy's cart come for thee, Fancy--Dick driving--afore time, too. Well, ask the lad to have pot-luck with us." Dick on entering made a point of implying by his general bearing that he took an interest in Fancy simply as in one of the same race and country as himself; and they all sat down. Dick could have wished her manner had not been so entirely free from all apparent consciousness of those accidental meetings of theirs: but he let the thought pass. Enoch sat diagonally at a table afar off, under the corner cupboard, and drank his cider from a long perpendicular pint cup, having tall fir-trees done in brown on its sides. He threw occasional remarks into the general tide of conversation, and with this advantage to himself, that he participated in the pleasures of a talk (slight as it was) at meal-times, without saddling himself with the responsibility of sustaining it. "Why don't your stap-mother come down, Fancy?" said Geoffrey. "You'll excuse her, Mister Dick, she's a little queer sometimes." "O yes,--quite," said Richard, as if he were in the habit of excusing people every day. "She d'belong to that class of womankind that become second wives: a rum class rather." "Indeed," said Dick, with sympathy for an indefinite something. "Yes; and 'tis trying to a female, especially if you've been a first wife, as she hev." "Very trying it must be." "Yes: you see her first husband was a young man, who let her go too far; in fact, she used to kick up Bob's-a-dying at the least thing in the world. And when I'd married her and found it out, I thought, thinks I, ''Tis too late now to begin to cure 'e;' and so I let her bide. But she's queer,--very queer, at times!" "I'm sorry to hear that." "Yes: there; wives be such a provoking class o' society, because though they be never right, they be never more than half wrong." Fancy seemed uneasy under the infliction of this household moralizing, which might tend to damage the airy-fairy nature that Dick, as maiden shrewdness told her, had accredited her with. Her dead silence impressed Geoffrey with the notion that something in his words did not agree with her educated ideas, and he changed the conversation. "Did Fred Shiner send the cask o' drink, Fancy?" "I think he did: O yes, he did." "Nice solid feller, Fred Shiner!" said Geoffrey to Dick as he helped himself to gravy, bringing the spoon round to his plate by way of the potato-dish, to obviate a stain on the cloth in the event of a spill. Now Geoffrey's eyes had been fixed upon his plate for the previous four or five minutes, and in removing them he had only carried them to the spoon, which, from its fulness and the distance of its transit, necessitated a steady watching through the whole of the route. Just as intently as the keeper's eyes had been fixed on the spoon, Fancy's had been fixed on her father's, without premeditation or the slightest phase of furtiveness; but there they were fastened. This was the reason why: Dick was sitting next to her on the right side, and on the side of the table opposite to her father. Fancy had laid her right hand lightly down upon the table-cloth for an instant, and to her alarm Dick, after dropping his fork and brushing his forehead as a reason, flung down his own left hand, overlapping a third of Fancy's with it, and keeping it there. So the innocent Fancy, instead of pulling her hand from the trap, settled her eyes on her father's, to guard against his discovery of this perilous game of Dick's. Dick finished his mouthful; Fancy finished her crumb, and nothing was done beyond watching Geoffrey's eyes. Then the hands slid apart; Fancy's going over six inches of cloth, Dick's over one. Geoffrey's eye had risen. "I said Fred Shiner is a nice solid feller," he repeated, more emphatically. "He is; yes, he is," stammered Dick; "but to me he is little more than a stranger." "O, sure. Now I know en as well as any man can be known. And you know en very well too, don't ye, Fancy?" Geoffrey put on a tone expressing that these words signified at present about one hundred times the amount of meaning they conveyed literally. Dick looked anxious. "Will you pass me some bread?" said Fancy in a flurry, the red of her face becoming slightly disordered, and looking as solicitous as a human being could look about a piece of bread. "Ay, that I will," replied the unconscious Geoffrey. "Ay," he continued, returning to the displaced idea, "we are likely to remain friendly wi' Mr. Shiner if the wheels d'run smooth." "An excellent thing--a very capital thing, as I should say," the youth answered with exceeding relevance, considering that his thoughts, instead of following Geoffrey's remark, were nestling at a distance of about two feet on his left the whole time. "A young woman's face will turn the north wind, Master Richard: my heart if 'twon't." Dick looked more anxious and was attentive in earnest at these words. "Yes; turn the north wind," added Geoffrey after an impressive pause. "And though she's one of my own flesh and blood . . . " "Will you fetch down a bit of raw-mil' cheese from pantry-shelf?" Fancy interrupted, as if she were famishing. "Ay, that I will, chiel; chiel, says I, and Mr. Shiner only asking last Saturday night . . . cheese you said, Fancy?" Dick controlled his emotion at these mysterious allusions to Mr. Shiner,--the better enabled to do so by perceiving that Fancy's heart went not with her father's--and spoke like a stranger to the affairs of the neighbourhood. "Yes, there's a great deal to be said upon the power of maiden faces in settling your courses," he ventured, as the keeper retreated for the cheese. "The conversation is taking a very strange turn: nothing that I have ever done warrants such things being said!" murmured Fancy with emphasis, just loud enough to reach Dick's ears. "You think to yourself, 'twas to be," cried Enoch from his distant corner, by way of filling up the vacancy caused by Geoffrey's momentary absence. "And so you marry her, Master Dewy, and there's an end o't." "Pray don't say such things, Enoch," came from Fancy severely, upon which Enoch relapsed into servitude. "If we be doomed to marry, we marry; if we be doomed to remain single, we do," replied Dick. Geoffrey had by this time sat down again, and he now made his lips thin by severely straining them across his gums, and looked out of the window along the vista to the distant highway up Yalbury Hill. "That's not the case with some folk," he said at length, as if he read the words on a board at the further end of the vista. Fancy looked interested, and Dick said, "No?" "There's that wife o' mine. It was her doom to be nobody's wife at all in the wide universe. But she made up her mind that she would, and did it twice over. Doom? Doom is nothing beside a elderly woman--quite a chiel in her hands!" A movement was now heard along the upstairs passage, and footsteps descending. The door at the foot of the stairs opened, and the second Mrs. Day appeared in view, looking fixedly at the table as she advanced towards it, with apparent obliviousness of the presence of any other human being than herself. In short, if the table had been the personages, and the persons the table, her glance would have been the most natural imaginable. She showed herself to possess an ordinary woman's face, iron-grey hair, hardly any hips, and a great deal of cleanliness in a broad white apron- string, as it appeared upon the waist of her dark stuff dress. "People will run away with a story now, I suppose," she began saying, "that Jane Day's tablecloths are as poor and ragged as any union beggar's!" Dick now perceived that the tablecloth was a little the worse for wear, and reflecting for a moment, concluded that 'people' in step-mother language probably meant himself. On lifting his eyes he found that Mrs. Day had vanished again upstairs, and presently returned with an armful of new damask-linen tablecloths, folded square and hard as boards by long compression. These she flounced down into a chair; then took one, shook it out from its folds, and spread it on the table by instalments, transferring the plates and dishes one by one from the old to the new cloth. "And I suppose they'll say, too, that she ha'n't a decent knife and fork in her house!" "I shouldn't say any such ill-natured thing, I am sure--" began Dick. But Mrs. Day had vanished into the next room. Fancy appeared distressed. "Very strange woman, isn't she?" said Geoffrey, quietly going on with his dinner. "But 'tis too late to attempt curing. My heart! 'tis so growed into her that 'twould kill her to take it out. Ay, she's very queer: you'd be amazed to see what valuable goods we've got stowed away upstairs." Back again came Mrs. Day with a box of bright steel horn-handled knives, silver-plated forks, carver, and all complete. These were wiped of the preservative oil which coated them, and then a knife and fork were laid down to each individual with a bang, the carving knife and fork thrust into the meat dish, and the old ones they had hitherto used tossed away. Geoffrey placidly cut a slice with the new knife and fork, and asked Dick if he wanted any more. The table had been spread for the mixed midday meal of dinner and tea, which was common among frugal countryfolk. "The parishioners about here," continued Mrs. Day, not looking at any living being, but snatching up the brown delf tea-things, "are the laziest, gossipest, poachest, jailest set of any ever I came among. And they'll talk about my teapot and tea-things next, I suppose!" She vanished with the teapot, cups, and saucers, and reappeared with a tea-service in white china, and a packet wrapped in brown paper. This was removed, together with folds of tissue- paper underneath; and a brilliant silver teapot appeared. "I'll help to put the things right," said Fancy soothingly, and rising from her seat. "I ought to have laid out better things, I suppose. But" (here she enlarged her looks so as to include Dick) "I have been away from home a good deal, and I make shocking blunders in my housekeeping." Smiles and suavity were then dispensed all around by this bright little bird. After a little more preparation and modification, Mrs. Day took her seat at the head of the table, and during the latter or tea division of the meal, presided with much composure. It may cause some surprise to learn that, now her vagary was over, she showed herself to be an excellent person with much common sense, and even a religious seriousness of tone on matters pertaining to her afflictions. The effect of Geoffrey's incidental allusions to Mr. Shiner was to restrain a considerable flow of spontaneous chat that would otherwise have burst from young Dewy along the drive homeward. And a certain remark he had hazarded to her, in rather too blunt and eager a manner, kept the young lady herself even more silent than Dick. On both sides there was an unwillingness to talk on any but the most trivial subjects, and their sentences rarely took a larger form than could be expressed in two or three words. Owing to Fancy being later in the day than she had promised, the charwoman had given up expecting her; whereupon Dick could do no less than stay and see her comfortably tided over the disagreeable time of entering and establishing herself in an empty house after an absence of a week. The additional furniture and utensils that had been brought (a canary and cage among the rest) were taken out of the vehicle, and the horse was unharnessed and put in the plot opposite, where there was some tender grass. Dick lighted the fire already laid; and activity began to loosen their tongues a little. "There!" said Fancy, "we forgot to bring the fire-irons!" She had originally found in her sitting-room, to bear out the expression 'nearly furnished' which the school-manager had used in his letter to her, a table, three chairs, a fender, and a piece of carpet. This 'nearly' had been supplemented hitherto by a kind friend, who had lent her fire-irons and crockery until she should fetch some from home. Dick attended to the young lady's fire, using his whip-handle for a poker till it was spoilt, and then flourishing a hurdle stick for the remainder of the time. "The kettle boils; now you shall have a cup of tea," said Fancy, diving into the hamper she had brought. "Thank you," said Dick, whose drive had made him ready for some, especially in her company. "Well, here's only one cup-and-saucer, as I breathe! Whatever could mother be thinking about? Do you mind making shift, Mr. Dewy?" "Not at all, Miss Day," said that civil person. "--And only having a cup by itself? or a saucer by itself?" "Don't mind in the least." "Which do you mean by that?" "I mean the cup, if you like the saucer." "And the saucer, if I like the cup?" "Exactly, Miss Day." "Thank you, Mr. Dewy, for I like the cup decidedly. Stop a minute; there are no spoons now!" She dived into the hamper again, and at the end of two or three minutes looked up and said, "I suppose you don't mind if I can't find a spoon?" "Not at all," said the agreeable Richard. "The fact is, the spoons have slipped down somewhere; right under the other things. O yes, here's one, and only one. You would rather have one than not, I suppose, Mr. Dewy?" "Rather not. I never did care much about spoons." "Then I'll have it. I do care about them. You must stir up your tea with a knife. Would you mind lifting the kettle off, that it may not boil dry?" Dick leapt to the fireplace, and earnestly removed the kettle. "There! you did it so wildly that you have made your hand black. We always use kettle-holders; didn't you learn housewifery as far as that, Mr. Dewy? Well, never mind the soot on your hand. Come here. I am going to rinse mine, too." They went to a basin she had placed in the back room. "This is the only basin I have," she said. "Turn up your sleeves, and by that time my hands will be washed, and you can come." Her hands were in the water now. "O, how vexing!" she exclaimed. "There's not a drop of water left for you, unless you draw it, and the well is I don't know how many furlongs deep; all that was in the pitcher I used for the kettle and this basin. Do you mind dipping the tips of your fingers in the same?" "Not at all. And to save time I won't wait till you have done, if you have no objection?" Thereupon he plunged in his hands, and they paddled together. It being the first time in his life that he had touched female fingers under water, Dick duly registered the sensation as rather a nice one. "Really, I hardly know which are my own hands and which are yours, they have got so mixed up together," she said, withdrawing her own very suddenly. "It doesn't matter at all," said Dick, "at least as far as I am concerned." "There! no towel! Whoever thinks of a towel till the hands are wet?" "Nobody." "'Nobody.' How very dull it is when people are so friendly! Come here, Mr. Dewy. Now do you think you could lift the lid of that box with your elbow, and then, with something or other, take out a towel you will find under the clean clothes? Be sure don't touch any of them with your wet hands, for the things at the top are all Starched and Ironed." Dick managed, by the aid of a knife and fork, to extract a towel from under a muslin dress without wetting the latter; and for a moment he ventured to assume a tone of criticism. "I fear for that dress," he said, as they wiped their hands together. "What?" said Miss Day, looking into the box at the dress alluded to. "O, I know what you mean--that the vicar will never let me wear muslin?" "Yes." "Well, I know it is condemned by all orders in the church as flaunting, and unfit for common wear for girls who've their living to get; but we'll see." "In the interest of the church, I hope you don't speak seriously." "Yes, I do; but we'll see." There was a comely determination on her lip, very pleasant to a beholder who was neither bishop, priest, nor deacon. "I think I can manage any vicar's views about me if he's under forty." Dick rather wished she had never thought of managing vicars. "I certainly shall be glad to get some of your delicious tea," he said in rather a free way, yet modestly, as became one in a position between that of visitor and inmate, and looking wistfully at his lonely saucer. "So shall I. Now is there anything else we want, Mr Dewy?" "I really think there's nothing else, Miss Day." She prepared to sit down, looking musingly out of the window at Smart's enjoyment of the rich grass. "Nobody seems to care about me," she murmured, with large lost eyes fixed upon the sky beyond Smart. "Perhaps Mr. Shiner does," said Dick, in the tone of a slightly injured man. "Yes, I forgot--he does, I know." Dick precipitately regretted that he had suggested Shiner, since it had produced such a miserable result as this. "I'll warrant you'll care for somebody very much indeed another day, won't you, Mr. Dewy?" she continued, looking very feelingly into the mathematical centre of his eyes. "Ah, I'll warrant I shall," said Dick, feelingly too, and looking back into her dark pupils, whereupon they were turned aside. "I meant," she went on, preventing him from speaking just as he was going to narrate a forcible story about his feelings; "I meant that nobody comes to see if I have returned--not even the vicar." "If you want to see him, I'll call at the vicarage directly we have had some tea." "No, no! Don't let him come down here, whatever you do, whilst I am in such a state of disarrangement. Parsons look so miserable and awkward when one's house is in a muddle; walking about, and making impossible suggestions in quaint academic phrases till your flesh creeps and you wish them dead. Do you take sugar?" Mr. Maybold was at this instant seen coming up the path. "There! That's he coming! How I wish you were not here!--that is, how awkward--dear, dear!" she exclaimed, with a quick ascent of blood to her face, and irritated with Dick rather than the vicar, as it seemed. "Pray don't be alarmed on my account, Miss Day--good-afternoon!" said Dick in a huff, putting on his hat, and leaving the room hastily by the back-door. The horse was caught and put in, and on mounting the shafts to start he saw through the window the vicar, standing upon some books piled in a chair, and driving a nail into the wall; Fancy, with a demure glance, holding the canary-cage up to him, as if she had never in her life thought of anything but vicars and canaries. For several minutes Dick drove along homeward, with the inner eye of reflection so anxiously set on his passages at arms with Fancy, that the road and scenery were as a thin mist over the real pictures of his mind. Was she a coquette? The balance between the evidence that she did love him and that she did not was so nicely struck, that his opinion had no stability. She had let him put his hand upon hers; she had allowed her gaze to drop plumb into the depths of his--his into hers--three or four times; her manner had been very free with regard to the basin and towel; she had appeared vexed at the mention of Shiner. On the other hand, she had driven him about the house like a quiet dog or cat, said Shiner cared for her, and seemed anxious that Mr. Maybold should do the same. Thinking thus as he neared the handpost at Mellstock Cross, sitting on the front board of the spring cart--his legs on the outside, and his whole frame jigging up and down like a candle-flame to the time of Smart's trotting--who should he see coming down the hill but his father in the light wagon, quivering up and down on a smaller scale of shakes, those merely caused by the stones in the road. They were soon crossing each other's front. "Weh-hey!" said the tranter to Smiler. "Weh-hey!" said Dick to Smart, in an echo of the same voice. "Th'st hauled her back, I suppose?" Reuben inquired peaceably. "Yes," said Dick, with such a clinching period at the end that it seemed he was never going to add another word. Smiler, thinking this the close of the conversation, prepared to move on. "Weh-hey!" said the tranter. "I tell thee what it is, Dick. That there maid is taking up thy thoughts more than's good for thee, my sonny. Thou'rt never happy now unless th'rt making thyself miserable about her in one way or another." "I don't know about that, father," said Dick rather stupidly. "But I do--Wey, Smiler!--'Od rot the women, 'tis nothing else wi' 'em nowadays but getting young men and leading 'em astray." "Pooh, father! you just repeat what all the common world says; that's all you do." "The world's a very sensible feller on things in jineral, Dick; very sensible indeed." Dick looked into the distance at a vast expanse of mortgaged estate. "I wish I was as rich as a squire when he's as poor as a crow," he murmured; "I'd soon ask Fancy something." "I wish so too, wi' all my heart, sonny; that I do. Well, mind what beest about, that's all." Smart moved on a step or two. "Supposing now, father,--We-hey, Smart!--I did think a little about her, and I had a chance, which I ha'n't; don't you think she's a very good sort of--of--one?" "Ay, good; she's good enough. When you've made up your mind to marry, take the first respectable body that comes to hand--she's as good as any other; they be all alike in the groundwork; 'tis only in the flourishes there's a difference. She's good enough; but I can't see what the nation a young feller like you--wi' a comfortable house and home, and father and mother to take care o' thee, and who sent 'ee to a school so good that 'twas hardly fair to the other children--should want to go hollering after a young woman for, when she's quietly making a husband in her pocket, and not troubled by chick nor chiel, to make a poverty-stric' wife and family of her, and neither hat, cap, wig, nor waistcoat to set 'em up with: be drowned if I can see it, and that's the long and the short o't, my sonny." Dick looked at Smart's ears, then up the hill; but no reason was suggested by any object that met his gaze. "For about the same reason that you did, father, I suppose." "Dang it, my sonny, thou'st got me there!" And the tranter gave vent to a grim admiration, with the mien of a man who was too magnanimous not to appreciate artistically a slight rap on the knuckles, even if they were his own. "Whether or no," said Dick, "I asked her a thing going along the road." "Come to that, is it? Turk! won't thy mother be in a taking! Well, she's ready, I don't doubt?" "I didn't ask her anything about having me; and if you'll let me speak, I'll tell 'ee what I want to know. I just said, Did she care about me?" "Piph-ph-ph!" "And then she said nothing for a quarter of a mile, and then she said she didn't know. Now, what I want to know is, what was the meaning of that speech?" The latter words were spoken resolutely, as if he didn't care for the ridicule of all the fathers in creation. "The meaning of that speech is," the tranter replied deliberately, "that the meaning is meant to be rather hid at present. Well, Dick, as an honest father to thee, I don't pretend to deny what you d'know well enough; that is, that her father being rather better in the pocket than we, I should welcome her ready enough if it must be somebody." "But what d'ye think she really did mean?" said the unsatisfied Dick. "I'm afeard I am not o' much account in guessing, especially as I was not there when she said it, and seeing that your mother was the only 'ooman I ever cam' into such close quarters as that with." "And what did mother say to you when you asked her?" said Dick musingly. "I don't see that that will help 'ee." "The principle is the same." "Well--ay: what did she say? Let's see. I was oiling my working-day boots without taking 'em off, and wi' my head hanging down, when she just brushed on by the garden hatch like a flittering leaf. 'Ann,' I said, says I, and then,--but, Dick I'm afeard 'twill be no help to thee; for we were such a rum couple, your mother and I, leastways one half was, that is myself--and your mother's charms was more in the manner than the material." "Never mind! 'Ann,' said you." "'Ann,' said I, as I was saying . . . 'Ann,' I said to her when I was oiling my working-day boots wi' my head hanging down, 'Woot hae me?' . . . What came next I can't quite call up at this distance o' time. Perhaps your mother would know,--she's got a better memory for her little triumphs than I. However, the long and the short o' the story is that we were married somehow, as I found afterwards. 'Twas on White Tuesday,--Mellstock Club walked the same day, every man two and two, and a fine day 'twas,--hot as fire,--how the sun did strike down upon my back going to church! I well can mind what a bath o' sweating I was in, body and soul! But Fance will ha' thee, Dick--she won't walk with another chap--no such good luck." "I don't know about that," said Dick, whipping at Smart's flank in a fanciful way, which, as Smart knew, meant nothing in connection with going on. "There's Pa'son Maybold, too--that's all against me." "What about he? She's never been stuffing into thy innocent heart that he's in hove with her? Lord, the vanity o' maidens!" "No, no. But he called, and she looked at him in such a way, and at me in such a way--quite different the ways were,--and as I was coming off, there was he hanging up her birdcage." "Well, why shouldn't the man hang up her bird-cage? Turk seize it all, what's that got to do wi' it? Dick, that thou beest a white-lyvered chap I don't say, but if thou beestn't as mad as a cappel-faced bull, let me smile no more." "O, ay." "And what's think now, Dick?" "I don't know." "Here's another pretty kettle o' fish for thee. Who d'ye think's the bitter weed in our being turned out? Did our party tell 'ee?" "No. Why, Pa'son Maybold, I suppose." "Shiner,--because he's in love with thy young woman, and d'want to see her young figure sitting up at that queer instrument, and her young fingers rum-strumming upon the keys." A sharp ado of sweet and bitter was going on in Dick during this communication from his father. "Shiner's a fool!--no, that's not it; I don't believe any such thing, father. Why, Shiner would never take a bold step like that, unless she'd been a little made up to, and had taken it kindly. Pooh!" "Who's to say she didn't?" "I do." "The more fool you." "Why, father of me?" "Has she ever done more to thee?" "No." "Then she has done as much to he--rot 'em! Now, Dick, this is how a maid is. She'll swear she's dying for thee, and she is dying for thee, and she will die for thee; but she'll fling a look over t'other shoulder at another young feller, though never leaving off dying for thee just the same." "She's not dying for me, and so she didn't fling a look at him." "But she may be dying for him, for she looked at thee." "I don't know what to make of it at all," said Dick gloomily. "All I can make of it is," the tranter said, raising his whip, arranging his different joints and muscles, and motioning to the horse to move on, "that if you can't read a maid's mind by her motions, nature d'seem to say thou'st ought to be a bachelor. Clk, clk! Smiler!" And the tranter moved on. Dick held Smart's rein firmly, and the whole concern of horse, cart, and man remained rooted in the lane. How long this condition would have lasted is unknown, had not Dick's thoughts, after adding up numerous items of misery, gradually wandered round to the fact that as something must be done, it could not be done by staying there all night. Reaching home he went up to his bedroom, shut the door as if he were going to be seen no more in this life, and taking a sheet of paper and uncorking the ink-bottle, he began a letter. The dignity of the writer's mind was so powerfully apparent in every line of this effusion that it obscured the logical sequence of facts and intentions to an appreciable degree; and it was not at all clear to a reader whether he there and then left off loving Miss Fancy Day; whether he had never loved her seriously, and never meant to; whether he had been dying up to the present moment, and now intended to get well again; or whether he had hitherto been in good health, and intended to die for her forthwith. He put this letter in an envelope, sealed it up, directed it in a stern handwriting of straight dashes--easy flourishes being rigorously excluded. He walked with it in his pocket down the lane in strides not an inch less than three feet long. Reaching her gate he put on a resolute expression--then put it off again, turned back homeward, tore up his letter, and sat down. That letter was altogether in a wrong tone--that he must own. A heartless man-of-the-world tone was what the juncture required. That he rather wanted her, and rather did not want her--the latter for choice; but that as a member of society he didn't mind making a query in jaunty terms, which could only be answered in the same way: did she mean anything by her bearing towards him, or did she not? This letter was considered so satisfactory in every way that, being put into the hands of a little boy, and the order given that he was to run with it to the school, he was told in addition not to look behind him if Dick called after him to bring it back, but to run along with it just the same. Having taken this precaution against vacillation, Dick watched his messenger down the road, and turned into the house whistling an air in such ghastly jerks and starts, that whistling seemed to be the act the very furthest removed from that which was instinctive in such a youth. The letter was left as ordered: the next morning came and passed--and no answer. The next. The next. Friday night came. Dick resolved that if no answer or sign were given by her the next day, on Sunday he would meet her face to face, and have it all out by word of mouth. "Dick," said his father, coming in from the garden at that moment--in each hand a hive of bees tied in a cloth to prevent their egress--"I think you'd better take these two swarms of bees to Mrs. Maybold's to- morrow, instead o' me, and I'll go wi' Smiler and the wagon." It was a relief; for Mrs. Maybold, the vicar's mother, who had just taken into her head a fancy for keeping bees (pleasantly disguised under the pretence of its being an economical wish to produce her own honey), lived near the watering-place of Budmouth-Regis, ten miles off, and the business of transporting the hives thither would occupy the whole day, and to some extent annihilate the vacant time between this evening and the coming Sunday. The best spring-cart was washed throughout, the axles oiled, and the bees placed therein for the journey. PART THE THIRD--SUMMER

Part Two Chapter 6 to 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part2-chapter6-8

'Yalbury Wood and the Keeper's House', Chapter Seven 'Dick Makes Himself Useful' and Chapter Eight 'Dick Meets His Father' The chapter begins with Dick going to pick up Fancy from her father's home in Yalbury Wood in order to take her and some household goods to Mellstock. Reuben has not told his son about what he thinks of 'the state of Shinar's heart' as he prefers to let 'such delicate affairs right themselves'. Fancy's father is a gamekeeper and lives in the woods. The furniture in the house is detailed and it is explained that there are two of every item as one set is for Fancy. Her mother bought these things from the time she was born. The room is described further as is the curiosity of the window in the back of the chimney. Fancy is preparing dinner and her father comes in. He is depicted as taciturn and his trapper, Enoch, is also present. Her father asks after the whereabouts of her stepmother, but before she answers they hear the Dewy cart approach. Dick is invited in and asked to eat with them, and Geoffrey talks about his absent wife and how it is 'trying' for females to be second wives especially when they have been first wives before. He also says, "'...wives be such a provoking class of society, because though they be never right, they be never more than half wrong.'" At the table, Fancy sits next to Dick and at one point he puts her hand on his while her father looks at his plate. They slide apart and Geoffrey speaks of Shinar and says how Fancy knows him well. Dick looks anxious and Fancy says to Dick that she has never done anything to warrant this. Following this, Geoffrey's wife comes downstairs and criticizes the tablecloth. She goes back upstairs and brings a newer and less shabby one. She also replaces the cutlery with more 'decent' ones. In Chapter Seven, Dick drives Fancy back to her home and his conversation is restrained after her father's 'incidental allusions' to Shinar. At her home, they drink tea together and she has the cup while he has the saucer. They see the vicar coming down her path to visit her, and she says she wishes he were not here as she feels awkward. Dick bids her good afternoon in 'a huff' and leaves. As he prepares his horse, he looks through the window and sees the vicar drive a nail into the wall as she holds the canary cage up to him. On the drive home in Chapter Nine, Dick is caught between thinking Fancy is and is not a coquette. His father appears and is coming down the hill and they stop and talk. His father points out that 'the maid' is taking up his thoughts more than is good for him and it is making him miserable. Dick says of his fears about the vicar and Reuben tries to comfort him. He then says how the 'bitter weed' in their being turned out of the choir is Shinar, because he is in love with "'thy young woman'". Dick doubts this and doubts she has "'made up'" to Shinar. His father questions this and also says if he "'can't read a maid's mind by her motions, nater'd seem to say thou'st ought to be a bachelor'". Reuben goes on his way and Dick stays where he is for a while. He goes too and at home in his room he writes a letter. He takes this to Fancy's home and wearing a 'resolute expression' at her gate he takes it off again, turns for home and tears up the letter. He decides he needs to use the tone of 'a heartless man-of-the-world'. He writes another letter asking in plain terms if she means anything by her bearing to him or not. He gets a little boy to take the note for him and takes the precaution of telling him to not turn back if he shouts for him. He waits for a response from Fancy, but hears nothing.

'Yalbury Wood and the Keeper's House', Chapter Seven ' Dick Makes Himself Useful' and Chapter Eight 'Dick Meets His Father' The relationships between the sexes is given more airing as Dick attempts to get closer to Fancy and Geoffrey refers to wives as a 'provoking class of society'. Such misunderstandings between men and women are emphasized when Reuben advises his son about staying a bachelor if he cannot understand a 'maid'. The comments of these older men border on misogyny at times, that is until one sees them at home in their relationships and their wives shows a certain lack of comprehension of them too. Men and women are characterized here, then, as contrasting and occasionally inexplicable to each other, and despite or rather because of this, the attraction remains.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/part_4_chapters_3_to_7.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_5_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part 4.chapters 3-7

part 4 chapter 3 - 7

{"name": "Part Four Chapter 3 to 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part4-chapter3-7", "summary": "'Fancy in the Rain', Chapter Four 'The Spell' and Chapter Five 'After Gaining Her Point' The next scene is set the following month on a 'tempestuous afternoon'. Fancy is walking from her father's home towards Mellstock. She looks for shelter and goes to the nearest house, which is Elizabeth Endorfield's. Here she thinks of how firm her father's opposition has been to Dick. Nevertheless, they have seen each other since. Mrs Endorfield is described as having a reputation of something 'between distinction and notoriety'. She had 'distinctly Satanic' features and has been compared to a witch. She says to Fancy that she is down about her young man. Fancy says she wishes she could help her to put her father in \"'humour'\" for it. Mrs Endorfield says she can help and \"'the charm is worked by common sense'\". She gives Fancy a list of instructions which are not explained at this point and Fancy leaves saying she will follow them. Mrs Endorfield's advice is followed in Chapter Four. The advice is suggested when a Mellstock man tells Geoffrey he is sorry his daughter is not well and that she has no appetite. He goes to see her and has tea with her, and watches her 'narrowly'. He sees her eat just one tenth of a slice of bread and butter and hopes she will say something about Dick, but she does not. The following week Enoch says to Geoffrey that he hopes \"'poor Miss Fancy'\" will be able to keep on at the school as he has heard from the baker that the amount of bread he has left her would starve a mouse. He has also heard she has had less butter too, and this is thought to have turned sour. On Saturday, Geoffrey receives a note from Fancy saying not to send any rabbits as she fears she will not want them. Later in Casterbridge, he asks to pay her butcher's bill as well as his own and he is surprised at how little she has ordered in a month. He calls on Fancy, and Nan, the charwoman, tells him Fancy told her she is not getting up until the evening and says as she has given up eating she cannot work. He goes to Fancy's room and notices how pale she is. He says how he did it for the best, in telling Dick he could not marry her, but he cannot let her die and if she wants him she will have him. 'The invalid' sighs and says she does not want Dick against her father's will. He says it is not and that they may marry next Midsummer. On leaving the schoolhouse, Geoffrey goes to the Dewy home and William answers. He says how Dick is not chatty anymore and is not the fellow he used to be. He asks him to let Dick know he wants him to come and see him tomorrow with Fancy, if she is well enough. In Chapter Five, the visit to Geoffrey passes well and they have several days of happy courtship. The day of the Harvest Thanksgiving is chosen to be the day for 'opening the organ' in Mellstock Church and it so happens that Dick is called away to a funeral at this time. He lets Fancy know that he will miss her debut and she is described as bearing the news as best she can. On the day, Dick takes a detour to see Fancy before she sets off and is 'astonished' at how well presented she is. After his initial delight, he has less comfortable feelings. He says if she had been going away he would not have cared to be better dressed than usual. He also says how different they are and she agrees that perhaps this is so. She asks for a kiss, and he agrees to this, and they go their separate ways for the day. In church, the daughters of 'the small gentry' are critical of her hair, which is curled for the occasion, her hat and feather and the 'sober matrons' say, \"'a bonnet for church always!'\" Fancy notices the vicar admire her, but is not aware he loves her as he has never loved a woman before. The choir are no longer in the gallery and are dotted about the church, sitting with their relatives. They listen to Fancy play, but believe their simpler notes were more in keeping with 'the simplicity of their old church'.", "analysis": "'Fancy in the Rain', Chapter Four 'The Spell' and Chapter Five ' After Gaining Her Point' The replacement of the choir is made complete when Fancy arrives to play the organ. It is of note that the choir no longer even sit together and are now dispersed among the congregation. Their unity is broken and the individual takes precedence over the group in this new order of things. Fancy's individuality is made all the more evident in her appearance and in her lack of concern of the censorious views of others, such as the 'sober matrons' and the daughters of 'the small gentry'. She is depicted as vain and even flighty in her appearance, but inimical to this is a strength that will not be dominated by the opinion of others. Chapter Six 'Into Temptation' and Chapter Seven 'A Crisis' Back in the schoolhouse after the service, Fancy thinks how weary she is of living alone and how 'unbearable' it would be to live with her father and stepmother again, and how it is another eight or nine long months before her wedding can take place. She sits on a window sill and looks out at the rain. She sees Dick approach and they talk while he stands outside in the rain. He explains the mark on his coat is from the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. As he tells her this, she puts her hand to her mouth and covers a yawn, 'for half a minute'. He asks for a kiss but cannot reach her as she does not want to expose her head to the rain. She offers her hand instead and they say goodbye. When he goes, she says to herself how poor and mean he looks wet through and without an umbrella. Dick disappears and as she prepares to descend she looks in the other direction and sees another man dressed in black, with an umbrella, and is approaching her house. She cannot see his face, but notices the umbrella is made of 'superior silk'. He knocks on the door and she answers to Mr Maybold the vicar. He enters and says he has come to ask her to be his wife. Silence follows and she says she cannot. He asks her to not answer in a hurry and says he has loved her for more than 6 months and asks again if she will marry him. There is silence again and he implores her to not refuse. He also says they could move to Yorkshire and she could have whatever piano she liked, \"'anything to make you happy - pony-carriage, flowers, birds, pleasant society'\". There is another pause and then she answers \"'yes, I will'\". He moves to embrace her and she says, \"'no, no, not now'\". She says the temptation is too strong to resist and asks him to leave. He waits until she controls herself and leaves saying he will come back tomorrow about this time. The next morning, in Chapter Seven, the vicar writes a letter to his friend in Yorkshire and takes it to Casterbridge so as not to lose a day in its transmission. He meets Dick on the way and they walk together. The vicar says how successful the service had been the day before and Dick says he had wanted to be there because of Miss Day and the vicar does not know what he means. Dick explains that she is his sweetheart and they are going to be married next Midsummer. The vicar agrees that time slips along, but feels a cold and sickly thrill and realizes Fancy is 'less an angel than a woman'. Dick says he has good prospects and will be a regular manager of a branch of his father's business. He has also had cards printed 'to keep pace with the times' and gives one to the vicar. Dick takes a different path and the vicar stands on a bridge as he reads his card. After 10 minutes, he takes out the letter and tears it up into 'minute fragments' and drops them in the water. He then returns to the vicarage. He writes a letter to Fancy and informs her he knows she is not a free woman and asks whether she can 'in justice to an honest man' 'honourably forsake him'. He sends the note with a boy and on his way he passes another boy who is coming to the vicarage. He has a note from Fancy and in this she explains her 'ambition and vanity' and love of praise and wants to withdraw the answer she gave him last night. She also wants him to keep their meeting a secret. The last written communication between them is a note that states the following: 'Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you'. Chapter Six 'Into Temptation' and Chapter Seven 'A Crisis' Chapter Six 'Into Temptation' and Chapter Seven 'A Crisis' Fancy's love of the material has been suggested up to this point, and strongly hinted at in the way she dresses, but it is the acceptance of the vicar's marriage proposal that signals how tempted she is by expressions of wealth and luxury. To her credit, she changes her mind but the acceptance is noteworthy for highlighting how this novel critiques the temptations of capitalism. By being allowed to change her mind, Fancy is made an exception in the novel as the shift to a more capitalist society is seen recurrently here as inevitable as well as lamentable."}

The next scene is a tempestuous afternoon in the following month, and Fancy Day is discovered walking from her father's home towards Mellstock. A single vast gray cloud covered the country, from which the small rain and mist had just begun to blow down in wavy sheets, alternately thick and thin. The trees of the fields and plantations writhed like miserable men as the air wound its way swiftly among them: the lowest portions of their trunks, that had hardly ever been known to move, were visibly rocked by the fiercer gusts, distressing the mind by its painful unwontedness, as when a strong man is seen to shed tears. Low-hanging boughs went up and down; high and erect boughs went to and fro; the blasts being so irregular, and divided into so many cross-currents, that neighbouring branches of the same tree swept the skies in independent motions, crossed each other, or became entangled. Across the open spaces flew flocks of green and yellowish leaves, which, after travelling a long distance from their parent trees, reached the ground, and lay there with their under-sides upward. As the rain and wind increased, and Fancy's bonnet-ribbons leapt more and more snappishly against her chin, she paused on entering Mellstock Lane to consider her latitude, and the distance to a place of shelter. The nearest house was Elizabeth Endorfield's, in Higher Mellstock, whose cottage and garden stood not far from the junction of that hamlet with the road she followed. Fancy hastened onward, and in five minutes entered a gate, which shed upon her toes a flood of water-drops as she opened it. "Come in, chiel!" a voice exclaimed, before Fancy had knocked: a promptness that would have surprised her had she not known that Mrs. Endorfield was an exceedingly and exceptionally sharp woman in the use of her eyes and ears. Fancy went in and sat down. Elizabeth was paring potatoes for her husband's supper. Scrape, scrape, scrape; then a toss, and splash went a potato into a bucket of water. Now, as Fancy listlessly noted these proceedings of the dame, she began to reconsider an old subject that lay uppermost in her heart. Since the interview between her father and Dick, the days had been melancholy days for her. Geoffrey's firm opposition to the notion of Dick as a son-in- law was more than she had expected. She had frequently seen her lover since that time, it is true, and had loved him more for the opposition than she would have otherwise dreamt of doing--which was a happiness of a certain kind. Yet, though love is thus an end in itself, it must be believed to be the means to another end if it is to assume the rosy hues of an unalloyed pleasure. And such a belief Fancy and Dick were emphatically denied just now. Elizabeth Endorfield had a repute among women which was in its nature something between distinction and notoriety. It was founded on the following items of character. She was shrewd and penetrating; her house stood in a lonely place; she never went to church; she wore a red cloak; she always retained her bonnet indoors and she had a pointed chin. Thus far her attributes were distinctly Satanic; and those who looked no further called her, in plain terms, a witch. But she was not gaunt, nor ugly in the upper part of her face, nor particularly strange in manner; so that, when her more intimate acquaintances spoke of her the term was softened, and she became simply a Deep Body, who was as long-headed as she was high. It may be stated that Elizabeth belonged to a class of suspects who were gradually losing their mysterious characteristics under the administration of the young vicar; though, during the long reign of Mr. Grinham, the parish of Mellstock had proved extremely favourable to the growth of witches. While Fancy was revolving all this in her mind, and putting it to herself whether it was worth while to tell her troubles to Elizabeth, and ask her advice in getting out of them, the witch spoke. "You be down--proper down," she said suddenly, dropping another potato into the bucket. Fancy took no notice. "About your young man." Fancy reddened. Elizabeth seemed to be watching her thoughts. Really, one would almost think she must have the powers people ascribed to her. "Father not in the humour for't, hey?" Another potato was finished and flung in. "Ah, I know about it. Little birds tell me things that people don't dream of my knowing." Fancy was desperate about Dick, and here was a chance--O, such a wicked chance--of getting help; and what was goodness beside love! "I wish you'd tell me how to put him in the humour for it?" she said. "That I could soon do," said the witch quietly. "Really? O, do; anyhow--I don't care--so that it is done! How could I do it, Mrs. Endorfield?" "Nothing so mighty wonderful in it." "Well, but how?" "By witchery, of course!" said Elizabeth. "No!" said Fancy. "'Tis, I assure ye. Didn't you ever hear I was a witch?" "Well," hesitated Fancy, "I have heard you called so." "And you believed it?" "I can't say that I did exactly believe it, for 'tis very horrible and wicked; but, O, how I do wish it was possible for you to be one!" "So I am. And I'll tell you how to bewitch your father to let you marry Dick Dewy." "Will it hurt him, poor thing?" "Hurt who?" "Father." "No; the charm is worked by common sense, and the spell can only be broke by your acting stupidly." Fancy looked rather perplexed, and Elizabeth went on: "This fear of Lizz--whatever 'tis-- By great and small; She makes pretence to common sense, And that's all. "You must do it like this." The witch laid down her knife and potato, and then poured into Fancy's ear a long and detailed list of directions, glancing up from the corner of her eye into Fancy's face with an expression of sinister humour. Fancy's face brightened, clouded, rose and sank, as the narrative proceeded. "There," said Elizabeth at length, stooping for the knife and another potato, "do that, and you'll have him by-long and by-late, my dear." "And do it I will!" said Fancy. She then turned her attention to the external world once more. The rain continued as usual, but the wind had abated considerably during the discourse. Judging that it was now possible to keep an umbrella erect, she pulled her hood again over her bonnet, bade the witch good-bye, and went her way. Mrs. Endorfield's advice was duly followed. "I be proper sorry that your daughter isn't so well as she might be," said a Mellstock man to Geoffrey one morning. "But is there anything in it?" said Geoffrey uneasily, as he shifted his hat to the right. "I can't understand the report. She didn't complain to me a bit when I saw her." "No appetite at all, they say." Geoffrey crossed to Mellstock and called at the school that afternoon. Fancy welcomed him as usual, and asked him to stay and take tea with her. "I be'n't much for tea, this time o' day," he said, but stayed. During the meal he watched her narrowly. And to his great consternation discovered the following unprecedented change in the healthy girl--that she cut herself only a diaphanous slice of bread-and-butter, and, laying it on her plate, passed the meal-time in breaking it into pieces, but eating no more than about one-tenth of the slice. Geoffrey hoped she would say something about Dick, and finish up by weeping, as she had done after the decision against him a few days subsequent to the interview in the garden. But nothing was said, and in due time Geoffrey departed again for Yalbury Wood. "'Tis to be hoped poor Miss Fancy will be able to keep on her school," said Geoffrey's man Enoch to Geoffrey the following week, as they were shovelling up ant-hills in the wood. Geoffrey stuck in the shovel, swept seven or eight ants from his sleeve, and killed another that was prowling round his ear, then looked perpendicularly into the earth as usual, waiting for Enoch to say more. "Well, why shouldn't she?" said the keeper at last. "The baker told me yesterday," continued Enoch, shaking out another emmet that had run merrily up his thigh, "that the bread he've left at that there school-house this last month would starve any mouse in the three creations; that 'twould so! And afterwards I had a pint o' small down at Morrs's, and there I heard more." "What might that ha' been?" "That she used to have a pound o' the best rolled butter a week, regular as clockwork, from Dairyman Viney's for herself, as well as just so much salted for the helping girl, and the 'ooman she calls in; but now the same quantity d'last her three weeks, and then 'tis thoughted she throws it away sour." "Finish doing the emmets, and carry the bag home-along." The keeper resumed his gun, tucked it under his arm, and went on without whistling to the dogs, who however followed, with a bearing meant to imply that they did not expect any such attentions when their master was reflecting. On Saturday morning a note came from Fancy. He was not to trouble about sending her the couple of rabbits, as was intended, because she feared she should not want them. Later in the day Geoffrey went to Casterbridge and called upon the butcher who served Fancy with fresh meat, which was put down to her father's account. "I've called to pay up our little bill, Neighbour Haylock, and you can gie me the chiel's account at the same time." Mr. Haylock turned round three quarters of a circle in the midst of a heap of joints, altered the expression of his face from meat to money, went into a little office consisting only of a door and a window, looked very vigorously into a book which possessed length but no breadth; and then, seizing a piece of paper and scribbling thereupon, handed the bill. Probably it was the first time in the history of commercial transactions that the quality of shortness in a butcher's bill was a cause of tribulation to the debtor. "Why, this isn't all she've had in a whole month!" said Geoffrey. "Every mossel," said the butcher--"(now, Dan, take that leg and shoulder to Mrs. White's, and this eleven pound here to Mr. Martin's)--you've been treating her to smaller joints lately, to my thinking, Mr. Day?" "Only two or three little scram rabbits this last week, as I am alive--I wish I had!" "Well, my wife said to me--(Dan! not too much, not too much on that tray at a time; better go twice)--my wife said to me as she posted up the books: she says, 'Miss Day must have been affronted this summer during that hot muggy weather that spolit so much for us; for depend upon't,' she says, 'she've been trying John Grimmett unknown to us: see her account else.' 'Tis little, of course, at the best of times, being only for one, but now 'tis next kin to nothing." "I'll inquire," said Geoffrey despondingly. He returned by way of Mellstock, and called upon Fancy, in fulfilment of a promise. It being Saturday, the children were enjoying a holiday, and on entering the residence Fancy was nowhere to be seen. Nan, the charwoman, was sweeping the kitchen. "Where's my da'ter?" said the keeper. "Well, you see she was tired with the week's teaching, and this morning she said, 'Nan, I sha'n't get up till the evening.' You see, Mr. Day, if people don't eat, they can't work; and as she've gie'd up eating, she must gie up working." "Have ye carried up any dinner to her?" "No; she don't want any. There, we all know that such things don't come without good reason--not that I wish to say anything about a broken heart, or anything of the kind." Geoffrey's own heart felt inconveniently large just then. He went to the staircase and ascended to his daughter's door. "Fancy!" "Come in, father." To see a person in bed from any cause whatever, on a fine afternoon, is depressing enough; and here was his only child Fancy, not only in bed, but looking very pale. Geoffrey was visibly disturbed. "Fancy, I didn't expect to see thee here, chiel," he said. "What's the matter?" "I'm not well, father." "How's that?" "Because I think of things." "What things can you have to think o' so mortal much?" "You know, father." "You think I've been cruel to thee in saying that that penniless Dick o' thine sha'n't marry thee, I suppose?" No answer. "Well, you know, Fancy, I do it for the best, and he isn't good enough for thee. You know that well enough." Here he again looked at her as she lay. "Well, Fancy, I can't let my only chiel die; and if you can't live without en, you must ha' en, I suppose." "O, I don't want him like that; all against your will, and everything so disobedient!" sighed the invalid. "No, no, 'tisn't against my will. My wish is, now I d'see how 'tis hurten thee to live without en, that he shall marry thee as soon as we've considered a little. That's my wish flat and plain, Fancy. There, never cry, my little maid! You ought to ha' cried afore; no need o' crying now 'tis all over. Well, howsoever, try to step over and see me and mother- law to-morrow, and ha' a bit of dinner wi' us." "And--Dick too?" "Ay, Dick too, 'far's I know." "And when do you think you'll have considered, father, and he may marry me?" she coaxed. "Well, there, say next Midsummer; that's not a day too long to wait." On leaving the school Geoffrey went to the tranter's. Old William opened the door. "Is your grandson Dick in 'ithin, William?" "No, not just now, Mr. Day. Though he've been at home a good deal lately." "O, how's that?" "What wi' one thing, and what wi' t'other, he's all in a mope, as might be said. Don't seem the feller he used to. Ay, 'a will sit studding and thinking as if 'a were going to turn chapel-member, and then do nothing but traypse and wamble about. Used to be such a chatty boy, too, Dick did; and now 'a don't speak at all. But won't ye step inside? Reuben will be home soon, 'a b'lieve." "No, thank you, I can't stay now. Will ye just ask Dick if he'll do me the kindness to step over to Yalbury to-morrow with my da'ter Fancy, if she's well enough? I don't like her to come by herself, now she's not so terrible topping in health." "So I've heard. Ay, sure, I'll tell him without fail." The visit to Geoffrey passed off as delightfully as a visit might have been expected to pass off when it was the first day of smooth experience in a hitherto obstructed love-course. And then came a series of several happy days, of the same undisturbed serenity. Dick could court her when he chose; stay away when he chose,--which was never; walk with her by winding streams and waterfalls and autumn scenery till dews and twilight sent them home. And thus they drew near the day of the Harvest Thanksgiving, which was also the time chosen for opening the organ in Mellstock Church. It chanced that Dick on that very day was called away from Mellstock. A young acquaintance had died of consumption at Charmley, a neighbouring village, on the previous Monday, and Dick, in fulfilment of a long-standing promise, was to assist in carrying him to the grave. When on Tuesday, Dick went towards the school to acquaint Fancy with the fact, it is difficult to say whether his own disappointment at being denied the sight of her triumphant debut as organist, was greater than his vexation that his pet should on this great occasion be deprived of the pleasure of his presence. However, the intelligence was communicated. She bore it as she best could, not without many expressions of regret, and convictions that her performance would be nothing to her now. Just before eleven o'clock on Sunday he set out upon his sad errand. The funeral was to be immediately after the morning service, and as there were four good miles to walk, driving being inconvenient, it became necessary to start comparatively early. Half an hour later would certainly have answered his purpose quite as well, yet at the last moment nothing would content his ardent mind but that he must go a mile out of his way in the direction of the school, in the hope of getting a glimpse of his Love as she started for church. Striking, therefore, into the lane towards the school, instead of across the ewelease direct to Charmley, he arrived opposite her door as his goddess emerged. If ever a woman looked a divinity, Fancy Day appeared one that morning as she floated down those school steps, in the form of a nebulous collection of colours inclining to blue. With an audacity unparalleled in the whole history of village-school-mistresses at this date--partly owing, no doubt, to papa's respectable accumulation of cash, which rendered her profession not altogether one of necessity--she had actually donned a hat and feather, and lowered her hitherto plainly looped-up hair, which now fell about her shoulders in a profusion of curls. Poor Dick was astonished: he had never seen her look so distractingly beautiful before, save on Christmas-eve, when her hair was in the same luxuriant condition of freedom. But his first burst of delighted surprise was followed by less comfortable feelings, as soon as his brain recovered its power to think. Fancy had blushed;--was it with confusion? She had also involuntarily pressed back her curls. She had not expected him. "Fancy, you didn't know me for a moment in my funeral clothes, did you?" "Good-morning, Dick--no, really, I didn't know you for an instant in such a sad suit." He looked again at the gay tresses and hat. "You've never dressed so charming before, dearest." "I like to hear you praise me in that way, Dick," she said, smiling archly. "It is meat and drink to a woman. Do I look nice really?" "Fie! you know it. Did you remember,--I mean didn't you remember about my going away to-day?" "Well, yes, I did, Dick; but, you know, I wanted to look well;--forgive me." "Yes, darling; yes, of course,--there's nothing to forgive. No, I was only thinking that when we talked on Tuesday and Wednesday and Thursday and Friday about my absence to-day, and I was so sorry for it, you said, Fancy, so were you sorry, and almost cried, and said it would be no pleasure to you to be the attraction of the church to-day, since I could not be there." "My dear one, neither will it be so much pleasure to me . . . But I do take a little delight in my life, I suppose," she pouted. "Apart from mine?" She looked at him with perplexed eyes. "I know you are vexed with me, Dick, and it is because the first Sunday I have curls and a hat and feather since I have been here happens to be the very day you are away and won't be with me. Yes, say it is, for that is it! And you think that all this week I ought to have remembered you wouldn't be here to- day, and not have cared to be better dressed than usual. Yes, you do, Dick, and it is rather unkind!" "No, no," said Dick earnestly and simply, "I didn't think so badly of you as that. I only thought that--if you had been going away, I shouldn't have tried new attractions for the eyes of other people. But then of course you and I are different, naturally." "Well, perhaps we are." "Whatever will the vicar say, Fancy?" "I don't fear what he says in the least!" she answered proudly. "But he won't say anything of the sort you think. No, no." "He can hardly have conscience to, indeed." "Now come, you say, Dick, that you quite forgive me, for I must go," she said with sudden gaiety, and skipped backwards into the porch. "Come here, sir;--say you forgive me, and then you shall kiss me;--you never have yet when I have worn curls, you know. Yes, just where you want to so much,--yes, you may!" Dick followed her into the inner corner, where he was probably not slow in availing himself of the privilege offered. "Now that's a treat for you, isn't it?" she continued. "Good-bye, or I shall be late. Come and see me to-morrow: you'll be tired to-night." Thus they parted, and Fancy proceeded to the church. The organ stood on one side of the chancel, close to and under the immediate eye of the vicar when he was in the pulpit, and also in full view of the congregation. Here she sat down, for the first time in such a conspicuous position, her seat having previously been in a remote spot in the aisle. "Good heavens--disgraceful! Curls and a hat and feather!" said the daughters of the small gentry, who had either only curly hair without a hat and feather, or a hat and feather without curly hair. "A bonnet for church always," said sober matrons. That Mr. Maybold was conscious of her presence close beside him during the sermon; that he was not at all angry at her development of costume; that he admired her, she perceived. But she did not see that he loved her during that sermon-time as he had never loved a woman before; that her proximity was a strange delight to him; and that he gloried in her musical success that morning in a spirit quite beyond a mere cleric's glory at the inauguration of a new order of things. The old choir, with humbled hearts, no longer took their seats in the gallery as heretofore (which was now given up to the school-children who were not singers, and a pupil-teacher), but were scattered about with their wives in different parts of the church. Having nothing to do with conducting the service for almost the first time in their lives, they all felt awkward, out of place, abashed, and inconvenienced by their hands. The tranter had proposed that they should stay away to-day and go nutting, but grandfather William would not hear of such a thing for a moment. "No," he replied reproachfully, and quoted a verse: "Though this has come upon us, let not our hearts be turned back, or our steps go out of the way." So they stood and watched the curls of hair trailing down the back of the successful rival, and the waving of her feather, as she swayed her head. After a few timid notes and uncertain touches her playing became markedly correct, and towards the end full and free. But, whether from prejudice or unbiassed judgment, the venerable body of musicians could not help thinking that the simpler notes they had been wont to bring forth were more in keeping with the simplicity of their old church than the crowded chords and interludes it was her pleasure to produce. The day was done, and Fancy was again in the school-house. About five o'clock it began to rain, and in rather a dull frame of mind she wandered into the schoolroom, for want of something better to do. She was thinking--of her lover Dick Dewy? Not precisely. Of how weary she was of living alone: how unbearable it would be to return to Yalbury under the rule of her strange-tempered step-mother; that it was far better to be married to anybody than do that; that eight or nine long months had yet to be lived through ere the wedding could take place. At the side of the room were high windows of Ham-hill stone, upon either sill of which she could sit by first mounting a desk and using it as a footstool. As the evening advanced here she perched herself, as was her custom on such wet and gloomy occasions, put on a light shawl and bonnet, opened the window, and looked out at the rain. The window overlooked a field called the Grove, and it was the position from which she used to survey the crown of Dick's passing hat in the early days of their acquaintance and meetings. Not a living soul was now visible anywhere; the rain kept all people indoors who were not forced abroad by necessity, and necessity was less importunate on Sundays than during the week. Sitting here and thinking again--of her lover, or of the sensation she had created at church that day?--well, it is unknown--thinking and thinking she saw a dark masculine figure arising into distinctness at the further end of the Grove--a man without an umbrella. Nearer and nearer he came, and she perceived that he was in deep mourning, and then that it was Dick. Yes, in the fondness and foolishness of his young heart, after walking four miles, in a drizzling rain without overcoat or umbrella, and in face of a remark from his love that he was not to come because he would be tired, he had made it his business to wander this mile out of his way again, from sheer wish of spending ten minutes in her presence. "O Dick, how wet you are!" she said, as he drew up under the window. "Why, your coat shines as if it had been varnished, and your hat--my goodness, there's a streaming hat!" "O, I don't mind, darling!" said Dick cheerfully. "Wet never hurts me, though I am rather sorry for my best clothes. However, it couldn't be helped; we lent all the umbrellas to the women. I don't know when I shall get mine back!" "And look, there's a nasty patch of something just on your shoulder." "Ah, that's japanning; it rubbed off the clamps of poor Jack's coffin when we lowered him from our shoulders upon the bier! I don't care about that, for 'twas the last deed I could do for him; and 'tis hard if you can't afford a coat for an old friend." Fancy put her hand to her mouth for half a minute. Underneath the palm of that little hand there existed for that half-minute a little yawn. "Dick, I don't like you to stand there in the wet. And you mustn't sit down. Go home and change your things. Don't stay another minute." "One kiss after coming so far," he pleaded. "If I can reach, then." He looked rather disappointed at not being invited round to the door. She twisted from her seated position and bent herself downwards, but not even by standing on the plinth was it possible for Dick to get his lips into contact with hers as she held them. By great exertion she might have reached a little lower; but then she would have exposed her head to the rain. "Never mind, Dick; kiss my hand," she said, flinging it down to him. "Now, good-bye." "Good-bye." He walked slowly away, turning and turning again to look at her till he was out of sight. During the retreat she said to herself, almost involuntarily, and still conscious of that morning's triumph--"I like Dick, and I love him; but how plain and sorry a man looks in the rain, with no umbrella, and wet through!" As he vanished, she made as if to descend from her seat; but glancing in the other direction she saw another form coming along the same track. It was also that of a man. He, too, was in black from top to toe; but he carried an umbrella. He drew nearer, and the direction of the rain caused him so to slant his umbrella that from her height above the ground his head was invisible, as she was also to him. He passed in due time directly beneath her, and in looking down upon the exterior of his umbrella her feminine eyes perceived it to be of superior silk--less common at that date than since--and of elegant make. He reached the entrance to the building, and Fancy suddenly lost sight of him. Instead of pursuing the roadway as Dick had done he had turned sharply round into her own porch. She jumped to the floor, hastily flung off her shawl and bonnet, smoothed and patted her hair till the curls hung in passable condition, and listened. No knock. Nearly a minute passed, and still there was no knock. Then there arose a soft series of raps, no louder than the tapping of a distant woodpecker, and barely distinct enough to reach her ears. She composed herself and flung open the door. In the porch stood Mr. Maybold. There was a warm flush upon his face, and a bright flash in his eyes, which made him look handsomer than she had ever seen him before. "Good-evening, Miss Day." "Good-evening, Mr. Maybold," she said, in a strange state of mind. She had noticed, beyond the ardent hue of his face, that his voice had a singular tremor in it, and that his hand shook like an aspen leaf when he laid his umbrella in the corner of the porch. Without another word being spoken by either, he came into the schoolroom, shut the door, and moved close to her. Once inside, the expression of his face was no more discernible, by reason of the increasing dusk of evening. "I want to speak to you," he then said; "seriously--on a perhaps unexpected subject, but one which is all the world to me--I don't know what it may be to you, Miss Day." No reply. "Fancy, I have come to ask you if you will be my wife?" As a person who has been idly amusing himself with rolling a snowball might start at finding he had set in motion an avalanche, so did Fancy start at these words from the vicar. And in the dead silence which followed them, the breathings of the man and of the woman could be distinctly and separately heard; and there was this difference between them--his respirations gradually grew quieter and less rapid after the enunciation, hers, from having been low and regular, increased in quickness and force, till she almost panted. "I cannot, I cannot, Mr. Maybold--I cannot! Don't ask me!" she said. "Don't answer in a hurry!" he entreated. "And do listen to me. This is no sudden feeling on my part. I have loved you for more than six months! Perhaps my late interest in teaching the children here has not been so single-minded as it seemed. You will understand my motive--like me better, perhaps, for honestly telling you that I have struggled against my emotion continually, because I have thought that it was not well for me to love you! But I resolved to struggle no longer; I have examined the feeling; and the love I bear you is as genuine as that I could bear any woman! I see your great charm; I respect your natural talents, and the refinement they have brought into your nature--they are quite enough, and more than enough for me! They are equal to anything ever required of the mistress of a quiet parsonage-house--the place in which I shall pass my days, wherever it may be situated. O Fancy, I have watched you, criticized you even severely, brought my feelings to the light of judgment, and still have found them rational, and such as any man might have expected to be inspired with by a woman like you! So there is nothing hurried, secret, or untoward in my desire to do this. Fancy, will you marry me?" No answer was returned. "Don't refuse; don't," he implored. "It would be foolish of you--I mean cruel! Of course we would not live here, Fancy. I have had for a long time the offer of an exchange of livings with a friend in Yorkshire, but I have hitherto refused on account of my mother. There we would go. Your musical powers shall be still further developed; you shall have whatever pianoforte you like; you shall have anything, Fancy, anything to make you happy--pony-carriage, flowers, birds, pleasant society; yes, you have enough in you for any society, after a few months of travel with me! Will you, Fancy, marry me?" Another pause ensued, varied only by the surging of the rain against the window-panes, and then Fancy spoke, in a faint and broken voice. "Yes, I will," she said. "God bless you, my own!" He advanced quickly, and put his arm out to embrace her. She drew back hastily. "No no, not now!" she said in an agitated whisper. "There are things;--but the temptation is, O, too strong, and I can't resist it; I can't tell you now, but I must tell you! Don't, please, don't come near me now! I want to think, I can scarcely get myself used to the idea of what I have promised yet." The next minute she turned to a desk, buried her face in her hands, and burst into a hysterical fit of weeping. "O, leave me to myself!" she sobbed; "leave me! O, leave me!" "Don't be distressed; don't, dearest!" It was with visible difficulty that he restrained himself from approaching her. "You shall tell me at your leisure what it is that grieves you so; I am happy--beyond all measure happy!--at having your simple promise." "And do go and leave me now!" "But I must not, in justice to you, leave for a minute, until you are yourself again." "There then," she said, controlling her emotion, and standing up; "I am not disturbed now." He reluctantly moved towards the door. "Good-bye!" he murmured tenderly. "I'll come to-morrow about this time." The next morning the vicar rose early. The first thing he did was to write a long and careful letter to his friend in Yorkshire. Then, eating a little breakfast, he crossed the meadows in the direction of Casterbridge, bearing his letter in his pocket, that he might post it at the town office, and obviate the loss of one day in its transmission that would have resulted had he left it for the foot-post through the village. It was a foggy morning, and the trees shed in noisy water-drops the moisture they had collected from the thick air, an acorn occasionally falling from its cup to the ground, in company with the drippings. In the meads, sheets of spiders'-web, almost opaque with wet, hung in folds over the fences, and the falling leaves appeared in every variety of brown, green, and yellow hue. A low and merry whistling was heard on the highway he was approaching, then the light footsteps of a man going in the same direction as himself. On reaching the junction of his path with the road, the vicar beheld Dick Dewy's open and cheerful face. Dick lifted his hat, and the vicar came out into the highway that Dick was pursuing. "Good-morning, Dewy. How well you are looking!" said Mr. Maybold. "Yes, sir, I am well--quite well! I am going to Casterbridge now, to get Smart's collar; we left it there Saturday to be repaired." "I am going to Casterbridge, so we'll walk together," the vicar said. Dick gave a hop with one foot to put himself in step with Mr. Maybold, who proceeded: "I fancy I didn't see you at church yesterday, Dewy. Or were you behind the pier?" "No; I went to Charmley. Poor John Dunford chose me to be one of his bearers a long time before he died, and yesterday was the funeral. Of course I couldn't refuse, though I should have liked particularly to have been at home as 'twas the day of the new music." "Yes, you should have been. The musical portion of the service was successful--very successful indeed; and what is more to the purpose, no ill-feeling whatever was evinced by any of the members of the old choir. They joined in the singing with the greatest good-will." "'Twas natural enough that I should want to be there, I suppose," said Dick, smiling a private smile; "considering who the organ-player was." At this the vicar reddened a little, and said, "Yes, yes," though not at all comprehending Dick's true meaning, who, as he received no further reply, continued hesitatingly, and with another smile denoting his pride as a lover-- "I suppose you know what I mean, sir? You've heard about me and--Miss Day?" The red in Maybold's countenance went away: he turned and looked Dick in the face. "No," he said constrainedly, "I've heard nothing whatever about you and Miss Day." "Why, she's my sweetheart, and we are going to be married next Midsummer. We are keeping it rather close just at present, because 'tis a good many months to wait; but it is her father's wish that we don't marry before, and of course we must submit. But the time 'ill soon slip along." "Yes, the time will soon slip along--Time glides away every day--yes." Maybold said these words, but he had no idea of what they were. He was conscious of a cold and sickly thrill throughout him; and all he reasoned was this that the young creature whose graces had intoxicated him into making the most imprudent resolution of his life, was less an angel than a woman. "You see, sir," continued the ingenuous Dick, "'twill be better in one sense. I shall by that time be the regular manager of a branch o' father's business, which has very much increased lately, and business, which we think of starting elsewhere. It has very much increased lately, and we expect next year to keep a' extra couple of horses. We've already our eye on one--brown as a berry, neck like a rainbow, fifteen hands, and not a gray hair in her--offered us at twenty-five want a crown. And to kip pace with the times I have had some cards prented and I beg leave to hand you one, sir." "Certainly," said the vicar, mechanically taking the card that Dick offered him. "I turn in here by Grey's Bridge," said Dick. "I suppose you go straight on and up town?" "Yes." "Good-morning, sir." "Good-morning, Dewy." Maybold stood still upon the bridge, holding the card as it had been put into his hand, and Dick's footsteps died away towards Durnover Mill. The vicar's first voluntary action was to read the card:-- DEWY AND SON, TRANTERS AND HAULIERS, MELLSTOCK. NB.--Furniture, Coals, Potatoes, Live and Dead Stock, removed to any distance on the shortest notice. Mr. Maybold leant over the parapet of the bridge and looked into the river. He saw--without heeding--how the water came rapidly from beneath the arches, glided down a little steep, then spread itself over a pool in which dace, trout, and minnows sported at ease among the long green locks of weed that lay heaving and sinking with their roots towards the current. At the end of ten minutes spent leaning thus, he drew from his pocket the letter to his friend, tore it deliberately into such minute fragments that scarcely two syllables remained in juxtaposition, and sent the whole handful of shreds fluttering into the water. Here he watched them eddy, dart, and turn, as they were carried downwards towards the ocean and gradually disappeared from his view. Finally he moved off, and pursued his way at a rapid pace back again to Mellstock Vicarage. Nerving himself by a long and intense effort, he sat down in his study and wrote as follows: "DEAR MISS DAY,--The meaning of your words, 'the temptation is too strong,' of your sadness and your tears, has been brought home to me by an accident. I know to-day what I did not know yesterday--that you are not a free woman. "Why did you not tell me--why didn't you? Did you suppose I knew? No. Had I known, my conduct in coming to you as I did would have been reprehensible. "But I don't chide you! Perhaps no blame attaches to you--I can't tell. Fancy, though my opinion of you is assailed and disturbed in a way which cannot be expressed, I love you still, and my word to you holds good yet. But will you, in justice to an honest man who relies upon your word to him, consider whether, under the circumstances, you can honourably forsake him?--Yours ever sincerely, "ARTHUR MAYBOLD." He rang the bell. "Tell Charles to take these copybooks and this note to the school at once." The maid took the parcel and the letter, and in a few minutes a boy was seen to leave the vicarage gate, with the one under his arm, and the other in his hand. The vicar sat with his hand to his brow, watching the lad as he descended Church Lane and entered the waterside path which intervened between that spot and the school. Here he was met by another boy, and after a free salutation and pugilistic frisk had passed between the two, the second boy came on his way to the vicarage, and the other vanished out of sight. The boy came to the door, and a note for Mr. Maybold was brought in. He knew the writing. Opening the envelope with an unsteady hand, he read the subjoined words: "DEAR MR. MAYBOLD,--I have been thinking seriously and sadly through the whole of the night of the question you put to me last evening and of my answer. That answer, as an honest woman, I had no right to give. "It is my nature--perhaps all women's--to love refinement of mind and manners; but even more than this, to be ever fascinated with the idea of surroundings more elegant and pleasing than those which have been customary. And you praised me, and praise is life to me. It was alone my sensations at these things which prompted my reply. Ambition and vanity they would be called; perhaps they are so. "After this explanation I hope you will generously allow me to withdraw the answer I too hastily gave. "And one more request. To keep the meeting of last night, and all that passed between us there, for ever a secret. Were it to become known, it would utterly blight the happiness of a trusting and generous man, whom I love still, and shall love always.--Yours sincerely, "FANCY DAY. The last written communication that ever passed from the vicar to Fancy, was a note containing these words only: "Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you." PART THE FIFTH: CONCLUSION

Part Four Chapter 3 to 7

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'Fancy in the Rain', Chapter Four 'The Spell' and Chapter Five 'After Gaining Her Point' The next scene is set the following month on a 'tempestuous afternoon'. Fancy is walking from her father's home towards Mellstock. She looks for shelter and goes to the nearest house, which is Elizabeth Endorfield's. Here she thinks of how firm her father's opposition has been to Dick. Nevertheless, they have seen each other since. Mrs Endorfield is described as having a reputation of something 'between distinction and notoriety'. She had 'distinctly Satanic' features and has been compared to a witch. She says to Fancy that she is down about her young man. Fancy says she wishes she could help her to put her father in "'humour'" for it. Mrs Endorfield says she can help and "'the charm is worked by common sense'". She gives Fancy a list of instructions which are not explained at this point and Fancy leaves saying she will follow them. Mrs Endorfield's advice is followed in Chapter Four. The advice is suggested when a Mellstock man tells Geoffrey he is sorry his daughter is not well and that she has no appetite. He goes to see her and has tea with her, and watches her 'narrowly'. He sees her eat just one tenth of a slice of bread and butter and hopes she will say something about Dick, but she does not. The following week Enoch says to Geoffrey that he hopes "'poor Miss Fancy'" will be able to keep on at the school as he has heard from the baker that the amount of bread he has left her would starve a mouse. He has also heard she has had less butter too, and this is thought to have turned sour. On Saturday, Geoffrey receives a note from Fancy saying not to send any rabbits as she fears she will not want them. Later in Casterbridge, he asks to pay her butcher's bill as well as his own and he is surprised at how little she has ordered in a month. He calls on Fancy, and Nan, the charwoman, tells him Fancy told her she is not getting up until the evening and says as she has given up eating she cannot work. He goes to Fancy's room and notices how pale she is. He says how he did it for the best, in telling Dick he could not marry her, but he cannot let her die and if she wants him she will have him. 'The invalid' sighs and says she does not want Dick against her father's will. He says it is not and that they may marry next Midsummer. On leaving the schoolhouse, Geoffrey goes to the Dewy home and William answers. He says how Dick is not chatty anymore and is not the fellow he used to be. He asks him to let Dick know he wants him to come and see him tomorrow with Fancy, if she is well enough. In Chapter Five, the visit to Geoffrey passes well and they have several days of happy courtship. The day of the Harvest Thanksgiving is chosen to be the day for 'opening the organ' in Mellstock Church and it so happens that Dick is called away to a funeral at this time. He lets Fancy know that he will miss her debut and she is described as bearing the news as best she can. On the day, Dick takes a detour to see Fancy before she sets off and is 'astonished' at how well presented she is. After his initial delight, he has less comfortable feelings. He says if she had been going away he would not have cared to be better dressed than usual. He also says how different they are and she agrees that perhaps this is so. She asks for a kiss, and he agrees to this, and they go their separate ways for the day. In church, the daughters of 'the small gentry' are critical of her hair, which is curled for the occasion, her hat and feather and the 'sober matrons' say, "'a bonnet for church always!'" Fancy notices the vicar admire her, but is not aware he loves her as he has never loved a woman before. The choir are no longer in the gallery and are dotted about the church, sitting with their relatives. They listen to Fancy play, but believe their simpler notes were more in keeping with 'the simplicity of their old church'.

'Fancy in the Rain', Chapter Four 'The Spell' and Chapter Five ' After Gaining Her Point' The replacement of the choir is made complete when Fancy arrives to play the organ. It is of note that the choir no longer even sit together and are now dispersed among the congregation. Their unity is broken and the individual takes precedence over the group in this new order of things. Fancy's individuality is made all the more evident in her appearance and in her lack of concern of the censorious views of others, such as the 'sober matrons' and the daughters of 'the small gentry'. She is depicted as vain and even flighty in her appearance, but inimical to this is a strength that will not be dominated by the opinion of others. Chapter Six 'Into Temptation' and Chapter Seven 'A Crisis' Back in the schoolhouse after the service, Fancy thinks how weary she is of living alone and how 'unbearable' it would be to live with her father and stepmother again, and how it is another eight or nine long months before her wedding can take place. She sits on a window sill and looks out at the rain. She sees Dick approach and they talk while he stands outside in the rain. He explains the mark on his coat is from the coffin as it was lowered into the ground. As he tells her this, she puts her hand to her mouth and covers a yawn, 'for half a minute'. He asks for a kiss but cannot reach her as she does not want to expose her head to the rain. She offers her hand instead and they say goodbye. When he goes, she says to herself how poor and mean he looks wet through and without an umbrella. Dick disappears and as she prepares to descend she looks in the other direction and sees another man dressed in black, with an umbrella, and is approaching her house. She cannot see his face, but notices the umbrella is made of 'superior silk'. He knocks on the door and she answers to Mr Maybold the vicar. He enters and says he has come to ask her to be his wife. Silence follows and she says she cannot. He asks her to not answer in a hurry and says he has loved her for more than 6 months and asks again if she will marry him. There is silence again and he implores her to not refuse. He also says they could move to Yorkshire and she could have whatever piano she liked, "'anything to make you happy - pony-carriage, flowers, birds, pleasant society'". There is another pause and then she answers "'yes, I will'". He moves to embrace her and she says, "'no, no, not now'". She says the temptation is too strong to resist and asks him to leave. He waits until she controls herself and leaves saying he will come back tomorrow about this time. The next morning, in Chapter Seven, the vicar writes a letter to his friend in Yorkshire and takes it to Casterbridge so as not to lose a day in its transmission. He meets Dick on the way and they walk together. The vicar says how successful the service had been the day before and Dick says he had wanted to be there because of Miss Day and the vicar does not know what he means. Dick explains that she is his sweetheart and they are going to be married next Midsummer. The vicar agrees that time slips along, but feels a cold and sickly thrill and realizes Fancy is 'less an angel than a woman'. Dick says he has good prospects and will be a regular manager of a branch of his father's business. He has also had cards printed 'to keep pace with the times' and gives one to the vicar. Dick takes a different path and the vicar stands on a bridge as he reads his card. After 10 minutes, he takes out the letter and tears it up into 'minute fragments' and drops them in the water. He then returns to the vicarage. He writes a letter to Fancy and informs her he knows she is not a free woman and asks whether she can 'in justice to an honest man' 'honourably forsake him'. He sends the note with a boy and on his way he passes another boy who is coming to the vicarage. He has a note from Fancy and in this she explains her 'ambition and vanity' and love of praise and wants to withdraw the answer she gave him last night. She also wants him to keep their meeting a secret. The last written communication between them is a note that states the following: 'Tell him everything; it is best. He will forgive you'. Chapter Six 'Into Temptation' and Chapter Seven 'A Crisis' Chapter Six 'Into Temptation' and Chapter Seven 'A Crisis' Fancy's love of the material has been suggested up to this point, and strongly hinted at in the way she dresses, but it is the acceptance of the vicar's marriage proposal that signals how tempted she is by expressions of wealth and luxury. To her credit, she changes her mind but the acceptance is noteworthy for highlighting how this novel critiques the temptations of capitalism. By being allowed to change her mind, Fancy is made an exception in the novel as the shift to a more capitalist society is seen recurrently here as inevitable as well as lamentable.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/2662-chapters/part_5_chapters_1_to_2.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Under the Greenwood Tree/section_6_part_0.txt

Under the Greenwood Tree.part 5.chapters 1-2

part 5 chapter 1 - 2

{"name": "Part Five Chapter 1 to 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part5-chapter1-2", "summary": "'The Knot There's No Untying' and Chapter Two 'Under the Greenwood Tree' On the last day of the story there is a gathering at Geoffrey's home and the people include the Dewys, Mr Penny and some country ladies and gentlemen. All the duplicate pieces of furniture have been moved out and Fancy is upstairs being dressed. The women talk about the previous readings of the banns and Fancy says how she is nervous and wonders how she will get through it. She also exclaims about people talking about other people, and is told \"'well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can't blame other people for singing 'em'\". Fancy goes on to worry about Dick coming on time and the men downstairs can hear and tease her of how men have been known to not turn up. The best man appears and tells her to not worry. He says Dick will not be long and has been delayed because the hive of bees his mother gave him has swarmed and he said he could not afford to lose them. He thought Fancy would not want this to happen either. Geoffrey says how Dick is a \"'genuine wise man'\". Dick comes to the house and speaks of the size of the swarm and moves on to say that he cannot think what he has done to offend Mr Maybold. He explains that when the vicar first came to the parish he took to Dick and used to say he should like to see Dick married and would marry him whether his intended lived in the parish or not. He reminded him when he put in the banns but he did not seem to take kindly to the idea. Fancy only says, \"'I wonder'\" and is described as 'looking into vacancy' and has beautiful eyes, 'too refined and beautiful for a tranter's wife; but, perhaps, not too good'. It is a custom to walk around the parish in twos after the ceremony, but Fancy says she cannot make a show of herself in this way. The others say how they did it and she says, \"'respectable people'\" do not, but as her mother did she will. As they leave the house, it is noted that Reuben is wearing gloves, a 'hall-mark of respectability', for the first time and at Fancy's request. Fancy says it is proper for the bridesmaids to walk together and others of the older generation dispute this and say it was always a man walking with a woman. Dick says it is up to Fancy to decide, and is described as seeming to be 'willing to renounce all other rights in the world' now that he is on the point of marrying her. She says she would rather have it as her mother did, and every man is now with his maid. They walk among the dark perpendicular firs. In the final chapter, the scene is set after the ceremony and there is a party in Geoffrey's garden. This goes on into the evening and Fancy influences how those gathered behave with 'propriety'. Furthermore, she tries to wear a 'matronly expression'. At the end of the meal, Dick and Fancy prepare to leave for Dick's new cottage near Mellstock and he asks how long she will take to put on her bonnet. The novel ends with them driving away and Dick says they are so happy because \"'there is such entire confidence between us'\". He dates this from the time she confessed to that little flirtation with Shinar and has thought since then how \"'artless and good'\" she is for telling him such \"'a trifling thing'\". Fancy says how she can hear something, a nightingale, 'and thought of a secret she should never tell'.", "analysis": "'The Knot There's No Untying' and Chapter Two ' Under the Greenwood Tree' The marriage between Dick and Fancy concludes the novel and this is perhaps in keeping with the tone of a narrative that begins at Christmas and ends with a traditionally happy ending. This ending is, of course, made more complex than it appears, however, as Dick's forthright trust of Fancy is based on his supposition that their relationship is based on honesty. Her secret acceptance of the vicar's marriage proposal invites the readers to question the sanctity of marriage and to look at this particular ending as one that unites the lovers but casts a shadow over the notion of true love."}

The last day of the story is dated just subsequent to that point in the development of the seasons when country people go to bed among nearly naked trees, are lulled to sleep by a fall of rain, and awake next morning among green ones; when the landscape appears embarrassed with the sudden weight and brilliancy of its leaves; when the night-jar comes and strikes up for the summer his tune of one note; when the apple-trees have bloomed, and the roads and orchard-grass become spotted with fallen petals; when the faces of the delicate flowers are darkened, and their heads weighed down, by the throng of honey-bees, which increase their humming till humming is too mild a term for the all-pervading sound; and when cuckoos, blackbirds, and sparrows, that have hitherto been merry and respectful neighbours, become noisy and persistent intimates. The exterior of Geoffrey Day's house in Yalbury Wood appeared exactly as was usual at that season, but a frantic barking of the dogs at the back told of unwonted movements somewhere within. Inside the door the eyes beheld a gathering, which was a rarity indeed for the dwelling of the solitary wood-steward and keeper. About the room were sitting and standing, in various gnarled attitudes, our old acquaintance, grandfathers James and William, the tranter, Mr. Penny, two or three children, including Jimmy and Charley, besides three or four country ladies and gentlemen from a greater distance who do not require any distinction by name. Geoffrey was seen and heard stamping about the outhouse and among the bushes of the garden, attending to details of daily routine before the proper time arrived for their performance, in order that they might be off his hands for the day. He appeared with his shirt-sleeves rolled up; his best new nether garments, in which he had arrayed himself that morning, being temporarily disguised under a weekday apron whilst these proceedings were in operation. He occasionally glanced at the hives in passing, to see if his wife's bees were swarming, ultimately rolling down his shirt-sleeves and going indoors, talking to tranter Dewy whilst buttoning the wristbands, to save time; next going upstairs for his best waistcoat, and coming down again to make another remark whilst buttoning that, during the time looking fixedly in the tranter's face as if he were a looking-glass. The furniture had undergone attenuation to an alarming extent, every duplicate piece having been removed, including the clock by Thomas Wood; Ezekiel Saunders being at last left sole referee in matters of time. Fancy was stationary upstairs, receiving her layers of clothes and adornments, and answering by short fragments of laughter which had more fidgetiness than mirth in them, remarks that were made from time to time by Mrs. Dewy and Mrs. Penny, who were assisting her at the toilet, Mrs. Day having pleaded a queerness in her head as a reason for shutting herself up in an inner bedroom for the whole morning. Mrs. Penny appeared with nine corkscrew curls on each side of her temples, and a back comb stuck upon her crown like a castle on a steep. The conversation just now going on was concerning the banns, the last publication of which had been on the Sunday previous. "And how did they sound?" Fancy subtly inquired. "Very beautiful indeed," said Mrs. Penny. "I never heard any sound better." "But how?" "O, so natural and elegant, didn't they, Reuben!" she cried, through the chinks of the unceiled floor, to the tranter downstairs. "What's that?" said the tranter, looking up inquiringly at the floor above him for an answer. "Didn't Dick and Fancy sound well when they were called home in church last Sunday?" came downwards again in Mrs. Penny's voice. "Ay, that they did, my sonnies!--especially the first time. There was a terrible whispering piece of work in the congregation, wasn't there, neighbour Penny?" said the tranter, taking up the thread of conversation on his own account and, in order to be heard in the room above, speaking very loud to Mr. Penny, who sat at the distance of three feet from him, or rather less. "I never can mind seeing such a whispering as there was," said Mr. Penny, also loudly, to the room above. "And such sorrowful envy on the maidens' faces; really, I never did see such envy as there was!" Fancy's lineaments varied in innumerable little flushes, and her heart palpitated innumerable little tremors of pleasure. "But perhaps," she said, with assumed indifference, "it was only because no religion was going on just then?" "O, no; nothing to do with that. 'Twas because of your high standing in the parish. It was just as if they had one and all caught Dick kissing and coling ye to death, wasn't it, Mrs. Dewy?" "Ay; that 'twas." "How people will talk about one's doings!" Fancy exclaimed. "Well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can't blame other people for singing 'em." "Mercy me! how shall I go through it?" said the young lady again, but merely to those in the bedroom, with a breathing of a kind between a sigh and a pant, round shining eyes, and warm face. "O, you'll get through it well enough, child," said Mrs. Dewy placidly. "The edge of the performance is took off at the calling home; and when once you get up to the chancel end o' the church, you feel as saucy as you please. I'm sure I felt as brave as a sodger all through the deed--though of course I dropped my face and looked modest, as was becoming to a maid. Mind you do that, Fancy." "And I walked into the church as quiet as a lamb, I'm sure," subjoined Mrs. Penny. "There, you see Penny is such a little small man. But certainly, I was flurried in the inside o' me. Well, thinks I, 'tis to be, and here goes! And do you do the same: say, ''Tis to be, and here goes!'" "Is there such wonderful virtue in ''Tis to be, and here goes!'" inquired Fancy. "Wonderful! 'Twill carry a body through it all from wedding to churching, if you only let it out with spirit enough." "Very well, then," said Fancy, blushing. "'Tis to be, and here goes!" "That's a girl for a husband!" said Mrs. Dewy. "I do hope he'll come in time!" continued the bride-elect, inventing a new cause of affright, now that the other was demolished. "'Twould be a thousand pities if he didn't come, now you be so brave," said Mrs. Penny. Grandfather James, having overheard some of these remarks, said downstairs with mischievous loudness-- "I've known some would-be weddings when the men didn't come." "They've happened not to come, before now, certainly," said Mr. Penny, cleaning one of the glasses of his spectacles. "O, do hear what they are saying downstairs," whispered Fancy. "Hush, hush!" She listened. "They have, haven't they, Geoffrey?" continued grandfather James, as Geoffrey entered. "Have what?" said Geoffrey. "The men have been known not to come." "That they have," said the keeper. "Ay; I've knowed times when the wedding had to be put off through his not appearing, being tired of the woman. And another case I knowed was when the man was catched in a man-trap crossing Oaker's Wood, and the three months had run out before he got well, and the banns had to be published over again." "How horrible!" said Fancy. "They only say it on purpose to tease 'ee, my dear," said Mrs. Dewy. "'Tis quite sad to think what wretched shifts poor maids have been put to," came again from downstairs. "Ye should hear Clerk Wilkins, my brother-law, tell his experiences in marrying couples these last thirty year: sometimes one thing, sometimes another--'tis quite heart-rending--enough to make your hair stand on end." "Those things don't happen very often, I know," said Fancy, with smouldering uneasiness. "Well, really 'tis time Dick was here," said the tranter. "Don't keep on at me so, grandfather James and Mr. Dewy, and all you down there!" Fancy broke out, unable to endure any longer. "I am sure I shall die, or do something, if you do!" "Never you hearken to these old chaps, Miss Day!" cried Nat Callcome, the best man, who had just entered, and threw his voice upward through the chinks of the floor as the others had done. "'Tis all right; Dick's coming on like a wild feller; he'll be here in a minute. The hive o' bees his mother gie'd en for his new garden swarmed jist as he was starting, and he said, 'I can't afford to lose a stock o' bees; no, that I can't, though I fain would; and Fancy wouldn't wish it on any account.' So he jist stopped to ting to 'em and shake 'em." "A genuine wise man," said Geoffrey. "To be sure, what a day's work we had yesterday!" Mr. Callcome continued, lowering his voice as if it were not necessary any longer to include those in the room above among his audience, and selecting a remote corner of his best clean handkerchief for wiping his face. "To be sure!" "Things so heavy, I suppose," said Geoffrey, as if reading through the chimney-window from the far end of the vista. "Ay," said Nat, looking round the room at points from which furniture had been removed. "And so awkward to carry, too. 'Twas ath'art and across Dick's garden; in and out Dick's door; up and down Dick's stairs; round and round Dick's chammers till legs were worn to stumps: and Dick is so particular, too. And the stores of victuals and drink that lad has laid in: why, 'tis enough for Noah's ark! I'm sure I never wish to see a choicer half-dozen of hams than he's got there in his chimley; and the cider I tasted was a very pretty drop, indeed;--none could desire a prettier cider." "They be for the love and the stalled ox both. Ah, the greedy martels!" said grandfather James. "Well, may-be they be. Surely," says I, "that couple between 'em have heaped up so much furniture and victuals, that anybody would think they were going to take hold the big end of married life first, and begin wi' a grown-up family. Ah, what a bath of heat we two chaps were in, to be sure, a-getting that furniture in order!" "I do so wish the room below was ceiled," said Fancy, as the dressing went on; "we can hear all they say and do down there." "Hark! Who's that?" exclaimed a small pupil-teacher, who also assisted this morning, to her great delight. She ran half-way down the stairs, and peeped round the banister. "O, you should, you should, you should!" she exclaimed, scrambling up to the room again. "What?" said Fancy. "See the bridesmaids! They've just a come! 'Tis wonderful, really! 'tis wonderful how muslin can be brought to it. There, they don't look a bit like themselves, but like some very rich sisters o' theirs that nobody knew they had!" "Make 'em come up to me, make 'em come up!" cried Fancy ecstatically; and the four damsels appointed, namely, Miss Susan Dewy, Miss Bessie Dewy, Miss Vashti Sniff, and Miss Mercy Onmey, surged upstairs, and floated along the passage. "I wish Dick would come!" was again the burden of Fancy. The same instant a small twig and flower from the creeper outside the door flew in at the open window, and a masculine voice said, "Ready, Fancy dearest?" "There he is, he is!" cried Fancy, tittering spasmodically, and breathing as it were for the first time that morning. The bridesmaids crowded to the window and turned their heads in the direction pointed out, at which motion eight earrings all swung as one:--not looking at Dick because they particularly wanted to see him, but with an important sense of their duty as obedient ministers of the will of that apotheosised being--the Bride. "He looks very taking!" said Miss Vashti Sniff, a young lady who blushed cream-colour and wore yellow bonnet ribbons. Dick was advancing to the door in a painfully new coat of shining cloth, primrose-coloured waistcoat, hat of the same painful style of newness, and with an extra quantity of whiskers shaved off his face, and hair cut to an unwonted shortness in honour of the occasion. "Now, I'll run down," said Fancy, looking at herself over her shoulder in the glass, and flitting off. "O Dick!" she exclaimed, "I am so glad you are come! I knew you would, of course, but I thought, Oh if you shouldn't!" "Not come, Fancy! Het or wet, blow or snow, here come I to-day! Why, what's possessing your little soul? You never used to mind such things a bit." "Ah, Mr. Dick, I hadn't hoisted my colours and committed myself then!" said Fancy. "'Tis a pity I can't marry the whole five of ye!" said Dick, surveying them all round. "Heh-heh-heh!" laughed the four bridesmaids, and Fancy privately touched Dick and smoothed him down behind his shoulder, as if to assure herself that he was there in flesh and blood as her own property. "Well, whoever would have thought such a thing?" said Dick, taking off his hat, sinking into a chair, and turning to the elder members of the company. The latter arranged their eyes and lips to signify that in their opinion nobody could have thought such a thing, whatever it was. "That my bees should ha' swarmed just then, of all times and seasons!" continued Dick, throwing a comprehensive glance like a net over the whole auditory. "And 'tis a fine swarm, too: I haven't seen such a fine swarm for these ten years." "A' excellent sign," said Mrs. Penny, from the depths of experience. "A' excellent sign." "I am glad everything seems so right," said Fancy with a breath of relief. "And so am I," said the four bridesmaids with much sympathy. "Well, bees can't be put off," observed the inharmonious grandfather James. "Marrying a woman is a thing you can do at any moment; but a swarm o' bees won't come for the asking." Dick fanned himself with his hat. "I can't think," he said thoughtfully, "whatever 'twas I did to offend Mr. Maybold, a man I like so much too. He rather took to me when he came first, and used to say he should like to see me married, and that he'd marry me, whether the young woman I chose lived in his parish or no. I just hinted to him of it when I put in the banns, but he didn't seem to take kindly to the notion now, and so I said no more. I wonder how it was." "I wonder!" said Fancy, looking into vacancy with those beautiful eyes of hers--too refined and beautiful for a tranter's wife; but, perhaps, not too good. "Altered his mind, as folks will, I suppose," said the tranter. "Well, my sonnies, there'll be a good strong party looking at us to-day as we go along." "And the body of the church," said Geoffrey, "will be lined with females, and a row of young fellers' heads, as far down as the eyes, will be noticed just above the sills of the chancel-winders." "Ay, you've been through it twice," said Reuben, "and well mid know." "I can put up with it for once," said Dick, "or twice either, or a dozen times." "O Dick!" said Fancy reproachfully. "Why, dear, that's nothing,--only just a bit of a flourish. You be as nervous as a cat to-day." "And then, of course, when 'tis all over," continued the tranter, "we shall march two and two round the parish." "Yes, sure," said Mr. Penny: "two and two: every man hitched up to his woman, 'a b'lieve." "I never can make a show of myself in that way!" said Fancy, looking at Dick to ascertain if he could. "I'm agreed to anything you and the company like, my dear!" said Mr. Richard Dewy heartily. "Why, we did when we were married, didn't we, Ann?" said the tranter; "and so do everybody, my sonnies." "And so did we," said Fancy's father. "And so did Penny and I," said Mrs. Penny: "I wore my best Bath clogs, I remember, and Penny was cross because it made me look so tall." "And so did father and mother," said Miss Mercy Onmey. "And I mean to, come next Christmas!" said Nat the groomsman vigorously, and looking towards the person of Miss Vashti Sniff. "Respectable people don't nowadays," said Fancy. "Still, since poor mother did, I will." "Ay," resumed the tranter, "'twas on a White Tuesday when I committed it. Mellstock Club walked the same day, and we new-married folk went a-gaying round the parish behind 'em. Everybody used to wear something white at Whitsuntide in them days. My sonnies, I've got the very white trousers that I wore, at home in box now. Ha'n't I, Ann?" "You had till I cut 'em up for Jimmy," said Mrs. Dewy. "And we ought, by rights, after doing this parish, to go round Higher and Lower Mellstock, and call at Viney's, and so work our way hither again across He'th," said Mr. Penny, recovering scent of the matter in hand. "Dairyman Viney is a very respectable man, and so is Farmer Kex, and we ought to show ourselves to them." "True," said the tranter, "we ought to go round Mellstock to do the thing well. We shall form a very striking object walking along in rotation, good-now, neighbours?" "That we shall: a proper pretty sight for the nation," said Mrs. Penny. "Hullo!" said the tranter, suddenly catching sight of a singular human figure standing in the doorway, and wearing a long smock-frock of pillow- case cut and of snowy whiteness. "Why, Leaf! whatever dost thou do here?" "I've come to know if so be I can come to the wedding--hee-hee!" said Leaf in a voice of timidity. "Now, Leaf," said the tranter reproachfully, "you know we don't want 'ee here to-day: we've got no room for ye, Leaf." "Thomas Leaf, Thomas Leaf, fie upon ye for prying!" said old William. "I know I've got no head, but I thought, if I washed and put on a clane shirt and smock-frock, I might just call," said Leaf, turning away disappointed and trembling. "Poor feller!" said the tranter, turning to Geoffrey. "Suppose we must let en come? His looks are rather against en, and he is terrible silly; but 'a have never been in jail, and 'a won't do no harm." Leaf looked with gratitude at the tranter for these praises, and then anxiously at Geoffrey, to see what effect they would have in helping his cause. "Ay, let en come," said Geoffrey decisively. "Leaf, th'rt welcome, 'st know;" and Leaf accordingly remained. They were now all ready for leaving the house, and began to form a procession in the following order: Fancy and her father, Dick and Susan Dewy, Nat Callcome and Vashti Sniff, Ted Waywood and Mercy Onmey, and Jimmy and Bessie Dewy. These formed the executive, and all appeared in strict wedding attire. Then came the tranter and Mrs. Dewy, and last of all Mr. and Mrs. Penny;--the tranter conspicuous by his enormous gloves, size eleven and three-quarters, which appeared at a distance like boxing gloves bleached, and sat rather awkwardly upon his brown hands; this hall- mark of respectability having been set upon himself to-day (by Fancy's special request) for the first time in his life. "The proper way is for the bridesmaids to walk together," suggested Fancy. "What? 'Twas always young man and young woman, arm in crook, in my time!" said Geoffrey, astounded. "And in mine!" said the tranter. "And in ours!" said Mr. and Mrs. Penny. "Never heard o' such a thing as woman and woman!" said old William; who, with grandfather James and Mrs. Day, was to stay at home. "Whichever way you and the company like, my dear!" said Dick, who, being on the point of securing his right to Fancy, seemed willing to renounce all other rights in the world with the greatest pleasure. The decision was left to Fancy. "Well, I think I'd rather have it the way mother had it," she said, and the couples moved along under the trees, every man to his maid. "Ah!" said grandfather James to grandfather William as they retired, "I wonder which she thinks most about, Dick or her wedding raiment!" "Well, 'tis their nature," said grandfather William. "Remember the words of the prophet Jeremiah: 'Can a maid forget her ornaments, or a bride her attire?'" Now among dark perpendicular firs, like the shafted columns of a cathedral; now through a hazel copse, matted with primroses and wild hyacinths; now under broad beeches in bright young leaves they threaded their way into the high road over Yalbury Hill, which dipped at that point directly into the village of Geoffrey Day's parish; and in the space of a quarter of an hour Fancy found herself to be Mrs. Richard Dewy, though, much to her surprise, feeling no other than Fancy Day still. On the circuitous return walk through the lanes and fields, amid much chattering and laughter, especially when they came to stiles, Dick discerned a brown spot far up a turnip field. "Why, 'tis Enoch!" he said to Fancy. "I thought I missed him at the house this morning. How is it he's left you?" "He drank too much cider, and it got into his head, and they put him in Weatherbury stocks for it. Father was obliged to get somebody else for a day or two, and Enoch hasn't had anything to do with the woods since." "We might ask him to call down to-night. Stocks are nothing for once, considering 'tis our wedding day." The bridal party was ordered to halt. "Eno-o-o-o-ch!" cried Dick at the top of his voice. "Y-a-a-a-a-a-as!" said Enoch from the distance. "D'ye know who I be-e-e-e-e-e?" "No-o-o-o-o-o-o!" "Dick Dew-w-w-w-wy!" "O-h-h-h-h-h!" "Just a-ma-a-a-a-a-arried!" "O-h-h-h-h-h!" "This is my wife, Fa-a-a-a-a-ancy!" (holding her up to Enoch's view as if she had been a nosegay.) "O-h-h-h-h-h!" "Will ye come across to the party to-ni-i-i-i-i-i-ight!" "Ca-a-a-a-a-an't!" "Why n-o-o-o-o-ot?" "Don't work for the family no-o-o-o-ow!" "Not nice of Master Enoch," said Dick, as they resumed their walk. "You mustn't blame en," said Geoffrey; "the man's not hisself now; he's in his morning frame of mind. When he's had a gallon o' cider or ale, or a pint or two of mead, the man's well enough, and his manners be as good as anybody's in the kingdom." The point in Yalbury Wood which abutted on the end of Geoffrey Day's premises was closed with an ancient tree, horizontally of enormous extent, though having no great pretensions to height. Many hundreds of birds had been born amidst the boughs of this single tree; tribes of rabbits and hares had nibbled at its bark from year to year; quaint tufts of fungi had sprung from the cavities of its forks; and countless families of moles and earthworms had crept about its roots. Beneath and beyond its shade spread a carefully-tended grass-plot, its purpose being to supply a healthy exercise-ground for young chickens and pheasants; the hens, their mothers, being enclosed in coops placed upon the same green flooring. All these encumbrances were now removed, and as the afternoon advanced, the guests gathered on the spot, where music, dancing, and the singing of songs went forward with great spirit throughout the evening. The propriety of every one was intense by reason of the influence of Fancy, who, as an additional precaution in this direction, had strictly charged her father and the tranter to carefully avoid saying 'thee' and 'thou' in their conversation, on the plea that those ancient words sounded so very humiliating to persons of newer taste; also that they were never to be seen drawing the back of the hand across the mouth after drinking--a local English custom of extraordinary antiquity, but stated by Fancy to be decidedly dying out among the better classes of society. In addition to the local musicians present, a man who had a thorough knowledge of the tambourine was invited from the village of Tantrum Clangley,--a place long celebrated for the skill of its inhabitants as performers on instruments of percussion. These important members of the assembly were relegated to a height of two or three feet from the ground, upon a temporary erection of planks supported by barrels. Whilst the dancing progressed the older persons sat in a group under the trunk of the tree,--the space being allotted to them somewhat grudgingly by the young ones, who were greedy of pirouetting room,--and fortified by a table against the heels of the dancers. Here the gaffers and gammers, whose dancing days were over, told stories of great impressiveness, and at intervals surveyed the advancing and retiring couples from the same retreat, as people on shore might be supposed to survey a naval engagement in the bay beyond; returning again to their tales when the pause was over. Those of the whirling throng, who, during the rests between each figure, turned their eyes in the direction of these seated ones, were only able to discover, on account of the music and bustle, that a very striking circumstance was in course of narration--denoted by an emphatic sweep of the hand, snapping of the fingers, close of the lips, and fixed look into the centre of the listener's eye for the space of a quarter of a minute, which raised in that listener such a reciprocating working of face as to sometimes make the distant dancers half wish to know what such an interesting tale could refer to. Fancy caused her looks to wear as much matronly expression as was obtainable out of six hours' experience as a wife, in order that the contrast between her own state of life and that of the unmarried young women present might be duly impressed upon the company: occasionally stealing glances of admiration at her left hand, but this quite privately; for her ostensible bearing concerning the matter was intended to show that, though she undoubtedly occupied the most wondrous position in the eyes of the world that had ever been attained, she was almost unconscious of the circumstance, and that the somewhat prominent position in which that wonderfully-emblazoned left hand was continually found to be placed, when handing cups and saucers, knives, forks, and glasses, was quite the result of accident. As to wishing to excite envy in the bosoms of her maiden companions, by the exhibition of the shining ring, every one was to know it was quite foreign to the dignity of such an experienced married woman. Dick's imagination in the meantime was far less capable of drawing so much wontedness from his new condition. He had been for two or three hours trying to feel himself merely a newly- married man, but had been able to get no further in the attempt than to realize that he was Dick Dewy, the tranter's son, at a party given by Lord Wessex's head man-in-charge, on the outlying Yalbury estate, dancing and chatting with Fancy Day. Five country dances, including 'Haste to the Wedding,' two reels, and three fragments of horn-pipes, brought them to the time for supper, which, on account of the dampness of the grass from the immaturity of the summer season, was spread indoors. At the conclusion of the meal Dick went out to put the horse in; and Fancy, with the elder half of the four bridesmaids, retired upstairs to dress for the journey to Dick's new cottage near Mellstock. "How long will you be putting on your bonnet, Fancy?" Dick inquired at the foot of the staircase. Being now a man of business and married, he was strong on the importance of time, and doubled the emphasis of his words in conversing, and added vigour to his nods. "Only a minute." "How long is that?" "Well, dear, five." "Ah, sonnies!" said the tranter, as Dick retired, "'tis a talent of the female race that low numbers should stand for high, more especially in matters of waiting, matters of age, and matters of money." "True, true, upon my body," said Geoffrey. "Ye spak with feeling, Geoffrey, seemingly." "Anybody that d'know my experience might guess that." "What's she doing now, Geoffrey?" "Claning out all the upstairs drawers and cupboards, and dusting the second-best chainey--a thing that's only done once a year. 'If there's work to be done I must do it,' says she, 'wedding or no.'" "'Tis my belief she's a very good woman at bottom." "She's terrible deep, then." Mrs. Penny turned round. "Well, 'tis humps and hollers with the best of us; but still and for all that, Dick and Fancy stand as fair a chance of having a bit of sunsheen as any married pair in the land." "Ay, there's no gainsaying it." Mrs. Dewy came up, talking to one person and looking at another. "Happy, yes," she said. "'Tis always so when a couple is so exactly in tune with one another as Dick and she." "When they be'n't too poor to have time to sing," said grandfather James. "I tell ye, neighbours, when the pinch comes," said the tranter: "when the oldest daughter's boots be only a size less than her mother's, and the rest o' the flock close behind her. A sharp time for a man that, my sonnies; a very sharp time! Chanticleer's comb is a-cut then, 'a believe." "That's about the form o't," said Mr. Penny. "That'll put the stuns upon a man, when you must measure mother and daughter's lasts to tell 'em apart." "You've no cause to complain, Reuben, of such a close-coming flock," said Mrs. Dewy; "for ours was a straggling lot enough, God knows!" "I d'know it, I d'know it," said the tranter. "You be a well-enough woman, Ann." Mrs. Dewy put her mouth in the form of a smile, and put it back again without smiling. "And if they come together, they go together," said Mrs. Penny, whose family had been the reverse of the tranter's; "and a little money will make either fate tolerable. And money can be made by our young couple, I know." "Yes, that it can!" said the impulsive voice of Leaf, who had hitherto humbly admired the proceedings from a corner. "It can be done--all that's wanted is a few pounds to begin with. That's all! I know a story about it!" "Let's hear thy story, Leaf," said the tranter. "I never knew you were clever enough to tell a story. Silence, all of ye! Mr. Leaf will tell a story." "Tell your story, Thomas Leaf," said grandfather William in the tone of a schoolmaster. "Once," said the delighted Leaf, in an uncertain voice, "there was a man who lived in a house! Well, this man went thinking and thinking night and day. At last, he said to himself, as I might, 'If I had only ten pound, I'd make a fortune.' At last by hook or by crook, behold he got the ten pounds!" "Only think of that!" said Nat Callcome satirically. "Silence!" said the tranter. "Well, now comes the interesting part of the story! In a little time he made that ten pounds twenty. Then a little time after that he doubled it, and made it forty. Well, he went on, and a good while after that he made it eighty, and on to a hundred. Well, by-and-by he made it two hundred! Well, you'd never believe it, but--he went on and made it four hundred! He went on, and what did he do? Why, he made it eight hundred! Yes, he did," continued Leaf, in the highest pitch of excitement, bringing down his fist upon his knee with such force that he quivered with the pain; "yes, and he went on and made it A THOUSAND!" "Hear, hear!" said the tranter. "Better than the history of England, my sonnies!" "Thank you for your story, Thomas Leaf," said grandfather William; and then Leaf gradually sank into nothingness again. Amid a medley of laughter, old shoes, and elder-wine, Dick and his bride took their departure, side by side in the excellent new spring-cart which the young tranter now possessed. The moon was just over the full, rendering any light from lamps or their own beauties quite unnecessary to the pair. They drove slowly along Yalbury Bottom, where the road passed between two copses. Dick was talking to his companion. "Fancy," he said, "why we are so happy is because there is such full confidence between us. Ever since that time you confessed to that little flirtation with Shiner by the river (which was really no flirtation at all), I have thought how artless and good you must be to tell me o' such a trifling thing, and to be so frightened about it as you were. It has won me to tell you my every deed and word since then. We'll have no secrets from each other, darling, will we ever?--no secret at all." "None from to-day," said Fancy. "Hark! what's that?" From a neighbouring thicket was suddenly heard to issue in a loud, musical, and liquid voice-- "Tippiwit! swe-e-et! ki-ki-ki! Come hither, come hither, come hither!" "O, 'tis the nightingale," murmured she, and thought of a secret she would never tell. Footnotes: {1} This, a local expression, must be a corruption of something less questionable.

Part Five Chapter 1 to 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210213000000/https://www.novelguide.com/under-the-greenwood-tree/summaries/part5-chapter1-2

'The Knot There's No Untying' and Chapter Two 'Under the Greenwood Tree' On the last day of the story there is a gathering at Geoffrey's home and the people include the Dewys, Mr Penny and some country ladies and gentlemen. All the duplicate pieces of furniture have been moved out and Fancy is upstairs being dressed. The women talk about the previous readings of the banns and Fancy says how she is nervous and wonders how she will get through it. She also exclaims about people talking about other people, and is told "'well, if you make songs about yourself, my dear, you can't blame other people for singing 'em'". Fancy goes on to worry about Dick coming on time and the men downstairs can hear and tease her of how men have been known to not turn up. The best man appears and tells her to not worry. He says Dick will not be long and has been delayed because the hive of bees his mother gave him has swarmed and he said he could not afford to lose them. He thought Fancy would not want this to happen either. Geoffrey says how Dick is a "'genuine wise man'". Dick comes to the house and speaks of the size of the swarm and moves on to say that he cannot think what he has done to offend Mr Maybold. He explains that when the vicar first came to the parish he took to Dick and used to say he should like to see Dick married and would marry him whether his intended lived in the parish or not. He reminded him when he put in the banns but he did not seem to take kindly to the idea. Fancy only says, "'I wonder'" and is described as 'looking into vacancy' and has beautiful eyes, 'too refined and beautiful for a tranter's wife; but, perhaps, not too good'. It is a custom to walk around the parish in twos after the ceremony, but Fancy says she cannot make a show of herself in this way. The others say how they did it and she says, "'respectable people'" do not, but as her mother did she will. As they leave the house, it is noted that Reuben is wearing gloves, a 'hall-mark of respectability', for the first time and at Fancy's request. Fancy says it is proper for the bridesmaids to walk together and others of the older generation dispute this and say it was always a man walking with a woman. Dick says it is up to Fancy to decide, and is described as seeming to be 'willing to renounce all other rights in the world' now that he is on the point of marrying her. She says she would rather have it as her mother did, and every man is now with his maid. They walk among the dark perpendicular firs. In the final chapter, the scene is set after the ceremony and there is a party in Geoffrey's garden. This goes on into the evening and Fancy influences how those gathered behave with 'propriety'. Furthermore, she tries to wear a 'matronly expression'. At the end of the meal, Dick and Fancy prepare to leave for Dick's new cottage near Mellstock and he asks how long she will take to put on her bonnet. The novel ends with them driving away and Dick says they are so happy because "'there is such entire confidence between us'". He dates this from the time she confessed to that little flirtation with Shinar and has thought since then how "'artless and good'" she is for telling him such "'a trifling thing'". Fancy says how she can hear something, a nightingale, 'and thought of a secret she should never tell'.

'The Knot There's No Untying' and Chapter Two ' Under the Greenwood Tree' The marriage between Dick and Fancy concludes the novel and this is perhaps in keeping with the tone of a narrative that begins at Christmas and ends with a traditionally happy ending. This ending is, of course, made more complex than it appears, however, as Dick's forthright trust of Fancy is based on his supposition that their relationship is based on honesty. Her secret acceptance of the vicar's marriage proposal invites the readers to question the sanctity of marriage and to look at this particular ending as one that unites the lovers but casts a shadow over the notion of true love.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_1_to_4.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Of Human Bondage/section_0_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 1-4

chapters 1-4

{"name": "Chapters I-IV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman11.asp", "summary": "The novel opens with the scene of a dying woman attended by a doctor and the nurses. She has just delivered a stillborn child, and her condition is critical. At her request, the nurse brings her first- born child, Philip, to her bedside. Mrs. Carey caresses him, tenderly touches his feet, and bursts into tears. The doctor advises her to rest, and the boy is taken away by the nurse to his godmother, Miss Wilkens. Shortly afterwards, the woman dies. Philip is brought back home to meet his uncle, William Carey, the brother of Philip's father and the vicar of Blackstable. The Vicar informs the boy that he would be accompanying him to Blackstable to live there. Even though William Carey and his wife are kind and childless, the prospect of having a boy under their roof does not really delight them. Their means are limited, and Philip's father had left behind only 2000 pounds for the boy, which had to last him until he was old enough to earn his own living. Philip, though disturbed by the thought of leaving his home, is reconciled to the situation. As a mark of remembrance, he picks up his mother's favorite clock, visits his mother's room, and prepares to depart. As he journeys with his uncle to Blackstable, he forgets his sorrows and enjoys the countryside scenery. When they reach Blackstable, everything about the place and its people seems strange to Philip.", "analysis": "Notes In these opening chapters, Maugham conveys the poignancy of Philip's situation through clear descriptions and short conversations. It is a touching scene when his mother calls him to her bedside before she dies. They obviously had a close relationship, as evidenced by her tender touches, by his taking her favorite clock as a remembrance, and by his trying to feel her presence left in her room. Because Philip has a clubfoot, she has probably been particularly gentle and patient with her first-born son. The loss of his mother and her baby are made all the more tragic when Philip finds out he must leave home. Because he is now an orphan at the age of nine, he must go to live with his uncle, William Carey, and his wife in Blackstable; unfortunately, they are not particularly pleased about raising the child, and Philip is not pleased about going. He does not want to leave his home and the memories of his mother. He goes into her room to vent his emotions. Hiding his face in her clothes, he tries to breathe her into his being by touching and smelling the things that belonged to her. In these first chapters, Maugham does an outstanding job of presenting Philip as a sensitive and intelligent child who craves affection and sympathy. Philip shows his innocence when he looks with curiosity at all the sights on his way to Blackstable; he is struck with wonder at the vision and temporarily forgets his sorrow and loneliness. He is almost eager to see a new place. After all, as a handicapped child he has been closely watched and protected. He has not experienced much of the world. At Blackstable, Philip finds the ways of his uncle and aunt quite different. Although they are kind, he is not comfortable with them, and they feel strange with a child in the vicarage. Philip watches in amazement as his uncle offers him only the top portion of a boiled egg at tea, when he craves the whole thing. In spite of such peculiar habits, Philip learns to adjust to his surroundings and tries to please his guardians. It is important to notice several things in these opening chapters. Although Philip's clubfoot is not made an issue here, it is mentioned because it becomes more important later in the novel. The interest in money is also presented. The Careys are not well off, and they worry that the 2,000 pounds will not be enough to provide for Philip until he is on his own. A concern about money will be seen throughout the book, for Philip will have and lose a fortune. Finally, the British tradition of tea is presented and will be seen frequently throughout the novel. Tea was served in the late afternoon and really consisted of a small meal; it was also a social time of the day."}

<CHAPTER> I The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and went to the child's bed. "Wake up, Philip," she said. She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him downstairs. He was only half awake. "Your mother wants you," she said. She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer to herself. "Are you sleepy, darling?" she said. Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep. The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side. "Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned. The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again; and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob. "What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired." She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. The doctor bent down. "Let me take him." She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor handed him back to his nurse. "You'd better put him back in his own bed." "Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His mother sobbed now broken-heartedly. "What will happen to him, poor child?" The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room, upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the woman guessed what he was doing. "Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse. "Another boy." The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She approached the bed. "Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the doctor felt his patient's pulse once more. "I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call again after breakfast." "I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse. They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped. "You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?" "Yes, sir." "D'you know at what time he'll be here?" "No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram." "What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way." "Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir." "Who's she?" "She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?" The doctor shook his head. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> II It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open, he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand pulled away a chair and the cushions fell down. "You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you." "Hulloa, Emma!" he said. The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions, and put them back in their places. "Am I to come home?" he asked. "Yes, I've come to fetch you." "You've got a new dress on." It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could not give the answer she had prepared. "Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length. "Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?" Now she was ready. "Your mamma is quite well and happy." "Oh, I am glad." "Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not know what she meant. "Why not?" "Your mamma's in heaven." She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features. She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers. But in a little while she pulled herself together. "Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home." "I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide his tears. "Very well, run upstairs and get your hat." He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall. He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends, and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would be sorry for him. "I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin." "I think you'd better," said Emma. "Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said. He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door and walked in. He heard her speak. "Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss." There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in. Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies, whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously. "My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms. She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak. "I've got to go home," said Philip, at last. He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again. Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission. Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta Watkin's voice. "His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's dead." "You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I knew it would upset you." Then one of the strangers spoke. "Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world. I see he limps." "Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother." Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where to go. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> III When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary, respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street, Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the hall-table. "Here's Master Philip," said Emma. Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a gold cross. "You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you like that?" Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt. "Yes." "You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother." The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer. "Your dear mother left you in my charge." Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his sister-in-law. "I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said. "With Emma?" The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it. "I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey. "But I want Emma to come with me." Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey looked at them helplessly. "I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment." "Very good, sir." Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took the boy on his knee and put his arm round him. "You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must see about sending you to school." "I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated. "It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend." Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was sobbing still. "You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console the child better than anyone. Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped him. "We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon, and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be sold." The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have dismissed her. But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily. But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take. "You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy." "Uncle William's there." "Never mind that. They're your own things now." Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him. It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark. On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a night-dress. Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers, filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on his lips. It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on the pillow. He lay there quite still. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> IV Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it. They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room windows were gothic. Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she went to the door. "There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her a kiss." Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice. "Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her husband. "I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew. "It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child. "No. I always walk." He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with emblems of the Four Evangelists. "I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your journey," said Mrs. Carey. It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid, didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the study so that he could write his sermon. Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it was possible to climb quite high up it. "A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened at sleeping alone?" "Oh, no." On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs. Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some uncertainty. "Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?" "I can wash myself," he answered firmly. "Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey. She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys. Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for tea. The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle; and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it. In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife. Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it. Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the Curate. "What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey. "I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your journey." Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year, and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two, he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do. "I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann. She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on Philip's chair. "Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?" Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant. "I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top, Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship." "I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa. Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut the top off his egg. "There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like." Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so took what he could. "How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar. "Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day." "How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle. "Very much, thank you." "You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon." Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be fortified for the evening service. </CHAPTER>

Chapters I-IV

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman11.asp

The novel opens with the scene of a dying woman attended by a doctor and the nurses. She has just delivered a stillborn child, and her condition is critical. At her request, the nurse brings her first- born child, Philip, to her bedside. Mrs. Carey caresses him, tenderly touches his feet, and bursts into tears. The doctor advises her to rest, and the boy is taken away by the nurse to his godmother, Miss Wilkens. Shortly afterwards, the woman dies. Philip is brought back home to meet his uncle, William Carey, the brother of Philip's father and the vicar of Blackstable. The Vicar informs the boy that he would be accompanying him to Blackstable to live there. Even though William Carey and his wife are kind and childless, the prospect of having a boy under their roof does not really delight them. Their means are limited, and Philip's father had left behind only 2000 pounds for the boy, which had to last him until he was old enough to earn his own living. Philip, though disturbed by the thought of leaving his home, is reconciled to the situation. As a mark of remembrance, he picks up his mother's favorite clock, visits his mother's room, and prepares to depart. As he journeys with his uncle to Blackstable, he forgets his sorrows and enjoys the countryside scenery. When they reach Blackstable, everything about the place and its people seems strange to Philip.

Notes In these opening chapters, Maugham conveys the poignancy of Philip's situation through clear descriptions and short conversations. It is a touching scene when his mother calls him to her bedside before she dies. They obviously had a close relationship, as evidenced by her tender touches, by his taking her favorite clock as a remembrance, and by his trying to feel her presence left in her room. Because Philip has a clubfoot, she has probably been particularly gentle and patient with her first-born son. The loss of his mother and her baby are made all the more tragic when Philip finds out he must leave home. Because he is now an orphan at the age of nine, he must go to live with his uncle, William Carey, and his wife in Blackstable; unfortunately, they are not particularly pleased about raising the child, and Philip is not pleased about going. He does not want to leave his home and the memories of his mother. He goes into her room to vent his emotions. Hiding his face in her clothes, he tries to breathe her into his being by touching and smelling the things that belonged to her. In these first chapters, Maugham does an outstanding job of presenting Philip as a sensitive and intelligent child who craves affection and sympathy. Philip shows his innocence when he looks with curiosity at all the sights on his way to Blackstable; he is struck with wonder at the vision and temporarily forgets his sorrow and loneliness. He is almost eager to see a new place. After all, as a handicapped child he has been closely watched and protected. He has not experienced much of the world. At Blackstable, Philip finds the ways of his uncle and aunt quite different. Although they are kind, he is not comfortable with them, and they feel strange with a child in the vicarage. Philip watches in amazement as his uncle offers him only the top portion of a boiled egg at tea, when he craves the whole thing. In spite of such peculiar habits, Philip learns to adjust to his surroundings and tries to please his guardians. It is important to notice several things in these opening chapters. Although Philip's clubfoot is not made an issue here, it is mentioned because it becomes more important later in the novel. The interest in money is also presented. The Careys are not well off, and they worry that the 2,000 pounds will not be enough to provide for Philip until he is on his own. A concern about money will be seen throughout the book, for Philip will have and lose a fortune. Finally, the British tradition of tea is presented and will be seen frequently throughout the novel. Tea was served in the late afternoon and really consisted of a small meal; it was also a social time of the day.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_5_to_9.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Of Human Bondage/section_1_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 5-9

chapters 5-9

{"name": "Chapters V-IX", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman12.asp", "summary": "These chapters tell about life in Blackstable. Philip gets used to the routine at the Vicarage. Every morning he observes his uncle reading the newspaper and then accompanies his aunt on her errands. Philip is taught Latin and mathematics by his uncle, and his aunt teaches him French and music. They seldom have company, but Philip, as an only child, is used to a solitary existence and can entertain himself. Sometimes, his aunt and uncle will talk about Philip's parents. He learns that his father was a brilliant doctor at St. Luke's hospital and was earning enough to lead a comfortable life. However, his generosity and his ostentatious living, coupled with his wife's careless management of their resources, has left very little financial security for Philip. Since the vicar is the brother of Philip's father, he and his wife seem to resent Philip's mother. In fact, one day a parcel arrives from Miss Watkins; it contains photographs, intended for Philip. His mother had the photographs taken before her death to leave behind as a remembrance for her son. Mr. Carey allows Phillip to keep only one of the pictures and returns to rest to Miss Watkins. Sunday is the most important day in Blackstable. After a hurried breakfast, Philip accompanies his aunt and uncle to church. On the way, the vicar acts important and takes precautions to keep his voice intact for the sermon. Philip is always bored in church and looks forward to hearing the last hymn, signaling the end of the service. On Sunday evening, Philip must again accompany his uncle to the church for evensong. One Sunday afternoon, the Vicar scolds Philip for disturbing his afternoon nap. The innocent boy, unaware of his uncle's angry mood, feels hurt. That evening Mr. Carey refuses to take Philip to church with him, which makes the boy feel even worse. In his frustration, Philip speaks harshly to his aunt but he soon regrets his rudeness. The next Sunday afternoon, to keep Philip busy, the Vicar asks him to learn the text for the day. Philip does his best, but grows frustrated, for the text is too hard. Mrs. Carey pities the boy and gives him religious picture books from his uncle's library. The boy reads them with interest and asks for more, establishing his habit of reading.", "analysis": "Notes These chapters show the lifestyle of a country vicar in Victorian England. As would be expected, Mr. Carey is a conformist who believes in discipline and a pragmatic approach to life. He and his wife follow a very set pattern of living, never realizing the monotony of it. They bathe once a week; meals do not vary, with menus for their supper fixed for the whole week; and Sundays are largely devoted to church, with services in the morning and evening. Every Sunday there is commotion in the house as the Vicar gets ready to accomplish his tasks for the day. Soon after he dresses in the morning, he polishes the communion plate and cuts bread. Before leaving for the church, he has a glass of sherry to keep his voice steady during the sermon. He stands on ceremony with no variety to his regimen. In fact, he is easily upset if his routine is broken, as shown when Philip interrupts his Sunday afternoon nap. Maugham's description of this authoritarian minister is outstanding. Through his actions and his conversation, he is shown to be filled with self-importance and ignorant of the feelings of his wife or the boy. He clearly does not understand the lonely Philip. Mrs. Carey is a typical Victorian housewife, meek and submissive; her husband's word is her command. She likes to dress in cheerful clothes, but the Vicar insists on her wearing plain black without any ornamentation, and she gives in to his demands. Even though she likes Philip and feels affectionate towards him, she suppresses her maternal feelings out of respect for her husband. But she hates it when Mr. Carey punishes him and takes pity on him when the Vicar expects too much of the boy. Philip is largely ignored by his aunt and uncle; therefore, he keeps himself busy by talking to Mary, the maid, and playing with his blocks. The Vicar resents his childish activities and expects him to behave like a responsible adult. He wants the boy to forgo his fun and games and study deep religious texts that are too difficult for Philip. Fortunately, his aunt is more sensitive to his needs and gives him picture books, which he enjoys; they provide his company and allow his to escape from his lonely, largely silent existence. Through his portrayal of the Vicar, Maugham is openly criticizing the officers of the church who talk about the ways of God, but fail to act in a godly way. Mr. Carey seems to have little concern for the feelings of his fellow humans. He is thinking about sending Philip off to school, and the reader has the impression it is because he does not want to be bothered with the boy."}

<CHAPTER> V Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription, he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey, thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations, but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding. The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to itself: she had no more idea of money than a child. When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features. There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember. The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent, and he could not imagine who had ordered them. "D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked. "I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him. "You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away." He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to be taken. One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement: suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately, because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her, and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt, but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired; and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant, seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in. She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for, and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day, when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in his memory. "I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." "I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would have done." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> VI One day was very like another at the vicarage. Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank, the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs. Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street: he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers; Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager, who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish. Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back. Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics, and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey and Josiah Graves both made speeches. When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr. Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with banking. Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt (and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home. Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage. There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr. Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony. But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon. Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat. Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs. Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed. When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water, since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday, because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night: what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> VII Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week. The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not so fine that people wanted to hurry away. Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time, but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then, in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house, and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed in the carriage, and they set off. The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw. They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the service began. Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the plate. When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies, sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner. When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks. They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more easily for the feeling of protection. They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to love her. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> VIII Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she heard, and she smiled with constraint. "He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she returned to her sewing. "One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into shape." On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred. Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best, the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or twice irritably. Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin. "What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed to play games on Sunday." Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit was, flushed deeply. "I always used to play at home," he answered. "I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as that." Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not answer. "Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight, and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws in the afternoon?" Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him while Philip did so. "You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're causing your poor mother in heaven." Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip felt infinitely unhappy. Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the stairs. "Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked. "No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a wink." This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar narrated the facts. "He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished. "Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be. Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined to cry, but no word would issue from his lips. "You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey. Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said: "I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God." Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip. "Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening." She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room. "Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?" Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with him. "Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked helplessly. Philip broke his silence at last. "I want to be left alone," he said. "Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?" "I hate you. I wish you was dead." Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief, and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin, shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> IX On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip asked: "What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?" "Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?" "I can't sit still till tea-time." Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could not suggest that Philip should go into the garden. "I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day." He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted. "It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in to tea you shall have the top of my egg." Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him. "The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey. He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes, and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep. He snored softly. It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him, and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering: there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory. Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle. His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door. She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his feelings: he hid himself to weep. Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she burst into the drawing-room. "William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would break." Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs. "What's he got to cry about?" "I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do." Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless. "He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more than ten lines." "Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William? There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in that." "Very well, I don't mind." Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading, but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine. She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands so that she might not see he had been crying. "Do you know the collect yet?" she said. He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his voice. She was oddly embarrassed. "I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp. "Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them together." Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him. "Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born." She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets. In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads. "Read what it says," he asked. Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted her. "I want to see another picture." When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth. Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations. It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart; he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys. Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last to some strange mansion. One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him. He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner. Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe. The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July; August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel. </CHAPTER>

Chapters V-IX

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman12.asp

These chapters tell about life in Blackstable. Philip gets used to the routine at the Vicarage. Every morning he observes his uncle reading the newspaper and then accompanies his aunt on her errands. Philip is taught Latin and mathematics by his uncle, and his aunt teaches him French and music. They seldom have company, but Philip, as an only child, is used to a solitary existence and can entertain himself. Sometimes, his aunt and uncle will talk about Philip's parents. He learns that his father was a brilliant doctor at St. Luke's hospital and was earning enough to lead a comfortable life. However, his generosity and his ostentatious living, coupled with his wife's careless management of their resources, has left very little financial security for Philip. Since the vicar is the brother of Philip's father, he and his wife seem to resent Philip's mother. In fact, one day a parcel arrives from Miss Watkins; it contains photographs, intended for Philip. His mother had the photographs taken before her death to leave behind as a remembrance for her son. Mr. Carey allows Phillip to keep only one of the pictures and returns to rest to Miss Watkins. Sunday is the most important day in Blackstable. After a hurried breakfast, Philip accompanies his aunt and uncle to church. On the way, the vicar acts important and takes precautions to keep his voice intact for the sermon. Philip is always bored in church and looks forward to hearing the last hymn, signaling the end of the service. On Sunday evening, Philip must again accompany his uncle to the church for evensong. One Sunday afternoon, the Vicar scolds Philip for disturbing his afternoon nap. The innocent boy, unaware of his uncle's angry mood, feels hurt. That evening Mr. Carey refuses to take Philip to church with him, which makes the boy feel even worse. In his frustration, Philip speaks harshly to his aunt but he soon regrets his rudeness. The next Sunday afternoon, to keep Philip busy, the Vicar asks him to learn the text for the day. Philip does his best, but grows frustrated, for the text is too hard. Mrs. Carey pities the boy and gives him religious picture books from his uncle's library. The boy reads them with interest and asks for more, establishing his habit of reading.

Notes These chapters show the lifestyle of a country vicar in Victorian England. As would be expected, Mr. Carey is a conformist who believes in discipline and a pragmatic approach to life. He and his wife follow a very set pattern of living, never realizing the monotony of it. They bathe once a week; meals do not vary, with menus for their supper fixed for the whole week; and Sundays are largely devoted to church, with services in the morning and evening. Every Sunday there is commotion in the house as the Vicar gets ready to accomplish his tasks for the day. Soon after he dresses in the morning, he polishes the communion plate and cuts bread. Before leaving for the church, he has a glass of sherry to keep his voice steady during the sermon. He stands on ceremony with no variety to his regimen. In fact, he is easily upset if his routine is broken, as shown when Philip interrupts his Sunday afternoon nap. Maugham's description of this authoritarian minister is outstanding. Through his actions and his conversation, he is shown to be filled with self-importance and ignorant of the feelings of his wife or the boy. He clearly does not understand the lonely Philip. Mrs. Carey is a typical Victorian housewife, meek and submissive; her husband's word is her command. She likes to dress in cheerful clothes, but the Vicar insists on her wearing plain black without any ornamentation, and she gives in to his demands. Even though she likes Philip and feels affectionate towards him, she suppresses her maternal feelings out of respect for her husband. But she hates it when Mr. Carey punishes him and takes pity on him when the Vicar expects too much of the boy. Philip is largely ignored by his aunt and uncle; therefore, he keeps himself busy by talking to Mary, the maid, and playing with his blocks. The Vicar resents his childish activities and expects him to behave like a responsible adult. He wants the boy to forgo his fun and games and study deep religious texts that are too difficult for Philip. Fortunately, his aunt is more sensitive to his needs and gives him picture books, which he enjoys; they provide his company and allow his to escape from his lonely, largely silent existence. Through his portrayal of the Vicar, Maugham is openly criticizing the officers of the church who talk about the ways of God, but fail to act in a godly way. Mr. Carey seems to have little concern for the feelings of his fellow humans. He is thinking about sending Philip off to school, and the reader has the impression it is because he does not want to be bothered with the boy.

pinkmonkey

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_10_to_14.txt

finished_summaries/pinkmonkey/Of Human Bondage/section_2_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 10-14

chapters 10-14

{"name": "Chapters X-XIV", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman13.asp", "summary": "These chapters relate the experience of Philip at the preparatory King's School, which helps to prepare a boy for the ministry. As he accompanies his uncle to the school at Tercanbury, he is full of apprehension and feels self-conscious about his clubfoot. His uncle leaves him in the care of Mr. Watson. True to his fears, the boys immediately notice his deformed foot. Some of them take pity on him, while others mock him and even abuse him physically. He feels isolated because of his disability. When he is unable to bear the humiliation of his tormentors any longer, he cries and remembers his mother. After a time, his deformity is taken for granted and ignored, but Philip still remains sensitive and withdrawn, avoiding participation in the boys' activities. He does excel, however, in his studies and wins several prizes. Mr. Watson appreciates his efforts and expects to secure him a scholarship for additional education. When the school is gripped with a religious fever, Philip joins a study group and starts reading the Bible everynight. He excitedly reads the words, \"Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive.\" Encouraged by the Vicar, he begins to pray fervently. He asks God to heal his foot and waits anxiously for the results. When no miracle occurs, Philip feels that his uncle has lied to him and loses faith.", "analysis": "Notes School is a new experience for Philip. Having led a protected life in the past, he now becomes aware of the harsh realities of life. The students make fun of his clubfoot, making him feel ashamed and isolating him further. To avoid the taunts of the students, he visualizes his mother's presence, seeking her protection. He also escapes into his studies and excels. Maugham is able to give a very sensitive portrayal of Philip's pain and loneliness, because he experienced the same kind of isolation due to his speech impediment. Philip craves companionship, affection, understanding, and sympathy. He longs to lead the life of a normal boy. When a student breaks his penholder by mistake, he concocts a story about its being a gift from his dead mother, hoping to win sympathy and acceptance. When he reads the words of Christ extolling the virtues of faith and the power of prayer to work miracles, he starts praying in earnest, asking God to heal his deformity. When his prayer is not answered, he loses faith. Philip realizes he will never escape his handicap and resigns himself to his sad situation."}

<CHAPTER> X The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon, and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr. Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little. When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster. "What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while. "You'll see for yourself." There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again. "Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said. Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's small hand in his. "Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted. Philip reddened and found no word to answer. "How old are you?" "Nine," said Philip. "You must say sir," said his uncle. "I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed cheerily. To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch. "I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that, won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't feel so strange." Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly push towards her. "This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey." Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up. "I think I'd better leave Philip with you now." "That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?" Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away. "Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the school-room." He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. "Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself." Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as he walked. "Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?" The small boy came forward and shook hands. "Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully him." The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them. "What's your name?" "Carey." "What's your father?" "He's dead." "Oh! Does your mother wash?" "My mother's dead, too." Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little. "Well, did she wash?" he went on. "Yes," said Philip indignantly. "She was a washerwoman then?" "No, she wasn't." "Then she didn't wash." The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then he caught sight of Philip's feet. "What's the matter with your foot?" Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the one which was whole. "I've got a club-foot," he answered. "How did you get it?" "I've always had it." "Let's have a look." "No." "Don't then." The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin, which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable. But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket. "No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot." The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at Philip awkwardly. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XI Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he was. "Are you awake, Singer?" The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was aired in the morning. Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and butter. Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it. Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them. After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one, leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven and they were let out for ten minutes' rest. The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him, mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using all his strength to prevent himself from crying. Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his feet. He tucked them under the bench. In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped Philip on the way out after dinner. "I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him. Philip blushed self-consciously. "No, sir." "Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that, can't you?" Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same. "Yes, sir." The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he had not changed, asked why he was not going to play. "Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip. "Why?" There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the reply. "He's got a club-foot, sir." "Oh, I see." Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud. "Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you." Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in groups of two or three. "You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know the way, do you?" Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat. "I can't go very fast, sir." "Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile. Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy. But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's. "I say, let's look at your foot," he said. "No," answered Philip. He jumped into bed quickly. "Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason." The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly. "Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried. Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched on the blanket. Philip cried out. "Why don't you show us your foot quietly?" "I won't." In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn it. "Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm." "Stop still then and put out your foot." Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The pain was unendurable. "All right. I'll do it," said Philip. He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He looked curiously at the deformity. "Isn't it beastly?" said Mason. Another came in and looked too. "Ugh," he said, in disgust. "My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?" He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard Mr. Watson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes back on Philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr. Watson came into the dormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. The little boys were safely in bed. He put out the light and went out. Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord. And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular reason he remembered that cold morning when Emma had taken him out of bed and put him beside his mother. He had not thought of it once since it happened, but now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother's body against his and her arms around him. Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream, his mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched days at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy, it must be nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and Emma would come up presently and go to bed. He fell asleep. But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XII As time went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable corpulence. But meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he adopted a peculiar walk. He stood still as much as he could, with his club-foot behind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and he was constantly on the look out for any reference to it. Because he could not join in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to him; he only interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it seemed to him that there was a barrier between them and him. Sometimes they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, and he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to himself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent. He began to think of the difference between himself and others. The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him, and Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard treatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran through the school for a game called Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table or a form with steel pens. You had to push your nib with the finger-nail so as to get the point of it over your opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent this and to get the point of his nib over the back of yours; when this result was achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb, pressed it hard on the two nibs, and if you were able then to lift them without dropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind that it was a form of gambling, forbade the game, and confiscated all the nibs in the boys' possession. Philip had been very adroit, and it was with a heavy heart that he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still, and a few days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and bought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer had given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called a Jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he was at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had not played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill of excitement. He lost two of his small nibs quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in. "What are you doing?" he asked. He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered. "Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that idiotic game?" Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. He had never been swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was something to boast about afterwards. "Come into my study." The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer whispered to Philip: "We're in for it." Mr. Watson pointed to Singer. "Bend over," he said. Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the third he heard him cry out. Three more followed. "That'll do. Get up." Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip stepped forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment. "I'm not going to cane you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a cripple. Go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again." When they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had learned in some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting for them. They set upon Singer at once with eager questions. Singer faced them, his face red with the pain and marks of tears still on his cheeks. He pointed with his head at Philip, who was standing a little behind him. "He got off because he's a cripple," he said angrily. Philip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him with contempt. "How many did you get?" one boy asked Singer. But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt "Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again," he said to Philip. "It's jolly nice for you. You don't risk anything." "I didn't ask you." "Didn't you!" He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground. "Cripple," said Singer. For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and he was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear. And what made it worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven and would not go to the upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realised that he must live two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. He was only happy while he was working and when he got into bed. And often there recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning in his own little bed in London. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XIII Two years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the first form, within two or three places of the top, and after Christmas when several boys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head boy. He had already quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in gorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position had freed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows forgave him his success because of his deformity. "After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said, "there's nothing he CAN do but swat." He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to the loud voice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on his shoulder Philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He had the good memory which is more useful for scholastic achievements than mental power, and he knew Mr. Watson expected him to leave the preparatory school with a scholarship. But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does not realise that his body is more a part of himself than surrounding objects, and will play with his toes without any feeling that they belong to him more than the rattle by his side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he understands the fact of the body. And experiences of the same kind are necessary for the individual to become conscious of himself; but here there is the difference that, although everyone becomes equally conscious of his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does not become equally conscious of himself as a complete and separate personality. The feeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not always developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he, as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has been called a social animal. Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness of himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. The circumstances of his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to them the ready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs, and he was forced to think for himself. The many books he had read filled his mind with ideas which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope to his imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was growing up within him, and obscurely he realised his personality. But at times it gave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why, and afterwards when he thought of them found himself all at sea. There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a friendship had arisen, and one day, when they were playing together in the school-room, Luard began to perform some trick with an ebony pen-holder of Philip's. "Don't play the giddy ox," said Philip. "You'll only break it." "I shan't." But no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the pen-holder snapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay. "Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry." The tears rolled down Philip's cheeks, but he did not answer. "I say, what's the matter?" said Luard, with surprise. "I'll get you another one exactly the same." "It's not about the pen-holder I care," said Philip, in a trembling voice, "only it was given me by my mater, just before she died." "I say, I'm awfully sorry, Carey." "It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault." Philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them. He tried to restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he could not tell why, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder during his last holidays at Blackstable for one and twopence. He did not know in the least what had made him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite as unhappy as though it had been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarage and the religious tone of the school had made Philip's conscience very sensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the Tempter was ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was not more truthful than most boys he never told a lie without suffering from remorse. When he thought over this incident he was very much distressed, and made up his mind that he must go to Luard and tell him that the story was an invention. Though he dreaded humiliation more than anything in the world, he hugged himself for two or three days at the thought of the agonising joy of humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never got any further. He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method of expressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he could not understand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story he was making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were real tears. Then by some accident of association there occurred to him that scene when Emma had told him of his mother's death, and, though he could not speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to the Misses Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XIV Then a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad language was no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked upon with hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the Middle Ages, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker than themselves to virtuous courses. Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. He heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League, and wrote to London for particulars. These consisted in a form to be filled up with the applicant's name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be signed that he would read a set portion of Holy Scripture every night for a year; and a request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was demanded partly to prove the earnestness of the applicant's desire to become a member of the League, and partly to cover clerical expenses. Philip duly sent the papers and the money, and in return received a calendar worth about a penny, on which was set down the appointed passage to be read each day, and a sheet of paper on one side of which was a picture of the Good Shepherd and a lamb, and on the other, decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer which had to be said before beginning to read. Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time for his task before the gas was put out. He read industriously, as he read always, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit, ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning. Actions which would have excited his horror in the life about him, in the reading passed through his mind without comment, because they were committed under the direct inspiration of God. The method of the League was to alternate a book of the Old Testament with a book of the New, and one night Philip came across these words of Jesus Christ: If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done. And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence chose them for the text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted to hear this it would have been impossible, for the boys of King's School sit in the choir, and the pulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the preacher's back is almost turned to them. The distance also is so great that it needs a man with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to make himself heard in the choir; and according to long usage the Canons of Tercanbury are chosen for their learning rather than for any qualities which might be of use in a cathedral church. But the words of the text, perhaps because he had read them so short a while before, came clearly enough to Philip's ears, and they seemed on a sudden to have a personal application. He thought about them through most of the sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he turned over the pages of the Gospel and found once more the passage. Though he believed implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned already that in the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often mysteriously meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at school, so he kept the question he had in mind till the Christmas holidays, and then one day he made an opportunity. It was after supper and prayers were just finished. Mrs. Carey was counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in as usual and writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table and pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible. "I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean that?" He put his finger against it as though he had come across it accidentally. Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding The Blackstable Times in front of the fire. It had come in that evening damp from the press, and the Vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to read. "What passage is that?" he asked. "Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains." "If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip," said Mrs. Carey gently, taking up the plate-basket. Philip looked at his uncle for an answer. "It's a matter of faith." "D'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains you could?" "By the grace of God," said the Vicar. "Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip," said Aunt Louisa. "You're not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?" Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he wanted. His little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. But he always felt that his prayers were more pleasing to God when he said them under conditions of discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet were an offering to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees; buried his face in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that He would make his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the moving of mountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished, and his own faith was complete. Next morning, finishing his prayers with the same request, he fixed a date for the miracle. "Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will, please make my foot all right on the night before I go back to school." He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it later in the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar always made after prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said it again in the evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into bed. And he believed. For once he looked forward with eagerness to the end of the holidays. He laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle's astonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after breakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of boots. At school they would be astounded. "Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?" "Oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new boys who did not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his foot in the water. He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He was confident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in Philip's little room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. His teeth chattered. The idea came to him that he must do something more than usual to attract the attention of God, and he turned back the rug which was in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards; and then it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might displease his Maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked. When he got into bed he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did, it was so soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when she brought in his hot water next morning. She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but he did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for the miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now, but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that his foot was well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the toes of his right foot he just touched his left. Then he passed his hand over it. He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the dining-room for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast. "You're very quiet this morning, Philip," said Aunt Louisa presently. "He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school to-morrow," said the Vicar. When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle, with something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. He called it a bad habit of wool-gathering. "Supposing you'd asked God to do something," said Philip, "and really believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, I mean, and you had faith, and it didn't happen, what would it mean?" "What a funny boy you are!" said Aunt Louisa. "You asked about moving mountains two or three weeks ago." "It would just mean that you hadn't got faith," answered Uncle William. Philip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it was because he did not really believe. And yet he did not see how he could believe more than he did. But perhaps he had not given God enough time. He had only asked Him for nineteen days. In a day or two he began his prayer again, and this time he fixed upon Easter. That was the day of His Son's glorious resurrection, and God in His happiness might be mercifully inclined. But now Philip added other means of attaining his desire: he began to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse, and he looked out for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken at the vicarage, and he broke the lucky bone with Aunt Louisa and wished again, each time that his foot might be made whole. He was appealing unconsciously to gods older to his race than the God of Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty with his prayer, at odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to him, in identical words always, for it seemed to him important to make his request in the same terms. But presently the feeling came to him that this time also his faith would not be great enough. He could not resist the doubt that assailed him. He made his own experience into a general rule. "I suppose no one ever has faith enough," he said. It was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you could catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had taken a little bag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he could never get near enough to put the salt on a bird's tail. Before Easter he had given up the struggle. He felt a dull resentment against his uncle for taking him in. The text which spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of those that said one thing and meant another. He thought his uncle had been playing a practical joke on him. </CHAPTER>

Chapters X-XIV

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These chapters relate the experience of Philip at the preparatory King's School, which helps to prepare a boy for the ministry. As he accompanies his uncle to the school at Tercanbury, he is full of apprehension and feels self-conscious about his clubfoot. His uncle leaves him in the care of Mr. Watson. True to his fears, the boys immediately notice his deformed foot. Some of them take pity on him, while others mock him and even abuse him physically. He feels isolated because of his disability. When he is unable to bear the humiliation of his tormentors any longer, he cries and remembers his mother. After a time, his deformity is taken for granted and ignored, but Philip still remains sensitive and withdrawn, avoiding participation in the boys' activities. He does excel, however, in his studies and wins several prizes. Mr. Watson appreciates his efforts and expects to secure him a scholarship for additional education. When the school is gripped with a religious fever, Philip joins a study group and starts reading the Bible everynight. He excitedly reads the words, "Whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive." Encouraged by the Vicar, he begins to pray fervently. He asks God to heal his foot and waits anxiously for the results. When no miracle occurs, Philip feels that his uncle has lied to him and loses faith.

Notes School is a new experience for Philip. Having led a protected life in the past, he now becomes aware of the harsh realities of life. The students make fun of his clubfoot, making him feel ashamed and isolating him further. To avoid the taunts of the students, he visualizes his mother's presence, seeking her protection. He also escapes into his studies and excels. Maugham is able to give a very sensitive portrayal of Philip's pain and loneliness, because he experienced the same kind of isolation due to his speech impediment. Philip craves companionship, affection, understanding, and sympathy. He longs to lead the life of a normal boy. When a student breaks his penholder by mistake, he concocts a story about its being a gift from his dead mother, hoping to win sympathy and acceptance. When he reads the words of Christ extolling the virtues of faith and the power of prayer to work miracles, he starts praying in earnest, asking God to heal his deformity. When his prayer is not answered, he loses faith. Philip realizes he will never escape his handicap and resigns himself to his sad situation.

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Of Human Bondage.chapters 15-21

chapters 15-21

{"name": "Chapters XV-XXI", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman14.asp", "summary": "Philip graduates from preparatory school and at the age of thirteen enters King's School, a well established institution known for its excellence in learning. It is conforming and traditional in every way, with a curriculum based on the classics. When Mr. Perkins replaces the old headmaster, he is looked down upon. Though he is well qualified for the job, others judge him as unfit because he belongs to a family of linen drapers. Perkins brings many changes to the school, which harms his reputation even more. Philip, however, admires the new headmaster for his kindness, intelligence, and insight. He even starts taking an interest in religion again because it is taught by Perkins and for a time considers being ordained. Philip makes friends with a boy named Rose, who helps him gain confidence. Then Philip contracts scarlet fever and has to stay away from school for a long while. When he returns from Blackstable after recovering, he finds that Rose has a new friend and little interest in him. Deprived of friendship once again, Philip starts losing interest in school and thinks about leaving. Perkins and his uncle try unsuccessfully to dissuade him. He finally departs the King's School and heads to Germany, for he wants to see the world.", "analysis": "Notes In these chapters, Maugham cynically mocks the old staff at the King's School who value tradition and social status more than education and erudition. Perkins, though very intelligent and well- educated, is rejected by them because he is not considered to be a gentleman due to his family's status. When he changes the curriculum, to allow French and German to be taught, they are horrified. Philip, however, is attracted to Perkins, probably because the older teachers taunted him about his deformity and belittled his intelligence. Perkins, on the other hand, recognizes his intelligence, appreciates his knowledge, and encourages him to do his best. As Philip grows from child to adolescent, there is a transformation in his attitude and behavior, as seen in these chapters. Like most boys his age, he goes through significant mood swings and rapid change of opinion. One moment he cares, and the next moment he hates. He also becomes intolerant of those who lack his intelligence and makes bitter remarks about them, an action that isolates him even further. When Rose extends a hand of friendship to Philip, he is delighted and blossoms with the companionship. The friendship is an odd one, for Rose is a complete contrast to Philip. He is big, athletic, well-liked, charming, and not a very good student. Unfortunately, Philip is jealous of Rose and does not want to share his attention. He quarrels often with his friend, which irritates Rose. When Rose rejects him after his long absence due to the scarlet fever, Philip is miserable, and his studies suffer. Despite the encouragement of his uncle and Perkins to stay in school, Philip decides to leave. He has lost interest in ever joining the clergy, for he is very critical of the behavior of his uncle and the other Vicars and religious leaders. He is especially upset when Perkins and his uncle try to trick him into staying. Philip wants to see the world and decides to travel to Germany. It is important to notice that Philip's aunt is still sensitive and caring in her own inept way. She buys him a watercolor set, and Philip enjoys using it. His paintings show that he has some natural talent, which comes into play later in the novel."}

<CHAPTER> XV The King's School at Tercanbury, to which Philip went when he was thirteen, prided itself on its antiquity. It traced its origin to an abbey school, founded before the Conquest, where the rudiments of learning were taught by Augustine monks; and, like many another establishment of this sort, on the destruction of the monasteries it had been reorganised by the officers of King Henry VIII and thus acquired its name. Since then, pursuing its modest course, it had given to the sons of the local gentry and of the professional people of Kent an education sufficient to their needs. One or two men of letters, beginning with a poet, than whom only Shakespeare had a more splendid genius, and ending with a writer of prose whose view of life has affected profoundly the generation of which Philip was a member, had gone forth from its gates to achieve fame; it had produced one or two eminent lawyers, but eminent lawyers are common, and one or two soldiers of distinction; but during the three centuries since its separation from the monastic order it had trained especially men of the church, bishops, deans, canons, and above all country clergymen: there were boys in the school whose fathers, grandfathers, great-grandfathers, had been educated there and had all been rectors of parishes in the diocese of Tercanbury; and they came to it with their minds made up already to be ordained. But there were signs notwithstanding that even there changes were coming; for a few, repeating what they had heard at home, said that the Church was no longer what it used to be. It wasn't so much the money; but the class of people who went in for it weren't the same; and two or three boys knew curates whose fathers were tradesmen: they'd rather go out to the Colonies (in those days the Colonies were still the last hope of those who could get nothing to do in England) than be a curate under some chap who wasn't a gentleman. At King's School, as at Blackstable Vicarage, a tradesman was anyone who was not lucky enough to own land (and here a fine distinction was made between the gentleman farmer and the landowner), or did not follow one of the four professions to which it was possible for a gentleman to belong. Among the day-boys, of whom there were about a hundred and fifty, sons of the local gentry and of the men stationed at the depot, those whose fathers were engaged in business were made to feel the degradation of their state. The masters had no patience with modern ideas of education, which they read of sometimes in The Times or The Guardian, and hoped fervently that King's School would remain true to its old traditions. The dead languages were taught with such thoroughness that an old boy seldom thought of Homer or Virgil in after life without a qualm of boredom; and though in the common room at dinner one or two bolder spirits suggested that mathematics were of increasing importance, the general feeling was that they were a less noble study than the classics. Neither German nor chemistry was taught, and French only by the form-masters; they could keep order better than a foreigner, and, since they knew the grammar as well as any Frenchman, it seemed unimportant that none of them could have got a cup of coffee in the restaurant at Boulogne unless the waiter had known a little English. Geography was taught chiefly by making boys draw maps, and this was a favourite occupation, especially when the country dealt with was mountainous: it was possible to waste a great deal of time in drawing the Andes or the Apennines. The masters, graduates of Oxford or Cambridge, were ordained and unmarried; if by chance they wished to marry they could only do so by accepting one of the smaller livings at the disposal of the Chapter; but for many years none of them had cared to leave the refined society of Tercanbury, which owing to the cavalry depot had a martial as well as an ecclesiastical tone, for the monotony of life in a country rectory; and they were now all men of middle age. The headmaster, on the other hand, was obliged to be married and he conducted the school till age began to tell upon him. When he retired he was rewarded with a much better living than any of the under-masters could hope for, and an honorary Canonry. But a year before Philip entered the school a great change had come over it. It had been obvious for some time that Dr. Fleming, who had been headmaster for the quarter of a century, was become too deaf to continue his work to the greater glory of God; and when one of the livings on the outskirts of the city fell vacant, with a stipend of six hundred a year, the Chapter offered it to him in such a manner as to imply that they thought it high time for him to retire. He could nurse his ailments comfortably on such an income. Two or three curates who had hoped for preferment told their wives it was scandalous to give a parish that needed a young, strong, and energetic man to an old fellow who knew nothing of parochial work, and had feathered his nest already; but the mutterings of the unbeneficed clergy do not reach the ears of a cathedral Chapter. And as for the parishioners they had nothing to say in the matter, and therefore nobody asked for their opinion. The Wesleyans and the Baptists both had chapels in the village. When Dr. Fleming was thus disposed of it became necessary to find a successor. It was contrary to the traditions of the school that one of the lower-masters should be chosen. The common-room was unanimous in desiring the election of Mr. Watson, headmaster of the preparatory school; he could hardly be described as already a master of King's School, they had all known him for twenty years, and there was no danger that he would make a nuisance of himself. But the Chapter sprang a surprise on them. It chose a man called Perkins. At first nobody knew who Perkins was, and the name favourably impressed no one; but before the shock of it had passed away, it was realised that Perkins was the son of Perkins the linendraper. Dr. Fleming informed the masters just before dinner, and his manner showed his consternation. Such of them as were dining in, ate their meal almost in silence, and no reference was made to the matter till the servants had left the room. Then they set to. The names of those present on this occasion are unimportant, but they had been known to generations of school-boys as Sighs, Tar, Winks, Squirts, and Pat. They all knew Tom Perkins. The first thing about him was that he was not a gentleman. They remembered him quite well. He was a small, dark boy, with untidy black hair and large eyes. He looked like a gipsy. He had come to the school as a day-boy, with the best scholarship on their endowment, so that his education had cost him nothing. Of course he was brilliant. At every Speech-Day he was loaded with prizes. He was their show-boy, and they remembered now bitterly their fear that he would try to get some scholarship at one of the larger public schools and so pass out of their hands. Dr. Fleming had gone to the linendraper his father--they all remembered the shop, Perkins and Cooper, in St. Catherine's Street--and said he hoped Tom would remain with them till he went to Oxford. The school was Perkins and Cooper's best customer, and Mr. Perkins was only too glad to give the required assurance. Tom Perkins continued to triumph, he was the finest classical scholar that Dr. Fleming remembered, and on leaving the school took with him the most valuable scholarship they had to offer. He got another at Magdalen and settled down to a brilliant career at the University. The school magazine recorded the distinctions he achieved year after year, and when he got his double first Dr. Fleming himself wrote a few words of eulogy on the front page. It was with greater satisfaction that they welcomed his success, since Perkins and Cooper had fallen upon evil days: Cooper drank like a fish, and just before Tom Perkins took his degree the linendrapers filed their petition in bankruptcy. In due course Tom Perkins took Holy Orders and entered upon the profession for which he was so admirably suited. He had been an assistant master at Wellington and then at Rugby. But there was quite a difference between welcoming his success at other schools and serving under his leadership in their own. Tar had frequently given him lines, and Squirts had boxed his ears. They could not imagine how the Chapter had made such a mistake. No one could be expected to forget that he was the son of a bankrupt linendraper, and the alcoholism of Cooper seemed to increase the disgrace. It was understood that the Dean had supported his candidature with zeal, so the Dean would probably ask him to dinner; but would the pleasant little dinners in the precincts ever be the same when Tom Perkins sat at the table? And what about the depot? He really could not expect officers and gentlemen to receive him as one of themselves. It would do the school incalculable harm. Parents would be dissatisfied, and no one could be surprised if there were wholesale withdrawals. And then the indignity of calling him Mr. Perkins! The masters thought by way of protest of sending in their resignations in a body, but the uneasy fear that they would be accepted with equanimity restrained them. "The only thing is to prepare ourselves for changes," said Sighs, who had conducted the fifth form for five and twenty years with unparalleled incompetence. And when they saw him they were not reassured. Dr. Fleming invited them to meet him at luncheon. He was now a man of thirty-two, tall and lean, but with the same wild and unkempt look they remembered on him as a boy. His clothes, ill-made and shabby, were put on untidily. His hair was as black and as long as ever, and he had plainly never learned to brush it; it fell over his forehead with every gesture, and he had a quick movement of the hand with which he pushed it back from his eyes. He had a black moustache and a beard which came high up on his face almost to the cheek-bones, He talked to the masters quite easily, as though he had parted from them a week or two before; he was evidently delighted to see them. He seemed unconscious of the strangeness of the position and appeared not to notice any oddness in being addressed as Mr. Perkins. When he bade them good-bye, one of the masters, for something to say, remarked that he was allowing himself plenty of time to catch his train. "I want to go round and have a look at the shop," he answered cheerfully. There was a distinct embarrassment. They wondered that he could be so tactless, and to make it worse Dr. Fleming had not heard what he said. His wife shouted it in his ear. "He wants to go round and look at his father's old shop." Only Tom Perkins was unconscious of the humiliation which the whole party felt. He turned to Mrs. Fleming. "Who's got it now, d'you know?" She could hardly answer. She was very angry. "It's still a linendraper's," she said bitterly. "Grove is the name. We don't deal there any more." "I wonder if he'd let me go over the house." "I expect he would if you explain who you are." It was not till the end of dinner that evening that any reference was made in the common-room to the subject that was in all their minds. Then it was Sighs who asked: "Well, what did you think of our new head?" They thought of the conversation at luncheon. It was hardly a conversation; it was a monologue. Perkins had talked incessantly. He talked very quickly, with a flow of easy words and in a deep, resonant voice. He had a short, odd little laugh which showed his white teeth. They had followed him with difficulty, for his mind darted from subject to subject with a connection they did not always catch. He talked of pedagogics, and this was natural enough; but he had much to say of modern theories in Germany which they had never heard of and received with misgiving. He talked of the classics, but he had been to Greece, and he discoursed of archaeology; he had once spent a winter digging; they could not see how that helped a man to teach boys to pass examinations, He talked of politics. It sounded odd to them to hear him compare Lord Beaconsfield with Alcibiades. He talked of Mr. Gladstone and Home Rule. They realised that he was a Liberal. Their hearts sank. He talked of German philosophy and of French fiction. They could not think a man profound whose interests were so diverse. It was Winks who summed up the general impression and put it into a form they all felt conclusively damning. Winks was the master of the upper third, a weak-kneed man with drooping eye-lids, He was too tall for his strength, and his movements were slow and languid. He gave an impression of lassitude, and his nickname was eminently appropriate. "He's very enthusiastic," said Winks. Enthusiasm was ill-bred. Enthusiasm was ungentlemanly. They thought of the Salvation Army with its braying trumpets and its drums. Enthusiasm meant change. They had goose-flesh when they thought of all the pleasant old habits which stood in imminent danger. They hardly dared to look forward to the future. "He looks more of a gipsy than ever," said one, after a pause. "I wonder if the Dean and Chapter knew that he was a Radical when they elected him," another observed bitterly. But conversation halted. They were too much disturbed for words. When Tar and Sighs were walking together to the Chapter House on Speech-Day a week later, Tar, who had a bitter tongue, remarked to his colleague: "Well, we've seen a good many Speech-Days here, haven't we? I wonder if we shall see another." Sighs was more melancholy even than usual. "If anything worth having comes along in the way of a living I don't mind when I retire." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XVI A year passed, and when Philip came to the school the old masters were all in their places; but a good many changes had taken place notwithstanding their stubborn resistance, none the less formidable because it was concealed under an apparent desire to fall in with the new head's ideas. Though the form-masters still taught French to the lower school, another master had come, with a degree of doctor of philology from the University of Heidelberg and a record of three years spent in a French lycee, to teach French to the upper forms and German to anyone who cared to take it up instead of Greek. Another master was engaged to teach mathematics more systematically than had been found necessary hitherto. Neither of these was ordained. This was a real revolution, and when the pair arrived the older masters received them with distrust. A laboratory had been fitted up, army classes were instituted; they all said the character of the school was changing. And heaven only knew what further projects Mr. Perkins turned in that untidy head of his. The school was small as public schools go, there were not more than two hundred boarders; and it was difficult for it to grow larger, for it was huddled up against the Cathedral; the precincts, with the exception of a house in which some of the masters lodged, were occupied by the cathedral clergy; and there was no more room for building. But Mr. Perkins devised an elaborate scheme by which he might obtain sufficient space to make the school double its present size. He wanted to attract boys from London. He thought it would be good for them to be thrown in contact with the Kentish lads, and it would sharpen the country wits of these. "It's against all our traditions," said Sighs, when Mr. Perkins made the suggestion to him. "We've rather gone out of our way to avoid the contamination of boys from London." "Oh, what nonsense!" said Mr. Perkins. No one had ever told the form-master before that he talked nonsense, and he was meditating an acid reply, in which perhaps he might insert a veiled reference to hosiery, when Mr. Perkins in his impetuous way attacked him outrageously. "That house in the precincts--if you'd only marry I'd get the Chapter to put another couple of stories on, and we'd make dormitories and studies, and your wife could help you." The elderly clergyman gasped. Why should he marry? He was fifty-seven, a man couldn't marry at fifty-seven. He couldn't start looking after a house at his time of life. He didn't want to marry. If the choice lay between that and the country living he would much sooner resign. All he wanted now was peace and quietness. "I'm not thinking of marrying," he said. Mr. Perkins looked at him with his dark, bright eyes, and if there was a twinkle in them poor Sighs never saw it. "What a pity! Couldn't you marry to oblige me? It would help me a great deal with the Dean and Chapter when I suggest rebuilding your house." But Mr. Perkins' most unpopular innovation was his system of taking occasionally another man's form. He asked it as a favour, but after all it was a favour which could not be refused, and as Tar, otherwise Mr. Turner, said, it was undignified for all parties. He gave no warning, but after morning prayers would say to one of the masters: "I wonder if you'd mind taking the Sixth today at eleven. We'll change over, shall we?" They did not know whether this was usual at other schools, but certainly it had never been done at Tercanbury. The results were curious. Mr. Turner, who was the first victim, broke the news to his form that the headmaster would take them for Latin that day, and on the pretence that they might like to ask him a question or two so that they should not make perfect fools of themselves, spent the last quarter of an hour of the history lesson in construing for them the passage of Livy which had been set for the day; but when he rejoined his class and looked at the paper on which Mr. Perkins had written the marks, a surprise awaited him; for the two boys at the top of the form seemed to have done very ill, while others who had never distinguished themselves before were given full marks. When he asked Eldridge, his cleverest boy, what was the meaning of this the answer came sullenly: "Mr. Perkins never gave us any construing to do. He asked me what I knew about General Gordon." Mr. Turner looked at him in astonishment. The boys evidently felt they had been hardly used, and he could not help agreeing with their silent dissatisfaction. He could not see either what General Gordon had to do with Livy. He hazarded an inquiry afterwards. "Eldridge was dreadfully put out because you asked him what he knew about General Gordon," he said to the headmaster, with an attempt at a chuckle. Mr. Perkins laughed. "I saw they'd got to the agrarian laws of Caius Gracchus, and I wondered if they knew anything about the agrarian troubles in Ireland. But all they knew about Ireland was that Dublin was on the Liffey. So I wondered if they'd ever heard of General Gordon." Then the horrid fact was disclosed that the new head had a mania for general information. He had doubts about the utility of examinations on subjects which had been crammed for the occasion. He wanted common sense. Sighs grew more worried every month; he could not get the thought out of his head that Mr. Perkins would ask him to fix a day for his marriage; and he hated the attitude the head adopted towards classical literature. There was no doubt that he was a fine scholar, and he was engaged on a work which was quite in the right tradition: he was writing a treatise on the trees in Latin literature; but he talked of it flippantly, as though it were a pastime of no great importance, like billiards, which engaged his leisure but was not to be considered with seriousness. And Squirts, the master of the Middle Third, grew more ill-tempered every day. It was in his form that Philip was put on entering the school. The Rev. B. B. Gordon was a man by nature ill-suited to be a schoolmaster: he was impatient and choleric. With no one to call him to account, with only small boys to face him, he had long lost all power of self-control. He began his work in a rage and ended it in a passion. He was a man of middle height and of a corpulent figure; he had sandy hair, worn very short and now growing gray, and a small bristly moustache. His large face, with indistinct features and small blue eyes, was naturally red, but during his frequent attacks of anger it grew dark and purple. His nails were bitten to the quick, for while some trembling boy was construing he would sit at his desk shaking with the fury that consumed him, and gnaw his fingers. Stories, perhaps exaggerated, were told of his violence, and two years before there had been some excitement in the school when it was heard that one father was threatening a prosecution: he had boxed the ears of a boy named Walters with a book so violently that his hearing was affected and the boy had to be taken away from the school. The boy's father lived in Tercanbury, and there had been much indignation in the city, the local paper had referred to the matter; but Mr. Walters was only a brewer, so the sympathy was divided. The rest of the boys, for reasons best known to themselves, though they loathed the master, took his side in the affair, and, to show their indignation that the school's business had been dealt with outside, made things as uncomfortable as they could for Walters' younger brother, who still remained. But Mr. Gordon had only escaped the country living by the skin of his teeth, and he had never hit a boy since. The right the masters possessed to cane boys on the hand was taken away from them, and Squirts could no longer emphasize his anger by beating his desk with the cane. He never did more now than take a boy by the shoulders and shake him. He still made a naughty or refractory lad stand with one arm stretched out for anything from ten minutes to half an hour, and he was as violent as before with his tongue. No master could have been more unfitted to teach things to so shy a boy as Philip. He had come to the school with fewer terrors than he had when first he went to Mr. Watson's. He knew a good many boys who had been with him at the preparatory school. He felt more grownup, and instinctively realised that among the larger numbers his deformity would be less noticeable. But from the first day Mr. Gordon struck terror in his heart; and the master, quick to discern the boys who were frightened of him, seemed on that account to take a peculiar dislike to him. Philip had enjoyed his work, but now he began to look upon the hours passed in school with horror. Rather than risk an answer which might be wrong and excite a storm of abuse from the master, he would sit stupidly silent, and when it came towards his turn to stand up and construe he grew sick and white with apprehension. His happy moments were those when Mr. Perkins took the form. He was able to gratify the passion for general knowledge which beset the headmaster; he had read all sorts of strange books beyond his years, and often Mr. Perkins, when a question was going round the room, would stop at Philip with a smile that filled the boy with rapture, and say: "Now, Carey, you tell them." The good marks he got on these occasions increased Mr. Gordon's indignation. One day it came to Philip's turn to translate, and the master sat there glaring at him and furiously biting his thumb. He was in a ferocious mood. Philip began to speak in a low voice. "Don't mumble," shouted the master. Something seemed to stick in Philip's throat. "Go on. Go on. Go on." Each time the words were screamed more loudly. The effect was to drive all he knew out of Philip's head, and he looked at the printed page vacantly. Mr. Gordon began to breathe heavily. "If you don't know why don't you say so? Do you know it or not? Did you hear all this construed last time or not? Why don't you speak? Speak, you blockhead, speak!" The master seized the arms of his chair and grasped them as though to prevent himself from falling upon Philip. They knew that in past days he often used to seize boys by the throat till they almost choked. The veins in his forehead stood out and his face grew dark and threatening. He was a man insane. Philip had known the passage perfectly the day before, but now he could remember nothing. "I don't know it," he gasped. "Why don't you know it? Let's take the words one by one. We'll soon see if you don't know it." Philip stood silent, very white, trembling a little, with his head bent down on the book. The master's breathing grew almost stertorous. "The headmaster says you're clever. I don't know how he sees it. General information." He laughed savagely. "I don't know what they put you in his form for, Blockhead." He was pleased with the word, and he repeated it at the top of his voice. "Blockhead! Blockhead! Club-footed blockhead!" That relieved him a little. He saw Philip redden suddenly. He told him to fetch the Black Book. Philip put down his Caesar and went silently out. The Black Book was a sombre volume in which the names of boys were written with their misdeeds, and when a name was down three times it meant a caning. Philip went to the headmaster's house and knocked at his study-door. Mr. Perkins was seated at his table. "May I have the Black Book, please, sir." "There it is," answered Mr. Perkins, indicating its place by a nod of his head. "What have you been doing that you shouldn't?" "I don't know, sir." Mr. Perkins gave him a quick look, but without answering went on with his work. Philip took the book and went out. When the hour was up, a few minutes later, he brought it back. "Let me have a look at it," said the headmaster. "I see Mr. Gordon has black-booked you for 'gross impertinence.' What was it?" "I don't know, sir. Mr. Gordon said I was a club-footed blockhead." Mr. Perkins looked at him again. He wondered whether there was sarcasm behind the boy's reply, but he was still much too shaken. His face was white and his eyes had a look of terrified distress. Mr. Perkins got up and put the book down. As he did so he took up some photographs. "A friend of mine sent me some pictures of Athens this morning," he said casually. "Look here, there's the Akropolis." He began explaining to Philip what he saw. The ruin grew vivid with his words. He showed him the theatre of Dionysus and explained in what order the people sat, and how beyond they could see the blue Aegean. And then suddenly he said: "I remember Mr. Gordon used to call me a gipsy counter-jumper when I was in his form." And before Philip, his mind fixed on the photographs, had time to gather the meaning of the remark, Mr. Perkins was showing him a picture of Salamis, and with his finger, a finger of which the nail had a little black edge to it, was pointing out how the Greek ships were placed and how the Persian. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XVII Philip passed the next two years with comfortable monotony. He was not bullied more than other boys of his size; and his deformity, withdrawing him from games, acquired for him an insignificance for which he was grateful. He was not popular, and he was very lonely. He spent a couple of terms with Winks in the Upper Third. Winks, with his weary manner and his drooping eyelids, looked infinitely bored. He did his duty, but he did it with an abstracted mind. He was kind, gentle, and foolish. He had a great belief in the honour of boys; he felt that the first thing to make them truthful was not to let it enter your head for a moment that it was possible for them to lie. "Ask much," he quoted, "and much shall be given to you." Life was easy in the Upper Third. You knew exactly what lines would come to your turn to construe, and with the crib that passed from hand to hand you could find out all you wanted in two minutes; you could hold a Latin Grammar open on your knees while questions were passing round; and Winks never noticed anything odd in the fact that the same incredible mistake was to be found in a dozen different exercises. He had no great faith in examinations, for he noticed that boys never did so well in them as in form: it was disappointing, but not significant. In due course they were moved up, having learned little but a cheerful effrontery in the distortion of truth, which was possibly of greater service to them in after life than an ability to read Latin at sight. Then they fell into the hands of Tar. His name was Turner; he was the most vivacious of the old masters, a short man with an immense belly, a black beard turning now to gray, and a swarthy skin. In his clerical dress there was indeed something in him to suggest the tar-barrel; and though on principle he gave five hundred lines to any boy on whose lips he overheard his nickname, at dinner-parties in the precincts he often made little jokes about it. He was the most worldly of the masters; he dined out more frequently than any of the others, and the society he kept was not so exclusively clerical. The boys looked upon him as rather a dog. He left off his clerical attire during the holidays and had been seen in Switzerland in gay tweeds. He liked a bottle of wine and a good dinner, and having once been seen at the Cafe Royal with a lady who was very probably a near relation, was thenceforward supposed by generations of schoolboys to indulge in orgies the circumstantial details of which pointed to an unbounded belief in human depravity. Mr. Turner reckoned that it took him a term to lick boys into shape after they had been in the Upper Third; and now and then he let fall a sly hint, which showed that he knew perfectly what went on in his colleague's form. He took it good-humouredly. He looked upon boys as young ruffians who were more apt to be truthful if it was quite certain a lie would be found out, whose sense of honour was peculiar to themselves and did not apply to dealings with masters, and who were least likely to be troublesome when they learned that it did not pay. He was proud of his form and as eager at fifty-five that it should do better in examinations than any of the others as he had been when he first came to the school. He had the choler of the obese, easily roused and as easily calmed, and his boys soon discovered that there was much kindliness beneath the invective with which he constantly assailed them. He had no patience with fools, but was willing to take much trouble with boys whom he suspected of concealing intelligence behind their wilfulness. He was fond of inviting them to tea; and, though vowing they never got a look in with him at the cakes and muffins, for it was the fashion to believe that his corpulence pointed to a voracious appetite, and his voracious appetite to tapeworms, they accepted his invitations with real pleasure. Philip was now more comfortable, for space was so limited that there were only studies for boys in the upper school, and till then he had lived in the great hall in which they all ate and in which the lower forms did preparation in a promiscuity which was vaguely distasteful to him. Now and then it made him restless to be with people and he wanted urgently to be alone. He set out for solitary walks into the country. There was a little stream, with pollards on both sides of it, that ran through green fields, and it made him happy, he knew not why, to wander along its banks. When he was tired he lay face-downward on the grass and watched the eager scurrying of minnows and of tadpoles. It gave him a peculiar satisfaction to saunter round the precincts. On the green in the middle they practised at nets in the summer, but during the rest of the year it was quiet: boys used to wander round sometimes arm in arm, or a studious fellow with abstracted gaze walked slowly, repeating to himself something he had to learn by heart. There was a colony of rooks in the great elms, and they filled the air with melancholy cries. Along one side lay the Cathedral with its great central tower, and Philip, who knew as yet nothing of beauty, felt when he looked at it a troubling delight which he could not understand. When he had a study (it was a little square room looking on a slum, and four boys shared it), he bought a photograph of that view of the Cathedral, and pinned it up over his desk. And he found himself taking a new interest in what he saw from the window of the Fourth Form room. It looked on to old lawns, carefully tended, and fine trees with foliage dense and rich. It gave him an odd feeling in his heart, and he did not know if it was pain or pleasure. It was the first dawn of the aesthetic emotion. It accompanied other changes. His voice broke. It was no longer quite under his control, and queer sounds issued from his throat. Then he began to go to the classes which were held in the headmaster's study, immediately after tea, to prepare boys for confirmation. Philip's piety had not stood the test of time, and he had long since given up his nightly reading of the Bible; but now, under the influence of Mr. Perkins, with this new condition of the body which made him so restless, his old feelings revived, and he reproached himself bitterly for his backsliding. The fires of Hell burned fiercely before his mind's eye. If he had died during that time when he was little better than an infidel he would have been lost; he believed implicitly in pain everlasting, he believed in it much more than in eternal happiness; and he shuddered at the dangers he had run. Since the day on which Mr. Perkins had spoken kindly to him, when he was smarting under the particular form of abuse which he could least bear, Philip had conceived for his headmaster a dog-like adoration. He racked his brains vainly for some way to please him. He treasured the smallest word of commendation which by chance fell from his lips. And when he came to the quiet little meetings in his house he was prepared to surrender himself entirely. He kept his eyes fixed on Mr. Perkins' shining eyes, and sat with mouth half open, his head a little thrown forward so as to miss no word. The ordinariness of the surroundings made the matters they dealt with extraordinarily moving. And often the master, seized himself by the wonder of his subject, would push back the book in front of him, and with his hands clasped together over his heart, as though to still the beating, would talk of the mysteries of their religion. Sometimes Philip did not understand, but he did not want to understand, he felt vaguely that it was enough to feel. It seemed to him then that the headmaster, with his black, straggling hair and his pale face, was like those prophets of Israel who feared not to take kings to task; and when he thought of the Redeemer he saw Him only with the same dark eyes and those wan cheeks. Mr. Perkins took this part of his work with great seriousness. There was never here any of that flashing humour which made the other masters suspect him of flippancy. Finding time for everything in his busy day, he was able at certain intervals to take separately for a quarter of an hour or twenty minutes the boys whom he was preparing for confirmation. He wanted to make them feel that this was the first consciously serious step in their lives; he tried to grope into the depths of their souls; he wanted to instil in them his own vehement devotion. In Philip, notwithstanding his shyness, he felt the possibility of a passion equal to his own. The boy's temperament seemed to him essentially religious. One day he broke off suddenly from the subject on which he had been talking. "Have you thought at all what you're going to be when you grow up?" he asked. "My uncle wants me to be ordained," said Philip. "And you?" Philip looked away. He was ashamed to answer that he felt himself unworthy. "I don't know any life that's so full of happiness as ours. I wish I could make you feel what a wonderful privilege it is. One can serve God in every walk, but we stand nearer to Him. I don't want to influence you, but if you made up your mind--oh, at once--you couldn't help feeling that joy and relief which never desert one again." Philip did not answer, but the headmaster read in his eyes that he realised already something of what he tried to indicate. "If you go on as you are now you'll find yourself head of the school one of these days, and you ought to be pretty safe for a scholarship when you leave. Have you got anything of your own?" "My uncle says I shall have a hundred a year when I'm twenty-one." "You'll be rich. I had nothing." The headmaster hesitated a moment, and then, idly drawing lines with a pencil on the blotting paper in front of him, went on. "I'm afraid your choice of professions will be rather limited. You naturally couldn't go in for anything that required physical activity." Philip reddened to the roots of his hair, as he always did when any reference was made to his club-foot. Mr. Perkins looked at him gravely. "I wonder if you're not oversensitive about your misfortune. Has it ever struck you to thank God for it?" Philip looked up quickly. His lips tightened. He remembered how for months, trusting in what they told him, he had implored God to heal him as He had healed the Leper and made the Blind to see. "As long as you accept it rebelliously it can only cause you shame. But if you looked upon it as a cross that was given you to bear only because your shoulders were strong enough to bear it, a sign of God's favour, then it would be a source of happiness to you instead of misery." He saw that the boy hated to discuss the matter and he let him go. But Philip thought over all that the headmaster had said, and presently, his mind taken up entirely with the ceremony that was before him, a mystical rapture seized him. His spirit seemed to free itself from the bonds of the flesh and he seemed to be living a new life. He aspired to perfection with all the passion that was in him. He wanted to surrender himself entirely to the service of God, and he made up his mind definitely that he would be ordained. When the great day arrived, his soul deeply moved by all the preparation, by the books he had studied and above all by the overwhelming influence of the head, he could hardly contain himself for fear and joy. One thought had tormented him. He knew that he would have to walk alone through the chancel, and he dreaded showing his limp thus obviously, not only to the whole school, who were attending the service, but also to the strangers, people from the city or parents who had come to see their sons confirmed. But when the time came he felt suddenly that he could accept the humiliation joyfully; and as he limped up the chancel, very small and insignificant beneath the lofty vaulting of the Cathedral, he offered consciously his deformity as a sacrifice to the God who loved him. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XVIII But Philip could not live long in the rarefied air of the hilltops. What had happened to him when first he was seized by the religious emotion happened to him now. Because he felt so keenly the beauty of faith, because the desire for self-sacrifice burned in his heart with such a gem-like glow, his strength seemed inadequate to his ambition. He was tired out by the violence of his passion. His soul was filled on a sudden with a singular aridity. He began to forget the presence of God which had seemed so surrounding; and his religious exercises, still very punctually performed, grew merely formal. At first he blamed himself for this falling away, and the fear of hell-fire urged him to renewed vehemence; but the passion was dead, and gradually other interests distracted his thoughts. Philip had few friends. His habit of reading isolated him: it became such a need that after being in company for some time he grew tired and restless; he was vain of the wider knowledge he had acquired from the perusal of so many books, his mind was alert, and he had not the skill to hide his contempt for his companions' stupidity. They complained that he was conceited; and, since he excelled only in matters which to them were unimportant, they asked satirically what he had to be conceited about. He was developing a sense of humour, and found that he had a knack of saying bitter things, which caught people on the raw; he said them because they amused him, hardly realising how much they hurt, and was much offended when he found that his victims regarded him with active dislike. The humiliations he suffered when first he went to school had caused in him a shrinking from his fellows which he could never entirely overcome; he remained shy and silent. But though he did everything to alienate the sympathy of other boys he longed with all his heart for the popularity which to some was so easily accorded. These from his distance he admired extravagantly; and though he was inclined to be more sarcastic with them than with others, though he made little jokes at their expense, he would have given anything to change places with them. Indeed he would gladly have changed places with the dullest boy in the school who was whole of limb. He took to a singular habit. He would imagine that he was some boy whom he had a particular fancy for; he would throw his soul, as it were, into the other's body, talk with his voice and laugh with his heart; he would imagine himself doing all the things the other did. It was so vivid that he seemed for a moment really to be no longer himself. In this way he enjoyed many intervals of fantastic happiness. At the beginning of the Christmas term which followed on his confirmation Philip found himself moved into another study. One of the boys who shared it was called Rose. He was in the same form as Philip, and Philip had always looked upon him with envious admiration. He was not good-looking; though his large hands and big bones suggested that he would be a tall man, he was clumsily made; but his eyes were charming, and when he laughed (he was constantly laughing) his face wrinkled all round them in a jolly way. He was neither clever nor stupid, but good enough at his work and better at games. He was a favourite with masters and boys, and he in his turn liked everyone. When Philip was put in the study he could not help seeing that the others, who had been together for three terms, welcomed him coldly. It made him nervous to feel himself an intruder; but he had learned to hide his feelings, and they found him quiet and unobtrusive. With Rose, because he was as little able as anyone else to resist his charm, Philip was even more than usually shy and abrupt; and whether on account of this, unconsciously bent upon exerting the fascination he knew was his only by the results, or whether from sheer kindness of heart, it was Rose who first took Philip into the circle. One day, quite suddenly, he asked Philip if he would walk to the football field with him. Philip flushed. "I can't walk fast enough for you," he said. "Rot. Come on." And just before they were setting out some boy put his head in the study-door and asked Rose to go with him. "I can't," he answered. "I've already promised Carey." "Don't bother about me," said Philip quickly. "I shan't mind." "Rot," said Rose. He looked at Philip with those good-natured eyes of his and laughed. Philip felt a curious tremor in his heart. In a little while, their friendship growing with boyish rapidity, the pair were inseparable. Other fellows wondered at the sudden intimacy, and Rose was asked what he saw in Philip. "Oh, I don't know," he answered. "He's not half a bad chap really." Soon they grew accustomed to the two walking into chapel arm in arm or strolling round the precincts in conversation; wherever one was the other could be found also, and, as though acknowledging his proprietorship, boys who wanted Rose would leave messages with Carey. Philip at first was reserved. He would not let himself yield entirely to the proud joy that filled him; but presently his distrust of the fates gave way before a wild happiness. He thought Rose the most wonderful fellow he had ever seen. His books now were insignificant; he could not bother about them when there was something infinitely more important to occupy him. Rose's friends used to come in to tea in the study sometimes or sit about when there was nothing better to do--Rose liked a crowd and the chance of a rag--and they found that Philip was quite a decent fellow. Philip was happy. When the last day of term came he and Rose arranged by which train they should come back, so that they might meet at the station and have tea in the town before returning to school. Philip went home with a heavy heart. He thought of Rose all through the holidays, and his fancy was active with the things they would do together next term. He was bored at the vicarage, and when on the last day his uncle put him the usual question in the usual facetious tone: "Well, are you glad to be going back to school?" Philip answered joyfully. "Rather." In order to be sure of meeting Rose at the station he took an earlier train than he usually did, and he waited about the platform for an hour. When the train came in from Faversham, where he knew Rose had to change, he ran along it excitedly. But Rose was not there. He got a porter to tell him when another train was due, and he waited; but again he was disappointed; and he was cold and hungry, so he walked, through side-streets and slums, by a short cut to the school. He found Rose in the study, with his feet on the chimney-piece, talking eighteen to the dozen with half a dozen boys who were sitting on whatever there was to sit on. He shook hands with Philip enthusiastically, but Philip's face fell, for he realised that Rose had forgotten all about their appointment. "I say, why are you so late?" said Rose. "I thought you were never coming." "You were at the station at half-past four," said another boy. "I saw you when I came." Philip blushed a little. He did not want Rose to know that he had been such a fool as to wait for him. "I had to see about a friend of my people's," he invented readily. "I was asked to see her off." But his disappointment made him a little sulky. He sat in silence, and when spoken to answered in monosyllables. He was making up his mind to have it out with Rose when they were alone. But when the others had gone Rose at once came over and sat on the arm of the chair in which Philip was lounging. "I say, I'm jolly glad we're in the same study this term. Ripping, isn't it?" He seemed so genuinely pleased to see Philip that Philip's annoyance vanished. They began as if they had not been separated for five minutes to talk eagerly of the thousand things that interested them. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XIX At first Philip had been too grateful for Rose's friendship to make any demands on him. He took things as they came and enjoyed life. But presently he began to resent Rose's universal amiability; he wanted a more exclusive attachment, and he claimed as a right what before he had accepted as a favour. He watched jealously Rose's companionship with others; and though he knew it was unreasonable could not help sometimes saying bitter things to him. If Rose spent an hour playing the fool in another study, Philip would receive him when he returned to his own with a sullen frown. He would sulk for a day, and he suffered more because Rose either did not notice his ill-humour or deliberately ignored it. Not seldom Philip, knowing all the time how stupid he was, would force a quarrel, and they would not speak to one another for a couple of days. But Philip could not bear to be angry with him long, and even when convinced that he was in the right, would apologise humbly. Then for a week they would be as great friends as ever. But the best was over, and Philip could see that Rose often walked with him merely from old habit or from fear of his anger; they had not so much to say to one another as at first, and Rose was often bored. Philip felt that his lameness began to irritate him. Towards the end of the term two or three boys caught scarlet fever, and there was much talk of sending them all home in order to escape an epidemic; but the sufferers were isolated, and since no more were attacked it was supposed that the outbreak was stopped. One of the stricken was Philip. He remained in hospital through the Easter holidays, and at the beginning of the summer term was sent home to the vicarage to get a little fresh air. The Vicar, notwithstanding medical assurance that the boy was no longer infectious, received him with suspicion; he thought it very inconsiderate of the doctor to suggest that his nephew's convalescence should be spent by the seaside, and consented to have him in the house only because there was nowhere else he could go. Philip went back to school at half-term. He had forgotten the quarrels he had had with Rose, but remembered only that he was his greatest friend. He knew that he had been silly. He made up his mind to be more reasonable. During his illness Rose had sent him in a couple of little notes, and he had ended each with the words: "Hurry up and come back." Philip thought Rose must be looking forward as much to his return as he was himself to seeing Rose. He found that owing to the death from scarlet fever of one of the boys in the Sixth there had been some shifting in the studies and Rose was no longer in his. It was a bitter disappointment. But as soon as he arrived he burst into Rose's study. Rose was sitting at his desk, working with a boy called Hunter, and turned round crossly as Philip came in. "Who the devil's that?" he cried. And then, seeing Philip: "Oh, it's you." Philip stopped in embarrassment. "I thought I'd come in and see how you were." "We were just working." Hunter broke into the conversation. "When did you get back?" "Five minutes ago." They sat and looked at him as though he was disturbing them. They evidently expected him to go quickly. Philip reddened. "I'll be off. You might look in when you've done," he said to Rose. "All right." Philip closed the door behind him and limped back to his own study. He felt frightfully hurt. Rose, far from seeming glad to see him, had looked almost put out. They might never have been more than acquaintances. Though he waited in his study, not leaving it for a moment in case just then Rose should come, his friend never appeared; and next morning when he went in to prayers he saw Rose and Hunter singing along arm in arm. What he could not see for himself others told him. He had forgotten that three months is a long time in a schoolboy's life, and though he had passed them in solitude Rose had lived in the world. Hunter had stepped into the vacant place. Philip found that Rose was quietly avoiding him. But he was not the boy to accept a situation without putting it into words; he waited till he was sure Rose was alone in his study and went in. "May I come in?" he asked. Rose looked at him with an embarrassment that made him angry with Philip. "Yes, if you want to." "It's very kind of you," said Philip sarcastically. "What d'you want?" "I say, why have you been so rotten since I came back?" "Oh, don't be an ass," said Rose. "I don't know what you see in Hunter." "That's my business." Philip looked down. He could not bring himself to say what was in his heart. He was afraid of humiliating himself. Rose got up. "I've got to go to the Gym," he said. When he was at the door Philip forced himself to speak. "I say, Rose, don't be a perfect beast." "Oh, go to hell." Rose slammed the door behind him and left Philip alone. Philip shivered with rage. He went back to his study and turned the conversation over in his mind. He hated Rose now, he wanted to hurt him, he thought of biting things he might have said to him. He brooded over the end to their friendship and fancied that others were talking of it. In his sensitiveness he saw sneers and wonderings in other fellows' manner when they were not bothering their heads with him at all. He imagined to himself what they were saying. "After all, it wasn't likely to last long. I wonder he ever stuck Carey at all. Blighter!" To show his indifference he struck up a violent friendship with a boy called Sharp whom he hated and despised. He was a London boy, with a loutish air, a heavy fellow with the beginnings of a moustache on his lip and bushy eyebrows that joined one another across the bridge of his nose. He had soft hands and manners too suave for his years. He spoke with the suspicion of a cockney accent. He was one of those boys who are too slack to play games, and he exercised great ingenuity in making excuses to avoid such as were compulsory. He was regarded by boys and masters with a vague dislike, and it was from arrogance that Philip now sought his society. Sharp in a couple of terms was going to Germany for a year. He hated school, which he looked upon as an indignity to be endured till he was old enough to go out into the world. London was all he cared for, and he had many stories to tell of his doings there during the holidays. From his conversation--he spoke in a soft, deep-toned voice--there emerged the vague rumour of the London streets by night. Philip listened to him at once fascinated and repelled. With his vivid fancy he seemed to see the surging throng round the pit-door of theatres, and the glitter of cheap restaurants, bars where men, half drunk, sat on high stools talking with barmaids; and under the street lamps the mysterious passing of dark crowds bent upon pleasure. Sharp lent him cheap novels from Holywell Row, which Philip read in his cubicle with a sort of wonderful fear. Once Rose tried to effect a reconciliation. He was a good-natured fellow, who did not like having enemies. "I say, Carey, why are you being such a silly ass? It doesn't do you any good cutting me and all that." "I don't know what you mean," answered Philip. "Well, I don't see why you shouldn't talk." "You bore me," said Philip. "Please yourself." Rose shrugged his shoulders and left him. Philip was very white, as he always became when he was moved, and his heart beat violently. When Rose went away he felt suddenly sick with misery. He did not know why he had answered in that fashion. He would have given anything to be friends with Rose. He hated to have quarrelled with him, and now that he saw he had given him pain he was very sorry. But at the moment he had not been master of himself. It seemed that some devil had seized him, forcing him to say bitter things against his will, even though at the time he wanted to shake hands with Rose and meet him more than halfway. The desire to wound had been too strong for him. He had wanted to revenge himself for the pain and the humiliation he had endured. It was pride: it was folly too, for he knew that Rose would not care at all, while he would suffer bitterly. The thought came to him that he would go to Rose, and say: "I say, I'm sorry I was such a beast. I couldn't help it. Let's make it up." But he knew he would never be able to do it. He was afraid that Rose would sneer at him. He was angry with himself, and when Sharp came in a little while afterwards he seized upon the first opportunity to quarrel with him. Philip had a fiendish instinct for discovering other people's raw spots, and was able to say things that rankled because they were true. But Sharp had the last word. "I heard Rose talking about you to Mellor just now," he said. "Mellor said: Why didn't you kick him? It would teach him manners. And Rose said: I didn't like to. Damned cripple." Philip suddenly became scarlet. He could not answer, for there was a lump in his throat that almost choked him. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XX Philip was moved into the Sixth, but he hated school now with all his heart, and, having lost his ambition, cared nothing whether he did ill or well. He awoke in the morning with a sinking heart because he must go through another day of drudgery. He was tired of having to do things because he was told; and the restrictions irked him, not because they were unreasonable, but because they were restrictions. He yearned for freedom. He was weary of repeating things that he knew already and of the hammering away, for the sake of a thick-witted fellow, at something that he understood from the beginning. With Mr. Perkins you could work or not as you chose. He was at once eager and abstracted. The Sixth Form room was in a part of the old abbey which had been restored, and it had a gothic window: Philip tried to cheat his boredom by drawing this over and over again; and sometimes out of his head he drew the great tower of the Cathedral or the gateway that led into the precincts. He had a knack for drawing. Aunt Louisa during her youth had painted in water colours, and she had several albums filled with sketches of churches, old bridges, and picturesque cottages. They were often shown at the vicarage tea-parties. She had once given Philip a paint-box as a Christmas present, and he had started by copying her pictures. He copied them better than anyone could have expected, and presently he did little pictures of his own. Mrs. Carey encouraged him. It was a good way to keep him out of mischief, and later on his sketches would be useful for bazaars. Two or three of them had been framed and hung in his bed-room. But one day, at the end of the morning's work, Mr. Perkins stopped him as he was lounging out of the form-room. "I want to speak to you, Carey." Philip waited. Mr. Perkins ran his lean fingers through his beard and looked at Philip. He seemed to be thinking over what he wanted to say. "What's the matter with you, Carey?" he said abruptly. Philip, flushing, looked at him quickly. But knowing him well by now, without answering, he waited for him to go on. "I've been dissatisfied with you lately. You've been slack and inattentive. You seem to take no interest in your work. It's been slovenly and bad." "I'm very sorry, sir," said Philip. "Is that all you have to say for yourself?" Philip looked down sulkily. How could he answer that he was bored to death? "You know, this term you'll go down instead of up. I shan't give you a very good report." Philip wondered what he would say if he knew how the report was treated. It arrived at breakfast, Mr. Carey glanced at it indifferently, and passed it over to Philip. "There's your report. You'd better see what it says," he remarked, as he ran his fingers through the wrapper of a catalogue of second-hand books. Philip read it. "Is it good?" asked Aunt Louisa. "Not so good as I deserve," answered Philip, with a smile, giving it to her. "I'll read it afterwards when I've got my spectacles," she said. But after breakfast Mary Ann came in to say the butcher was there, and she generally forgot. Mr. Perkins went on. "I'm disappointed with you. And I can't understand. I know you can do things if you want to, but you don't seem to want to any more. I was going to make you a monitor next term, but I think I'd better wait a bit." Philip flushed. He did not like the thought of being passed over. He tightened his lips. "And there's something else. You must begin thinking of your scholarship now. You won't get anything unless you start working very seriously." Philip was irritated by the lecture. He was angry with the headmaster, and angry with himself. "I don't think I'm going up to Oxford," he said. "Why not? I thought your idea was to be ordained." "I've changed my mind." "Why?" Philip did not answer. Mr. Perkins, holding himself oddly as he always did, like a figure in one of Perugino's pictures, drew his fingers thoughtfully through his beard. He looked at Philip as though he were trying to understand and then abruptly told him he might go. Apparently he was not satisfied, for one evening, a week later, when Philip had to go into his study with some papers, he resumed the conversation; but this time he adopted a different method: he spoke to Philip not as a schoolmaster with a boy but as one human being with another. He did not seem to care now that Philip's work was poor, that he ran small chance against keen rivals of carrying off the scholarship necessary for him to go to Oxford: the important matter was his changed intention about his life afterwards. Mr. Perkins set himself to revive his eagerness to be ordained. With infinite skill he worked on his feelings, and this was easier since he was himself genuinely moved. Philip's change of mind caused him bitter distress, and he really thought he was throwing away his chance of happiness in life for he knew not what. His voice was very persuasive. And Philip, easily moved by the emotion of others, very emotional himself notwithstanding a placid exterior--his face, partly by nature but also from the habit of all these years at school, seldom except by his quick flushing showed what he felt--Philip was deeply touched by what the master said. He was very grateful to him for the interest he showed, and he was conscience-stricken by the grief which he felt his behaviour caused him. It was subtly flattering to know that with the whole school to think about Mr. Perkins should trouble with him, but at the same time something else in him, like another person standing at his elbow, clung desperately to two words. "I won't. I won't. I won't." He felt himself slipping. He was powerless against the weakness that seemed to well up in him; it was like the water that rises up in an empty bottle held over a full basin; and he set his teeth, saying the words over and over to himself. "I won't. I won't. I won't." At last Mr. Perkins put his hand on Philip's shoulder. "I don't want to influence you," he said. "You must decide for yourself. Pray to Almighty God for help and guidance." When Philip came out of the headmaster's house there was a light rain falling. He went under the archway that led to the precincts, there was not a soul there, and the rooks were silent in the elms. He walked round slowly. He felt hot, and the rain did him good. He thought over all that Mr. Perkins had said, calmly now that he was withdrawn from the fervour of his personality, and he was thankful he had not given way. In the darkness he could but vaguely see the great mass of the Cathedral: he hated it now because of the irksomeness of the long services which he was forced to attend. The anthem was interminable, and you had to stand drearily while it was being sung; you could not hear the droning sermon, and your body twitched because you had to sit still when you wanted to move about. Then Philip thought of the two services every Sunday at Blackstable. The church was bare and cold, and there was a smell all about one of pomade and starched clothes. The curate preached once and his uncle preached once. As he grew up he had learned to know his uncle; Philip was downright and intolerant, and he could not understand that a man might sincerely say things as a clergyman which he never acted up to as a man. The deception outraged him. His uncle was a weak and selfish man, whose chief desire it was to be saved trouble. Mr. Perkins had spoken to him of the beauty of a life dedicated to the service of God. Philip knew what sort of lives the clergy led in the corner of East Anglia which was his home. There was the Vicar of Whitestone, a parish a little way from Blackstable: he was a bachelor and to give himself something to do had lately taken up farming: the local paper constantly reported the cases he had in the county court against this one and that, labourers he would not pay their wages to or tradesmen whom he accused of cheating him; scandal said he starved his cows, and there was much talk about some general action which should be taken against him. Then there was the Vicar of Ferne, a bearded, fine figure of a man: his wife had been forced to leave him because of his cruelty, and she had filled the neighbourhood with stories of his immorality. The Vicar of Surle, a tiny hamlet by the sea, was to be seen every evening in the public house a stone's throw from his vicarage; and the churchwardens had been to Mr. Carey to ask his advice. There was not a soul for any of them to talk to except small farmers or fishermen; there were long winter evenings when the wind blew, whistling drearily through the leafless trees, and all around they saw nothing but the bare monotony of ploughed fields; and there was poverty, and there was lack of any work that seemed to matter; every kink in their characters had free play; there was nothing to restrain them; they grew narrow and eccentric: Philip knew all this, but in his young intolerance he did not offer it as an excuse. He shivered at the thought of leading such a life; he wanted to get out into the world. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXI Mr. Perkins soon saw that his words had had no effect on Philip, and for the rest of the term ignored him. He wrote a report which was vitriolic. When it arrived and Aunt Louisa asked Philip what it was like, he answered cheerfully. "Rotten." "Is it?" said the Vicar. "I must look at it again." "Do you think there's any use in my staying on at Tercanbury? I should have thought it would be better if I went to Germany for a bit." "What has put that in your head?" said Aunt Louisa. "Don't you think it's rather a good idea?" Sharp had already left King's School and had written to Philip from Hanover. He was really starting life, and it made Philip more restless to think of it. He felt he could not bear another year of restraint. "But then you wouldn't get a scholarship." "I haven't a chance of getting one anyhow. And besides, I don't know that I particularly want to go to Oxford." "But if you're going to be ordained, Philip?" Aunt Louisa exclaimed in dismay. "I've given up that idea long ago." Mrs. Carey looked at him with startled eyes, and then, used to self-restraint, she poured out another cup of tea for his uncle. They did not speak. In a moment Philip saw tears slowly falling down her cheeks. His heart was suddenly wrung because he caused her pain. In her tight black dress, made by the dressmaker down the street, with her wrinkled face and pale tired eyes, her gray hair still done in the frivolous ringlets of her youth, she was a ridiculous but strangely pathetic figure. Philip saw it for the first time. Afterwards, when the Vicar was shut up in his study with the curate, he put his arms round her waist. "I say, I'm sorry you're upset, Aunt Louisa," he said. "But it's no good my being ordained if I haven't a real vocation, is it?" "I'm so disappointed, Philip," she moaned. "I'd set my heart on it. I thought you could be your uncle's curate, and then when our time came--after all, we can't last for ever, can we?--you might have taken his place." Philip shivered. He was seized with panic. His heart beat like a pigeon in a trap beating with its wings. His aunt wept softly, her head upon his shoulder. "I wish you'd persuade Uncle William to let me leave Tercanbury. I'm so sick of it." But the Vicar of Blackstable did not easily alter any arrangements he had made, and it had always been intended that Philip should stay at King's School till he was eighteen, and should then go to Oxford. At all events he would not hear of Philip leaving then, for no notice had been given and the term's fee would have to be paid in any case. "Then will you give notice for me to leave at Christmas?" said Philip, at the end of a long and often bitter conversation. "I'll write to Mr. Perkins about it and see what he says." "Oh, I wish to goodness I were twenty-one. It is awful to be at somebody else's beck and call." "Philip, you shouldn't speak to your uncle like that," said Mrs. Carey gently. "But don't you see that Perkins will want me to stay? He gets so much a head for every chap in the school." "Why don't you want to go to Oxford?" "What's the good if I'm not going into the Church?" "You can't go into the Church: you're in the Church already," said the Vicar. "Ordained then," replied Philip impatiently. "What are you going to be, Philip?" asked Mrs. Carey. "I don't know. I've not made up my mind. But whatever I am, it'll be useful to know foreign languages. I shall get far more out of a year in Germany than by staying on at that hole." He would not say that he felt Oxford would be little better than a continuation of his life at school. He wished immensely to be his own master. Besides he would be known to a certain extent among old schoolfellows, and he wanted to get away from them all. He felt that his life at school had been a failure. He wanted to start fresh. It happened that his desire to go to Germany fell in with certain ideas which had been of late discussed at Blackstable. Sometimes friends came to stay with the doctor and brought news of the world outside; and the visitors spending August by the sea had their own way of looking at things. The Vicar had heard that there were people who did not think the old-fashioned education so useful nowadays as it had been in the past, and modern languages were gaining an importance which they had not had in his own youth. His own mind was divided, for a younger brother of his had been sent to Germany when he failed in some examination, thus creating a precedent but since he had there died of typhoid it was impossible to look upon the experiment as other than dangerous. The result of innumerable conversations was that Philip should go back to Tercanbury for another term, and then should leave. With this agreement Philip was not dissatisfied. But when he had been back a few days the headmaster spoke to him. "I've had a letter from your uncle. It appears you want to go to Germany, and he asks me what I think about it." Philip was astounded. He was furious with his guardian for going back on his word. "I thought it was settled, sir," he said. "Far from it. I've written to say I think it the greatest mistake to take you away." Philip immediately sat down and wrote a violent letter to his uncle. He did not measure his language. He was so angry that he could not get to sleep till quite late that night, and he awoke in the early morning and began brooding over the way they had treated him. He waited impatiently for an answer. In two or three days it came. It was a mild, pained letter from Aunt Louisa, saying that he should not write such things to his uncle, who was very much distressed. He was unkind and unchristian. He must know they were only trying to do their best for him, and they were so much older than he that they must be better judges of what was good for him. Philip clenched his hands. He had heard that statement so often, and he could not see why it was true; they did not know the conditions as he did, why should they accept it as self-evident that their greater age gave them greater wisdom? The letter ended with the information that Mr. Carey had withdrawn the notice he had given. Philip nursed his wrath till the next half-holiday. They had them on Tuesdays and Thursdays, since on Saturday afternoons they had to go to a service in the Cathedral. He stopped behind when the rest of the Sixth went out. "May I go to Blackstable this afternoon, please, sir?" he asked. "No," said the headmaster briefly. "I wanted to see my uncle about something very important." "Didn't you hear me say no?" Philip did not answer. He went out. He felt almost sick with humiliation, the humiliation of having to ask and the humiliation of the curt refusal. He hated the headmaster now. Philip writhed under that despotism which never vouchsafed a reason for the most tyrannous act. He was too angry to care what he did, and after dinner walked down to the station, by the back ways he knew so well, just in time to catch the train to Blackstable. He walked into the vicarage and found his uncle and aunt sitting in the dining-room. "Hulloa, where have you sprung from?" said the Vicar. It was very clear that he was not pleased to see him. He looked a little uneasy. "I thought I'd come and see you about my leaving. I want to know what you mean by promising me one thing when I was here, and doing something different a week after." He was a little frightened at his own boldness, but he had made up his mind exactly what words to use, and, though his heart beat violently, he forced himself to say them. "Have you got leave to come here this afternoon?" "No. I asked Perkins and he refused. If you like to write and tell him I've been here you can get me into a really fine old row." Mrs. Carey sat knitting with trembling hands. She was unused to scenes and they agitated her extremely. "It would serve you right if I told him," said Mr. Carey. "If you like to be a perfect sneak you can. After writing to Perkins as you did you're quite capable of it." It was foolish of Philip to say that, because it gave the Vicar exactly the opportunity he wanted. "I'm not going to sit still while you say impertinent things to me," he said with dignity. He got up and walked quickly out of the room into his study. Philip heard him shut the door and lock it. "Oh, I wish to God I were twenty-one. It is awful to be tied down like this." Aunt Louisa began to cry quietly. "Oh, Philip, you oughtn't to have spoken to your uncle like that. Do please go and tell him you're sorry." "I'm not in the least sorry. He's taking a mean advantage. Of course it's just waste of money keeping me on at school, but what does he care? It's not his money. It was cruel to put me under the guardianship of people who know nothing about things." "Philip." Philip in his voluble anger stopped suddenly at the sound of her voice. It was heart-broken. He had not realised what bitter things he was saying. "Philip, how can you be so unkind? You know we are only trying to do our best for you, and we know that we have no experience; it isn't as if we'd had any children of our own: that's why we consulted Mr. Perkins." Her voice broke. "I've tried to be like a mother to you. I've loved you as if you were my own son." She was so small and frail, there was something so pathetic in her old-maidish air, that Philip was touched. A great lump came suddenly in his throat and his eyes filled with tears. "I'm so sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to be beastly." He knelt down beside her and took her in his arms, and kissed her wet, withered cheeks. She sobbed bitterly, and he seemed to feel on a sudden the pity of that wasted life. She had never surrendered herself before to such a display of emotion. "I know I've not been what I wanted to be to you, Philip, but I didn't know how. It's been just as dreadful for me to have no children as for you to have no mother." Philip forgot his anger and his own concerns, but thought only of consoling her, with broken words and clumsy little caresses. Then the clock struck, and he had to bolt off at once to catch the only train that would get him back to Tercanbury in time for call-over. As he sat in the corner of the railway carriage he saw that he had done nothing. He was angry with himself for his weakness. It was despicable to have allowed himself to be turned from his purpose by the pompous airs of the Vicar and the tears of his aunt. But as the result of he knew not what conversations between the couple another letter was written to the headmaster. Mr. Perkins read it with an impatient shrug of the shoulders. He showed it to Philip. It ran: Dear Mr. Perkins, Forgive me for troubling you again about my ward, but both his Aunt and I have been uneasy about him. He seems very anxious to leave school, and his Aunt thinks he is unhappy. It is very difficult for us to know what to do as we are not his parents. He does not seem to think he is doing very well and he feels it is wasting his money to stay on. I should be very much obliged if you would have a talk to him, and if he is still of the same mind perhaps it would be better if he left at Christmas as I originally intended. Yours very truly, William Carey. Philip gave him back the letter. He felt a thrill of pride in his triumph. He had got his own way, and he was satisfied. His will had gained a victory over the wills of others. "It's not much good my spending half an hour writing to your uncle if he changes his mind the next letter he gets from you," said the headmaster irritably. Philip said nothing, and his face was perfectly placid; but he could not prevent the twinkle in his eyes. Mr. Perkins noticed it and broke into a little laugh. "You've rather scored, haven't you?" he said. Then Philip smiled outright. He could not conceal his exultation. "Is it true that you're very anxious to leave?" "Yes, sir." "Are you unhappy here?" Philip blushed. He hated instinctively any attempt to get into the depths of his feelings. "Oh, I don't know, sir." Mr. Perkins, slowly dragging his fingers through his beard, looked at him thoughtfully. He seemed to speak almost to himself. "Of course schools are made for the average. The holes are all round, and whatever shape the pegs are they must wedge in somehow. One hasn't time to bother about anything but the average." Then suddenly he addressed himself to Philip: "Look here, I've got a suggestion to make to you. It's getting on towards the end of the term now. Another term won't kill you, and if you want to go to Germany you'd better go after Easter than after Christmas. It'll be much pleasanter in the spring than in midwinter. If at the end of the next term you still want to go I'll make no objection. What d'you say to that?" "Thank you very much, sir." Philip was so glad to have gained the last three months that he did not mind the extra term. The school seemed less of a prison when he knew that before Easter he would be free from it for ever. His heart danced within him. That evening in chapel he looked round at the boys, standing according to their forms, each in his due place, and he chuckled with satisfaction at the thought that soon he would never see them again. It made him regard them almost with a friendly feeling. His eyes rested on Rose. Rose took his position as a monitor very seriously: he had quite an idea of being a good influence in the school; it was his turn to read the lesson that evening, and he read it very well. Philip smiled when he thought that he would be rid of him for ever, and it would not matter in six months whether Rose was tall and straight-limbed; and where would the importance be that he was a monitor and captain of the eleven? Philip looked at the masters in their gowns. Gordon was dead, he had died of apoplexy two years before, but all the rest were there. Philip knew now what a poor lot they were, except Turner perhaps, there was something of a man in him; and he writhed at the thought of the subjection in which they had held him. In six months they would not matter either. Their praise would mean nothing to him, and he would shrug his shoulders at their censure. Philip had learned not to express his emotions by outward signs, and shyness still tormented him, but he had often very high spirits; and then, though he limped about demurely, silent and reserved, it seemed to be hallooing in his heart. He seemed to himself to walk more lightly. All sorts of ideas danced through his head, fancies chased one another so furiously that he could not catch them; but their coming and their going filled him with exhilaration. Now, being happy, he was able to work, and during the remaining weeks of the term set himself to make up for his long neglect. His brain worked easily, and he took a keen pleasure in the activity of his intellect. He did very well in the examinations that closed the term. Mr. Perkins made only one remark: he was talking to him about an essay he had written, and, after the usual criticisms, said: "So you've made up your mind to stop playing the fool for a bit, have you?" He smiled at him with his shining teeth, and Philip, looking down, gave an embarrassed smile. The half dozen boys who expected to divide between them the various prizes which were given at the end of the summer term had ceased to look upon Philip as a serious rival, but now they began to regard him with some uneasiness. He told no one that he was leaving at Easter and so was in no sense a competitor, but left them to their anxieties. He knew that Rose flattered himself on his French, for he had spent two or three holidays in France; and he expected to get the Dean's Prize for English essay; Philip got a good deal of satisfaction in watching his dismay when he saw how much better Philip was doing in these subjects than himself. Another fellow, Norton, could not go to Oxford unless he got one of the scholarships at the disposal of the school. He asked Philip if he was going in for them. "Have you any objection?" asked Philip. It entertained him to think that he held someone else's future in his hand. There was something romantic in getting these various rewards actually in his grasp, and then leaving them to others because he disdained them. At last the breaking-up day came, and he went to Mr. Perkins to bid him good-bye. "You don't mean to say you really want to leave?" Philip's face fell at the headmaster's evident surprise. "You said you wouldn't put any objection in the way, sir," he answered. "I thought it was only a whim that I'd better humour. I know you're obstinate and headstrong. What on earth d'you want to leave for now? You've only got another term in any case. You can get the Magdalen scholarship easily; you'll get half the prizes we've got to give." Philip looked at him sullenly. He felt that he had been tricked; but he had the promise, and Perkins would have to stand by it. "You'll have a very pleasant time at Oxford. You needn't decide at once what you're going to do afterwards. I wonder if you realise how delightful the life is up there for anyone who has brains." "I've made all my arrangements now to go to Germany, sir," said Philip. "Are they arrangements that couldn't possibly be altered?" asked Mr. Perkins, with his quizzical smile. "I shall be very sorry to lose you. In schools the rather stupid boys who work always do better than the clever boy who's idle, but when the clever boy works--why then, he does what you've done this term." Philip flushed darkly. He was unused to compliments, and no one had ever told him he was clever. The headmaster put his hand on Philip's shoulder. "You know, driving things into the heads of thick-witted boys is dull work, but when now and then you have the chance of teaching a boy who comes half-way towards you, who understands almost before you've got the words out of your mouth, why, then teaching is the most exhilarating thing in the world." Philip was melted by kindness; it had never occurred to him that it mattered really to Mr. Perkins whether he went or stayed. He was touched and immensely flattered. It would be pleasant to end up his school-days with glory and then go to Oxford: in a flash there appeared before him the life which he had heard described from boys who came back to play in the O.K.S. match or in letters from the University read out in one of the studies. But he was ashamed; he would look such a fool in his own eyes if he gave in now; his uncle would chuckle at the success of the headmaster's ruse. It was rather a come-down from the dramatic surrender of all these prizes which were in his reach, because he disdained to take them, to the plain, ordinary winning of them. It only required a little more persuasion, just enough to save his self-respect, and Philip would have done anything that Mr. Perkins wished; but his face showed nothing of his conflicting emotions. It was placid and sullen. "I think I'd rather go, sir," he said. Mr. Perkins, like many men who manage things by their personal influence, grew a little impatient when his power was not immediately manifest. He had a great deal of work to do, and could not waste more time on a boy who seemed to him insanely obstinate. "Very well, I promised to let you if you really wanted it, and I keep my promise. When do you go to Germany?" Philip's heart beat violently. The battle was won, and he did not know whether he had not rather lost it. "At the beginning of May, sir," he answered. "Well, you must come and see us when you get back." He held out his hand. If he had given him one more chance Philip would have changed his mind, but he seemed to look upon the matter as settled. Philip walked out of the house. His school-days were over, and he was free; but the wild exultation to which he had looked forward at that moment was not there. He walked round the precincts slowly, and a profound depression seized him. He wished now that he had not been foolish. He did not want to go, but he knew he could never bring himself to go to the headmaster and tell him he would stay. That was a humiliation he could never put upon himself. He wondered whether he had done right. He was dissatisfied with himself and with all his circumstances. He asked himself dully whether whenever you got your way you wished afterwards that you hadn't. </CHAPTER>

Chapters XV-XXI

https://web.archive.org/web/20180820052247/http://www.pinkmonkey.com/booknotes/monkeynotes/pmOfHuman14.asp

Philip graduates from preparatory school and at the age of thirteen enters King's School, a well established institution known for its excellence in learning. It is conforming and traditional in every way, with a curriculum based on the classics. When Mr. Perkins replaces the old headmaster, he is looked down upon. Though he is well qualified for the job, others judge him as unfit because he belongs to a family of linen drapers. Perkins brings many changes to the school, which harms his reputation even more. Philip, however, admires the new headmaster for his kindness, intelligence, and insight. He even starts taking an interest in religion again because it is taught by Perkins and for a time considers being ordained. Philip makes friends with a boy named Rose, who helps him gain confidence. Then Philip contracts scarlet fever and has to stay away from school for a long while. When he returns from Blackstable after recovering, he finds that Rose has a new friend and little interest in him. Deprived of friendship once again, Philip starts losing interest in school and thinks about leaving. Perkins and his uncle try unsuccessfully to dissuade him. He finally departs the King's School and heads to Germany, for he wants to see the world.

Notes In these chapters, Maugham cynically mocks the old staff at the King's School who value tradition and social status more than education and erudition. Perkins, though very intelligent and well- educated, is rejected by them because he is not considered to be a gentleman due to his family's status. When he changes the curriculum, to allow French and German to be taught, they are horrified. Philip, however, is attracted to Perkins, probably because the older teachers taunted him about his deformity and belittled his intelligence. Perkins, on the other hand, recognizes his intelligence, appreciates his knowledge, and encourages him to do his best. As Philip grows from child to adolescent, there is a transformation in his attitude and behavior, as seen in these chapters. Like most boys his age, he goes through significant mood swings and rapid change of opinion. One moment he cares, and the next moment he hates. He also becomes intolerant of those who lack his intelligence and makes bitter remarks about them, an action that isolates him even further. When Rose extends a hand of friendship to Philip, he is delighted and blossoms with the companionship. The friendship is an odd one, for Rose is a complete contrast to Philip. He is big, athletic, well-liked, charming, and not a very good student. Unfortunately, Philip is jealous of Rose and does not want to share his attention. He quarrels often with his friend, which irritates Rose. When Rose rejects him after his long absence due to the scarlet fever, Philip is miserable, and his studies suffer. Despite the encouragement of his uncle and Perkins to stay in school, Philip decides to leave. He has lost interest in ever joining the clergy, for he is very critical of the behavior of his uncle and the other Vicars and religious leaders. He is especially upset when Perkins and his uncle try to trick him into staying. Philip wants to see the world and decides to travel to Germany. It is important to notice that Philip's aunt is still sensitive and caring in her own inept way. She buys him a watercolor set, and Philip enjoys using it. His paintings show that he has some natural talent, which comes into play later in the novel.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_1_to_4.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_1_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 1-4

chapters 1-4

{"name": "Chapters 1-4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter1-4", "summary": "It is a grey day in London, 1885, and Philip Carey, a small boy, is taken by his nurse to his mother's bed. She has just given birth to a still-born child and is dying. He is half asleep and snuggles close to his mother. The doctor tries to remove the child, but she knows it is the last time she will see him and clings to him, caressing him, especially his deformed foot. As she touches it, she cries. . The doctor gives the child to the nurse and makes arrangements. The boy will go temporarily to Miss Watkin, his godmother, and afterwards to his aunt and uncle. . A week later Philip is playing in the drawingroom at Miss Watkin's house. Since he has been an only child he is used to amusing himself and has made a cave with pillows, pretending he is hiding from Red Indians. His nurse Emma comes in dressed in black. He remarks on her new dress. She explains his mother has gone away and he will never see her again. She is in heaven. Philip cries, and Emma cries, though he doesn't understand. . He says good by to his godmother, Henrietta Watkin, who had been his mother's friend and enjoys getting pity from a circle of ladies, but he hears Miss Watkin explain that he has a clubfoot, and it was a grief to his mother. . When he goes home with Emma, he meets his uncle, Rev. William Carey. He explains that Philip will live with him and his Aunt Louisa at the vicarage. His uncle is over fifty, and he and his wife are childless. The uncle explains that his nurse, Emma, won't be coming with him. He cries and clings to her. The uncle takes him on his knee. . Although Philip's father had been a surgeon with a good practice, he had died suddenly from blood poisoning six months earlier and had left only life insurance and a house. Philip's mother rented the house out and took another house for a year till the posthumous child was born. She did not know how to manage money. Philip was left with only two thousand pounds. Mr. Carey says Philip may bring all his toys and one thing to remember each parent. . The boy goes to his mother's empty room, opens the closet where her dresses still hold the scent she wore. He buries his face in them, then chooses a small clock his mother liked. It seems like his mother has just gone out for a walk. . Blackstable parsonage is sixty miles from London. His aunt and uncle try to be kind, but they don't know how to handle children and expect him to conform to their strict and penurious ways. The uncle is vicar in the Church of England and has an unvarying routine. Mrs. Carey always gets second best, for her husband is first in the household. His uncle is the only one who gets a boiled egg, but he offers the top to Philip.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters I-IV . The style is subdued and factual, making the bleakness of the young boy's tragic life even more stark. He is an orphan, just losing both parents within the same year. His mother obviously loved him deeply and is worried about his deformed foot. She is characterized as beautiful but careless with money. She liked beauty, and for that reason probably, the nurse Emma had ordered masses of white flowers for the death room. The uncle thinks this an extravagance, and this is a first hint that the boy's life is going to be very different now. He has been in a sort of cocoon with his parents and nurse, unaware that there is anything wrong with him. His overhearing Miss Watkin's conversation about his clubfoot is a new revelation. . Suddenly, he loses everything, including his home, parents, and nurse. His aunt and uncle take him in but are older and have different values. This is the late Victorian period in England, and Mr. Carey is an old-fashioned clergyman in the established Church of England. Whatever little extravagances Philip may enjoyed with his parents in London are now gone, and the aunt and uncle must manage a very tight budget at the vicarage. It is cold, and they light as few fires as possible. He gets a tiny bedroom. The top of the egg is all he is offered, and the aunt gets no egg at all, for she is a typical Victorian wife who gives up pleasures for others, letting her husband have the comfortable chair and best food. . While the story sounds like the beginning of a Dickens novel in terms of the plot, there is no sentimentality or overt emotion. The narrative details the psychological state of the characters but more in the manner of a reporter. The emptiness and drabness of the boy's life are thus economically conveyed through the few details. . Important early facts about Philip are his closeness with his beautiful mother and the sudden loss of love and security. He is a delicate child with an imagination and a deformed foot."}

<CHAPTER> I The day broke gray and dull. The clouds hung heavily, and there was a rawness in the air that suggested snow. A woman servant came into a room in which a child was sleeping and drew the curtains. She glanced mechanically at the house opposite, a stucco house with a portico, and went to the child's bed. "Wake up, Philip," she said. She pulled down the bed-clothes, took him in her arms, and carried him downstairs. He was only half awake. "Your mother wants you," she said. She opened the door of a room on the floor below and took the child over to a bed in which a woman was lying. It was his mother. She stretched out her arms, and the child nestled by her side. He did not ask why he had been awakened. The woman kissed his eyes, and with thin, small hands felt the warm body through his white flannel nightgown. She pressed him closer to herself. "Are you sleepy, darling?" she said. Her voice was so weak that it seemed to come already from a great distance. The child did not answer, but smiled comfortably. He was very happy in the large, warm bed, with those soft arms about him. He tried to make himself smaller still as he cuddled up against his mother, and he kissed her sleepily. In a moment he closed his eyes and was fast asleep. The doctor came forwards and stood by the bed-side. "Oh, don't take him away yet," she moaned. The doctor, without answering, looked at her gravely. Knowing she would not be allowed to keep the child much longer, the woman kissed him again; and she passed her hand down his body till she came to his feet; she held the right foot in her hand and felt the five small toes; and then slowly passed her hand over the left one. She gave a sob. "What's the matter?" said the doctor. "You're tired." She shook her head, unable to speak, and the tears rolled down her cheeks. The doctor bent down. "Let me take him." She was too weak to resist his wish, and she gave the child up. The doctor handed him back to his nurse. "You'd better put him back in his own bed." "Very well, sir." The little boy, still sleeping, was taken away. His mother sobbed now broken-heartedly. "What will happen to him, poor child?" The monthly nurse tried to quiet her, and presently, from exhaustion, the crying ceased. The doctor walked to a table on the other side of the room, upon which, under a towel, lay the body of a still-born child. He lifted the towel and looked. He was hidden from the bed by a screen, but the woman guessed what he was doing. "Was it a girl or a boy?" she whispered to the nurse. "Another boy." The woman did not answer. In a moment the child's nurse came back. She approached the bed. "Master Philip never woke up," she said. There was a pause. Then the doctor felt his patient's pulse once more. "I don't think there's anything I can do just now," he said. "I'll call again after breakfast." "I'll show you out, sir," said the child's nurse. They walked downstairs in silence. In the hall the doctor stopped. "You've sent for Mrs. Carey's brother-in-law, haven't you?" "Yes, sir." "D'you know at what time he'll be here?" "No, sir, I'm expecting a telegram." "What about the little boy? I should think he'd be better out of the way." "Miss Watkin said she'd take him, sir." "Who's she?" "She's his godmother, sir. D'you think Mrs. Carey will get over it, sir?" The doctor shook his head. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> II It was a week later. Philip was sitting on the floor in the drawing-room at Miss Watkin's house in Onslow gardens. He was an only child and used to amusing himself. The room was filled with massive furniture, and on each of the sofas were three big cushions. There was a cushion too in each arm-chair. All these he had taken and, with the help of the gilt rout chairs, light and easy to move, had made an elaborate cave in which he could hide himself from the Red Indians who were lurking behind the curtains. He put his ear to the floor and listened to the herd of buffaloes that raced across the prairie. Presently, hearing the door open, he held his breath so that he might not be discovered; but a violent hand pulled away a chair and the cushions fell down. "You naughty boy, Miss Watkin WILL be cross with you." "Hulloa, Emma!" he said. The nurse bent down and kissed him, then began to shake out the cushions, and put them back in their places. "Am I to come home?" he asked. "Yes, I've come to fetch you." "You've got a new dress on." It was in eighteen-eighty-five, and she wore a bustle. Her gown was of black velvet, with tight sleeves and sloping shoulders, and the skirt had three large flounces. She wore a black bonnet with velvet strings. She hesitated. The question she had expected did not come, and so she could not give the answer she had prepared. "Aren't you going to ask how your mamma is?" she said at length. "Oh, I forgot. How is mamma?" Now she was ready. "Your mamma is quite well and happy." "Oh, I am glad." "Your mamma's gone away. You won't ever see her any more." Philip did not know what she meant. "Why not?" "Your mamma's in heaven." She began to cry, and Philip, though he did not quite understand, cried too. Emma was a tall, big-boned woman, with fair hair and large features. She came from Devonshire and, notwithstanding her many years of service in London, had never lost the breadth of her accent. Her tears increased her emotion, and she pressed the little boy to her heart. She felt vaguely the pity of that child deprived of the only love in the world that is quite unselfish. It seemed dreadful that he must be handed over to strangers. But in a little while she pulled herself together. "Your Uncle William is waiting in to see you," she said. "Go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin, and we'll go home." "I don't want to say good-bye," he answered, instinctively anxious to hide his tears. "Very well, run upstairs and get your hat." He fetched it, and when he came down Emma was waiting for him in the hall. He heard the sound of voices in the study behind the dining-room. He paused. He knew that Miss Watkin and her sister were talking to friends, and it seemed to him--he was nine years old--that if he went in they would be sorry for him. "I think I'll go and say good-bye to Miss Watkin." "I think you'd better," said Emma. "Go in and tell them I'm coming," he said. He wished to make the most of his opportunity. Emma knocked at the door and walked in. He heard her speak. "Master Philip wants to say good-bye to you, miss." There was a sudden hush of the conversation, and Philip limped in. Henrietta Watkin was a stout woman, with a red face and dyed hair. In those days to dye the hair excited comment, and Philip had heard much gossip at home when his godmother's changed colour. She lived with an elder sister, who had resigned herself contentedly to old age. Two ladies, whom Philip did not know, were calling, and they looked at him curiously. "My poor child," said Miss Watkin, opening her arms. She began to cry. Philip understood now why she had not been in to luncheon and why she wore a black dress. She could not speak. "I've got to go home," said Philip, at last. He disengaged himself from Miss Watkin's arms, and she kissed him again. Then he went to her sister and bade her good-bye too. One of the strange ladies asked if she might kiss him, and he gravely gave her permission. Though crying, he keenly enjoyed the sensation he was causing; he would have been glad to stay a little longer to be made much of, but felt they expected him to go, so he said that Emma was waiting for him. He went out of the room. Emma had gone downstairs to speak with a friend in the basement, and he waited for her on the landing. He heard Henrietta Watkin's voice. "His mother was my greatest friend. I can't bear to think that she's dead." "You oughtn't to have gone to the funeral, Henrietta," said her sister. "I knew it would upset you." Then one of the strangers spoke. "Poor little boy, it's dreadful to think of him quite alone in the world. I see he limps." "Yes, he's got a club-foot. It was such a grief to his mother." Then Emma came back. They called a hansom, and she told the driver where to go. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> III When they reached the house Mrs. Carey had died in--it was in a dreary, respectable street between Notting Hill Gate and High Street, Kensington--Emma led Philip into the drawing-room. His uncle was writing letters of thanks for the wreaths which had been sent. One of them, which had arrived too late for the funeral, lay in its cardboard box on the hall-table. "Here's Master Philip," said Emma. Mr. Carey stood up slowly and shook hands with the little boy. Then on second thoughts he bent down and kissed his forehead. He was a man of somewhat less than average height, inclined to corpulence, with his hair, worn long, arranged over the scalp so as to conceal his baldness. He was clean-shaven. His features were regular, and it was possible to imagine that in his youth he had been good-looking. On his watch-chain he wore a gold cross. "You're going to live with me now, Philip," said Mr. Carey. "Shall you like that?" Two years before Philip had been sent down to stay at the vicarage after an attack of chicken-pox; but there remained with him a recollection of an attic and a large garden rather than of his uncle and aunt. "Yes." "You must look upon me and your Aunt Louisa as your father and mother." The child's mouth trembled a little, he reddened, but did not answer. "Your dear mother left you in my charge." Mr. Carey had no great ease in expressing himself. When the news came that his sister-in-law was dying, he set off at once for London, but on the way thought of nothing but the disturbance in his life that would be caused if her death forced him to undertake the care of her son. He was well over fifty, and his wife, to whom he had been married for thirty years, was childless; he did not look forward with any pleasure to the presence of a small boy who might be noisy and rough. He had never much liked his sister-in-law. "I'm going to take you down to Blackstable tomorrow," he said. "With Emma?" The child put his hand in hers, and she pressed it. "I'm afraid Emma must go away," said Mr. Carey. "But I want Emma to come with me." Philip began to cry, and the nurse could not help crying too. Mr. Carey looked at them helplessly. "I think you'd better leave me alone with Master Philip for a moment." "Very good, sir." Though Philip clung to her, she released herself gently. Mr. Carey took the boy on his knee and put his arm round him. "You mustn't cry," he said. "You're too old to have a nurse now. We must see about sending you to school." "I want Emma to come with me," the child repeated. "It costs too much money, Philip. Your father didn't leave very much, and I don't know what's become of it. You must look at every penny you spend." Mr. Carey had called the day before on the family solicitor. Philip's father was a surgeon in good practice, and his hospital appointments suggested an established position; so that it was a surprise on his sudden death from blood-poisoning to find that he had left his widow little more than his life insurance and what could be got for the lease of their house in Bruton Street. This was six months ago; and Mrs. Carey, already in delicate health, finding herself with child, had lost her head and accepted for the lease the first offer that was made. She stored her furniture, and, at a rent which the parson thought outrageous, took a furnished house for a year, so that she might suffer from no inconvenience till her child was born. But she had never been used to the management of money, and was unable to adapt her expenditure to her altered circumstances. The little she had slipped through her fingers in one way and another, so that now, when all expenses were paid, not much more than two thousand pounds remained to support the boy till he was able to earn his own living. It was impossible to explain all this to Philip and he was sobbing still. "You'd better go to Emma," Mr. Carey said, feeling that she could console the child better than anyone. Without a word Philip slipped off his uncle's knee, but Mr. Carey stopped him. "We must go tomorrow, because on Saturday I've got to prepare my sermon, and you must tell Emma to get your things ready today. You can bring all your toys. And if you want anything to remember your father and mother by you can take one thing for each of them. Everything else is going to be sold." The boy slipped out of the room. Mr. Carey was unused to work, and he turned to his correspondence with resentment. On one side of the desk was a bundle of bills, and these filled him with irritation. One especially seemed preposterous. Immediately after Mrs. Carey's death Emma had ordered from the florist masses of white flowers for the room in which the dead woman lay. It was sheer waste of money. Emma took far too much upon herself. Even if there had been no financial necessity, he would have dismissed her. But Philip went to her, and hid his face in her bosom, and wept as though his heart would break. And she, feeling that he was almost her own son--she had taken him when he was a month old--consoled him with soft words. She promised that she would come and see him sometimes, and that she would never forget him; and she told him about the country he was going to and about her own home in Devonshire--her father kept a turnpike on the high-road that led to Exeter, and there were pigs in the sty, and there was a cow, and the cow had just had a calf--till Philip forgot his tears and grew excited at the thought of his approaching journey. Presently she put him down, for there was much to be done, and he helped her to lay out his clothes on the bed. She sent him into the nursery to gather up his toys, and in a little while he was playing happily. But at last he grew tired of being alone and went back to the bed-room, in which Emma was now putting his things into a big tin box; he remembered then that his uncle had said he might take something to remember his father and mother by. He told Emma and asked her what he should take. "You'd better go into the drawing-room and see what you fancy." "Uncle William's there." "Never mind that. They're your own things now." Philip went downstairs slowly and found the door open. Mr. Carey had left the room. Philip walked slowly round. They had been in the house so short a time that there was little in it that had a particular interest to him. It was a stranger's room, and Philip saw nothing that struck his fancy. But he knew which were his mother's things and which belonged to the landlord, and presently fixed on a little clock that he had once heard his mother say she liked. With this he walked again rather disconsolately upstairs. Outside the door of his mother's bed-room he stopped and listened. Though no one had told him not to go in, he had a feeling that it would be wrong to do so; he was a little frightened, and his heart beat uncomfortably; but at the same time something impelled him to turn the handle. He turned it very gently, as if to prevent anyone within from hearing, and then slowly pushed the door open. He stood on the threshold for a moment before he had the courage to enter. He was not frightened now, but it seemed strange. He closed the door behind him. The blinds were drawn, and the room, in the cold light of a January afternoon, was dark. On the dressing-table were Mrs. Carey's brushes and the hand mirror. In a little tray were hairpins. There was a photograph of himself on the chimney-piece and one of his father. He had often been in the room when his mother was not in it, but now it seemed different. There was something curious in the look of the chairs. The bed was made as though someone were going to sleep in it that night, and in a case on the pillow was a night-dress. Philip opened a large cupboard filled with dresses and, stepping in, took as many of them as he could in his arms and buried his face in them. They smelt of the scent his mother used. Then he pulled open the drawers, filled with his mother's things, and looked at them: there were lavender bags among the linen, and their scent was fresh and pleasant. The strangeness of the room left it, and it seemed to him that his mother had just gone out for a walk. She would be in presently and would come upstairs to have nursery tea with him. And he seemed to feel her kiss on his lips. It was not true that he would never see her again. It was not true simply because it was impossible. He climbed up on the bed and put his head on the pillow. He lay there quite still. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> IV Philip parted from Emma with tears, but the journey to Blackstable amused him, and, when they arrived, he was resigned and cheerful. Blackstable was sixty miles from London. Giving their luggage to a porter, Mr. Carey set out to walk with Philip to the vicarage; it took them little more than five minutes, and, when they reached it, Philip suddenly remembered the gate. It was red and five-barred: it swung both ways on easy hinges; and it was possible, though forbidden, to swing backwards and forwards on it. They walked through the garden to the front-door. This was only used by visitors and on Sundays, and on special occasions, as when the Vicar went up to London or came back. The traffic of the house took place through a side-door, and there was a back door as well for the gardener and for beggars and tramps. It was a fairly large house of yellow brick, with a red roof, built about five and twenty years before in an ecclesiastical style. The front-door was like a church porch, and the drawing-room windows were gothic. Mrs. Carey, knowing by what train they were coming, waited in the drawing-room and listened for the click of the gate. When she heard it she went to the door. "There's Aunt Louisa," said Mr. Carey, when he saw her. "Run and give her a kiss." Philip started to run, awkwardly, trailing his club-foot, and then stopped. Mrs. Carey was a little, shrivelled woman of the same age as her husband, with a face extraordinarily filled with deep wrinkles, and pale blue eyes. Her gray hair was arranged in ringlets according to the fashion of her youth. She wore a black dress, and her only ornament was a gold chain, from which hung a cross. She had a shy manner and a gentle voice. "Did you walk, William?" she said, almost reproachfully, as she kissed her husband. "I didn't think of it," he answered, with a glance at his nephew. "It didn't hurt you to walk, Philip, did it?" she asked the child. "No. I always walk." He was a little surprised at their conversation. Aunt Louisa told him to come in, and they entered the hall. It was paved with red and yellow tiles, on which alternately were a Greek Cross and the Lamb of God. An imposing staircase led out of the hall. It was of polished pine, with a peculiar smell, and had been put in because fortunately, when the church was reseated, enough wood remained over. The balusters were decorated with emblems of the Four Evangelists. "I've had the stove lighted as I thought you'd be cold after your journey," said Mrs. Carey. It was a large black stove that stood in the hall and was only lighted if the weather was very bad and the Vicar had a cold. It was not lighted if Mrs. Carey had a cold. Coal was expensive. Besides, Mary Ann, the maid, didn't like fires all over the place. If they wanted all them fires they must keep a second girl. In the winter Mr. and Mrs. Carey lived in the dining-room so that one fire should do, and in the summer they could not get out of the habit, so the drawing-room was used only by Mr. Carey on Sunday afternoons for his nap. But every Saturday he had a fire in the study so that he could write his sermon. Aunt Louisa took Philip upstairs and showed him into a tiny bed-room that looked out on the drive. Immediately in front of the window was a large tree, which Philip remembered now because the branches were so low that it was possible to climb quite high up it. "A small room for a small boy," said Mrs. Carey. "You won't be frightened at sleeping alone?" "Oh, no." On his first visit to the vicarage he had come with his nurse, and Mrs. Carey had had little to do with him. She looked at him now with some uncertainty. "Can you wash your own hands, or shall I wash them for you?" "I can wash myself," he answered firmly. "Well, I shall look at them when you come down to tea," said Mrs. Carey. She knew nothing about children. After it was settled that Philip should come down to Blackstable, Mrs. Carey had thought much how she should treat him; she was anxious to do her duty; but now he was there she found herself just as shy of him as he was of her. She hoped he would not be noisy and rough, because her husband did not like rough and noisy boys. Mrs. Carey made an excuse to leave Philip alone, but in a moment came back and knocked at the door; she asked him, without coming in, if he could pour out the water himself. Then she went downstairs and rang the bell for tea. The dining-room, large and well-proportioned, had windows on two sides of it, with heavy curtains of red rep; there was a big table in the middle; and at one end an imposing mahogany sideboard with a looking-glass in it. In one corner stood a harmonium. On each side of the fireplace were chairs covered in stamped leather, each with an antimacassar; one had arms and was called the husband, and the other had none and was called the wife. Mrs. Carey never sat in the arm-chair: she said she preferred a chair that was not too comfortable; there was always a lot to do, and if her chair had had arms she might not be so ready to leave it. Mr. Carey was making up the fire when Philip came in, and he pointed out to his nephew that there were two pokers. One was large and bright and polished and unused, and was called the Vicar; and the other, which was much smaller and had evidently passed through many fires, was called the Curate. "What are we waiting for?" said Mr. Carey. "I told Mary Ann to make you an egg. I thought you'd be hungry after your journey." Mrs. Carey thought the journey from London to Blackstable very tiring. She seldom travelled herself, for the living was only three hundred a year, and, when her husband wanted a holiday, since there was not money for two, he went by himself. He was very fond of Church Congresses and usually managed to go up to London once a year; and once he had been to Paris for the exhibition, and two or three times to Switzerland. Mary Ann brought in the egg, and they sat down. The chair was much too low for Philip, and for a moment neither Mr. Carey nor his wife knew what to do. "I'll put some books under him," said Mary Ann. She took from the top of the harmonium the large Bible and the prayer-book from which the Vicar was accustomed to read prayers, and put them on Philip's chair. "Oh, William, he can't sit on the Bible," said Mrs. Carey, in a shocked tone. "Couldn't you get him some books out of the study?" Mr. Carey considered the question for an instant. "I don't think it matters this once if you put the prayer-book on the top, Mary Ann," he said. "The book of Common Prayer is the composition of men like ourselves. It has no claim to divine authorship." "I hadn't thought of that, William," said Aunt Louisa. Philip perched himself on the books, and the Vicar, having said grace, cut the top off his egg. "There," he said, handing it to Philip, "you can eat my top if you like." Philip would have liked an egg to himself, but he was not offered one, so took what he could. "How have the chickens been laying since I went away?" asked the Vicar. "Oh, they've been dreadful, only one or two a day." "How did you like that top, Philip?" asked his uncle. "Very much, thank you." "You shall have another one on Sunday afternoon." Mr. Carey always had a boiled egg at tea on Sunday, so that he might be fortified for the evening service. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 1-4

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It is a grey day in London, 1885, and Philip Carey, a small boy, is taken by his nurse to his mother's bed. She has just given birth to a still-born child and is dying. He is half asleep and snuggles close to his mother. The doctor tries to remove the child, but she knows it is the last time she will see him and clings to him, caressing him, especially his deformed foot. As she touches it, she cries. . The doctor gives the child to the nurse and makes arrangements. The boy will go temporarily to Miss Watkin, his godmother, and afterwards to his aunt and uncle. . A week later Philip is playing in the drawingroom at Miss Watkin's house. Since he has been an only child he is used to amusing himself and has made a cave with pillows, pretending he is hiding from Red Indians. His nurse Emma comes in dressed in black. He remarks on her new dress. She explains his mother has gone away and he will never see her again. She is in heaven. Philip cries, and Emma cries, though he doesn't understand. . He says good by to his godmother, Henrietta Watkin, who had been his mother's friend and enjoys getting pity from a circle of ladies, but he hears Miss Watkin explain that he has a clubfoot, and it was a grief to his mother. . When he goes home with Emma, he meets his uncle, Rev. William Carey. He explains that Philip will live with him and his Aunt Louisa at the vicarage. His uncle is over fifty, and he and his wife are childless. The uncle explains that his nurse, Emma, won't be coming with him. He cries and clings to her. The uncle takes him on his knee. . Although Philip's father had been a surgeon with a good practice, he had died suddenly from blood poisoning six months earlier and had left only life insurance and a house. Philip's mother rented the house out and took another house for a year till the posthumous child was born. She did not know how to manage money. Philip was left with only two thousand pounds. Mr. Carey says Philip may bring all his toys and one thing to remember each parent. . The boy goes to his mother's empty room, opens the closet where her dresses still hold the scent she wore. He buries his face in them, then chooses a small clock his mother liked. It seems like his mother has just gone out for a walk. . Blackstable parsonage is sixty miles from London. His aunt and uncle try to be kind, but they don't know how to handle children and expect him to conform to their strict and penurious ways. The uncle is vicar in the Church of England and has an unvarying routine. Mrs. Carey always gets second best, for her husband is first in the household. His uncle is the only one who gets a boiled egg, but he offers the top to Philip.

Commentary on Chapters I-IV . The style is subdued and factual, making the bleakness of the young boy's tragic life even more stark. He is an orphan, just losing both parents within the same year. His mother obviously loved him deeply and is worried about his deformed foot. She is characterized as beautiful but careless with money. She liked beauty, and for that reason probably, the nurse Emma had ordered masses of white flowers for the death room. The uncle thinks this an extravagance, and this is a first hint that the boy's life is going to be very different now. He has been in a sort of cocoon with his parents and nurse, unaware that there is anything wrong with him. His overhearing Miss Watkin's conversation about his clubfoot is a new revelation. . Suddenly, he loses everything, including his home, parents, and nurse. His aunt and uncle take him in but are older and have different values. This is the late Victorian period in England, and Mr. Carey is an old-fashioned clergyman in the established Church of England. Whatever little extravagances Philip may enjoyed with his parents in London are now gone, and the aunt and uncle must manage a very tight budget at the vicarage. It is cold, and they light as few fires as possible. He gets a tiny bedroom. The top of the egg is all he is offered, and the aunt gets no egg at all, for she is a typical Victorian wife who gives up pleasures for others, letting her husband have the comfortable chair and best food. . While the story sounds like the beginning of a Dickens novel in terms of the plot, there is no sentimentality or overt emotion. The narrative details the psychological state of the characters but more in the manner of a reporter. The emptiness and drabness of the boy's life are thus economically conveyed through the few details. . Important early facts about Philip are his closeness with his beautiful mother and the sudden loss of love and security. He is a delicate child with an imagination and a deformed foot.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_5_to_9.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_2_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 5-9

chapters 5-9

{"name": "Chapters 5-9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter5-9", "summary": "At the vicarage Philip learns more about his parents. His father was a brilliant surgeon on the staff of St. Luke's Hospital in London. He earned a lot of money but spent it freely, for instance, on his marriage to one of his patients, a penniless but well-connected young woman. . The parson, seeing the lavish entertaining at his younger brother's home in London prophesies the worst will happen. He had seen grapes in the dining room, an expense he could not even imagine! When a packet of photographs arrives at the parsonage for Philip, the parson is surprised. Mrs. Carey, fearing she would die in childbirth, had gotten out of bed and had photographs taken of her so her son would not forget her. She had beautiful blonde hair and had put on an evening dress and furs. The parson cannot understand why she had a dozen taken instead of one. . The vicarage at Blackstable in Kent is very dull and never changes its routine. Mr. Carey shares The Times with two neighbors and starts his day with the newspaper. Philip accompanies Mrs. Carey to the market in the fishing village of Blackstable. She is careful to patronize the merchants who are church members. . When the churchwarden, Josiah Graves, quarrels with the vicar over whether he can chair a committee or whether the vicar should do it, Graves resigns, and then Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves have to mend fences behind the scenes. Philip has to wait while his aunt visits with people in town and amuses himself by skipping stones on the beach. In the afternoons, Philip learns Latin and mathematics from his uncle, and French and piano from his aunt. . There are few parties, and the Careys do not mingle much. They like to have tea and backgammon by themselves. Sundays are more tense because they are church days, and Philip has to attend two services while his uncle preaches and not fidget, though he is bored. . He begins to love the maid, Mary Ann, for she bathes him, tucks him in bed and tells him stories of the sea that touch his imagination. He spends time near her playing in the kitchen. . The uncle will not let Philip go home with Mary Ann, for he fears the rough fisher folk who go to chapel instead of church. The aunt wants to mother Philip, but she doesn't know how and feels awkward around the boy. . When Philip accidentally makes a noise playing on Sunday while his uncle is napping, the vicar shames him as wicked for playing on Sunday and won't let him go to service. His aunt tries to cheer him up, but he lashes out at her, saying he hates her. She begins to cry and takes him on her lap. . The next Sunday the vicar gives Philip prayers to memorize to keep him busy, so he won't play. The boy doesn't understand them and goes into panic. His aunt finds him sobbing. She intervenes with her husband, allowing him to look at picture books from their library to amuse him. This is how he gets into the habit of reading. He soon begins a course of unsupervised reading, picking out what is most thrilling. In the summer, he reads for hours in a hammock in the garden. He is not allowed to play with visiting children from London who might be a bad influence. The Careys expect Philip to take holy orders when he grows up.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters V-IX . The narrator does not comment but details the smallness of the world Philip inhabits with his aunt and uncle in the vicarage. For instance, his aunt will not look at any dissenter or non-Anglican she passes in the street. The uncle believes the fisher folk who go to chapel to be rough and wicked. This is the late Victorian period when such religious differences were important. His uncle drums into him that only gentlemen belong to the Church of England, while the lower classes go to \"chapel,\" run by other Protestant sects. From a larger point of view, the divisions are minute: Christian against Christian. But the various sects had doctrinal and class differences. . Josiah Graves, the church warden, is in a power struggle with his pastor. One of their petty quarrels concerns the vicar's love of candlesticks and other \"popish\" customs. The vicar had been influenced by the Oxford Movement when many Anglicans were lured over to the Church of Rome because of its ritual, and consequently, Mr. Carey has some sympathy with lavish ceremonies. The more Puritan Anglicans, like Josiah Graves, are deeply suspicious of such practice. The Anglican or Church of England prided itself on being a \"middle way\" between the extremes of the Roman Catholic Church and the more Puritan dissenters who did not want any images between them and God. . Philip is made to feel guilty over equally small things, such as playing on Sunday. The vicar shames him, saying his mother will be grieved in heaven. He feels humiliation, the beginning of his deep shame about being inadequate. His aunt tries to help him escape the restrictions the uncle puts on him, and once she introduces him to picture books and stories, he has found his refuge, his escape. He chooses books that have magic and adventure. His aunt and uncle cannot be bothered with him much, so he reads whatever books he wants. A warning note sounds when it is revealed they expect him to be an Anglican minister, like the uncle. . The perceptive reader sees already he doesn't seem to fit into that mold. His sensitivity comes to the surface when he breaks down under his uncle's harshness. His uncle is surprised, saying he gave the boy a simple task. The uncle is not really mean but very rigid and unsympathetic. He doesn't know how to teach or motivate a child. . Philip is precocious and restless, with an active imagination. His uncle and aunt bore him. His reading liberates him. However, \"he did not know that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment\" . Like many sensitive people, Philip will have a great difficulty with the discrepancies and injustices of life. This is especially compounded by the era he grows up in, for Victorian convention is very narrow and stuffy. He is too different."}

<CHAPTER> V Philip came gradually to know the people he was to live with, and by fragments of conversation, some of it not meant for his ears, learned a good deal both about himself and about his dead parents. Philip's father had been much younger than the Vicar of Blackstable. After a brilliant career at St. Luke's Hospital he was put on the staff, and presently began to earn money in considerable sums. He spent it freely. When the parson set about restoring his church and asked his brother for a subscription, he was surprised by receiving a couple of hundred pounds: Mr. Carey, thrifty by inclination and economical by necessity, accepted it with mingled feelings; he was envious of his brother because he could afford to give so much, pleased for the sake of his church, and vaguely irritated by a generosity which seemed almost ostentatious. Then Henry Carey married a patient, a beautiful girl but penniless, an orphan with no near relations, but of good family; and there was an array of fine friends at the wedding. The parson, on his visits to her when he came to London, held himself with reserve. He felt shy with her and in his heart he resented her great beauty: she dressed more magnificently than became the wife of a hardworking surgeon; and the charming furniture of her house, the flowers among which she lived even in winter, suggested an extravagance which he deplored. He heard her talk of entertainments she was going to; and, as he told his wife on getting home again, it was impossible to accept hospitality without making some return. He had seen grapes in the dining-room that must have cost at least eight shillings a pound; and at luncheon he had been given asparagus two months before it was ready in the vicarage garden. Now all he had anticipated was come to pass: the Vicar felt the satisfaction of the prophet who saw fire and brimstone consume the city which would not mend its way to his warning. Poor Philip was practically penniless, and what was the good of his mother's fine friends now? He heard that his father's extravagance was really criminal, and it was a mercy that Providence had seen fit to take his dear mother to itself: she had no more idea of money than a child. When Philip had been a week at Blackstable an incident happened which seemed to irritate his uncle very much. One morning he found on the breakfast table a small packet which had been sent on by post from the late Mrs. Carey's house in London. It was addressed to her. When the parson opened it he found a dozen photographs of Mrs. Carey. They showed the head and shoulders only, and her hair was more plainly done than usual, low on the forehead, which gave her an unusual look; the face was thin and worn, but no illness could impair the beauty of her features. There was in the large dark eyes a sadness which Philip did not remember. The first sight of the dead woman gave Mr. Carey a little shock, but this was quickly followed by perplexity. The photographs seemed quite recent, and he could not imagine who had ordered them. "D'you know anything about these, Philip?" he asked. "I remember mamma said she'd been taken," he answered. "Miss Watkin scolded her.... She said: I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." Mr. Carey looked at Philip for an instant. The child spoke in a clear treble. He recalled the words, but they meant nothing to him. "You'd better take one of the photographs and keep it in your room," said Mr. Carey. "I'll put the others away." He sent one to Miss Watkin, and she wrote and explained how they came to be taken. One day Mrs. Carey was lying in bed, but she was feeling a little better than usual, and the doctor in the morning had seemed hopeful; Emma had taken the child out, and the maids were downstairs in the basement: suddenly Mrs. Carey felt desperately alone in the world. A great fear seized her that she would not recover from the confinement which she was expecting in a fortnight. Her son was nine years old. How could he be expected to remember her? She could not bear to think that he would grow up and forget, forget her utterly; and she had loved him so passionately, because he was weakly and deformed, and because he was her child. She had no photographs of herself taken since her marriage, and that was ten years before. She wanted her son to know what she looked like at the end. He could not forget her then, not forget utterly. She knew that if she called her maid and told her she wanted to get up, the maid would prevent her, and perhaps send for the doctor, and she had not the strength now to struggle or argue. She got out of bed and began to dress herself. She had been on her back so long that her legs gave way beneath her, and then the soles of her feet tingled so that she could hardly bear to put them to the ground. But she went on. She was unused to doing her own hair and, when she raised her arms and began to brush it, she felt faint. She could never do it as her maid did. It was beautiful hair, very fine, and of a deep rich gold. Her eyebrows were straight and dark. She put on a black skirt, but chose the bodice of the evening dress which she liked best: it was of a white damask which was fashionable in those days. She looked at herself in the glass. Her face was very pale, but her skin was clear: she had never had much colour, and this had always made the redness of her beautiful mouth emphatic. She could not restrain a sob. But she could not afford to be sorry for herself; she was feeling already desperately tired; and she put on the furs which Henry had given her the Christmas before--she had been so proud of them and so happy then--and slipped downstairs with beating heart. She got safely out of the house and drove to a photographer. She paid for a dozen photographs. She was obliged to ask for a glass of water in the middle of the sitting; and the assistant, seeing she was ill, suggested that she should come another day, but she insisted on staying till the end. At last it was finished, and she drove back again to the dingy little house in Kensington which she hated with all her heart. It was a horrible house to die in. She found the front door open, and when she drove up the maid and Emma ran down the steps to help her. They had been frightened when they found her room empty. At first they thought she must have gone to Miss Watkin, and the cook was sent round. Miss Watkin came back with her and was waiting anxiously in the drawing-room. She came downstairs now full of anxiety and reproaches; but the exertion had been more than Mrs. Carey was fit for, and when the occasion for firmness no longer existed she gave way. She fell heavily into Emma's arms and was carried upstairs. She remained unconscious for a time that seemed incredibly long to those that watched her, and the doctor, hurriedly sent for, did not come. It was next day, when she was a little better, that Miss Watkin got some explanation out of her. Philip was playing on the floor of his mother's bed-room, and neither of the ladies paid attention to him. He only understood vaguely what they were talking about, and he could not have said why those words remained in his memory. "I wanted the boy to have something to remember me by when he grows up." "I can't make out why she ordered a dozen," said Mr. Carey. "Two would have done." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> VI One day was very like another at the vicarage. Soon after breakfast Mary Ann brought in The Times. Mr. Carey shared it with two neighbours. He had it from ten till one, when the gardener took it over to Mr. Ellis at the Limes, with whom it remained till seven; then it was taken to Miss Brooks at the Manor House, who, since she got it late, had the advantage of keeping it. In summer Mrs. Carey, when she was making jam, often asked her for a copy to cover the pots with. When the Vicar settled down to his paper his wife put on her bonnet and went out to do the shopping. Philip accompanied her. Blackstable was a fishing village. It consisted of a high street in which were the shops, the bank, the doctor's house, and the houses of two or three coalship owners; round the little harbor were shabby streets in which lived fishermen and poor people; but since they went to chapel they were of no account. When Mrs. Carey passed the dissenting ministers in the street she stepped over to the other side to avoid meeting them, but if there was not time for this fixed her eyes on the pavement. It was a scandal to which the Vicar had never resigned himself that there were three chapels in the High Street: he could not help feeling that the law should have stepped in to prevent their erection. Shopping in Blackstable was not a simple matter; for dissent, helped by the fact that the parish church was two miles from the town, was very common; and it was necessary to deal only with churchgoers; Mrs. Carey knew perfectly that the vicarage custom might make all the difference to a tradesman's faith. There were two butchers who went to church, and they would not understand that the Vicar could not deal with both of them at once; nor were they satisfied with his simple plan of going for six months to one and for six months to the other. The butcher who was not sending meat to the vicarage constantly threatened not to come to church, and the Vicar was sometimes obliged to make a threat: it was very wrong of him not to come to church, but if he carried iniquity further and actually went to chapel, then of course, excellent as his meat was, Mr. Carey would be forced to leave him for ever. Mrs. Carey often stopped at the bank to deliver a message to Josiah Graves, the manager, who was choir-master, treasurer, and churchwarden. He was a tall, thin man with a sallow face and a long nose; his hair was very white, and to Philip he seemed extremely old. He kept the parish accounts, arranged the treats for the choir and the schools; though there was no organ in the parish church, it was generally considered (in Blackstable) that the choir he led was the best in Kent; and when there was any ceremony, such as a visit from the Bishop for confirmation or from the Rural Dean to preach at the Harvest Thanksgiving, he made the necessary preparations. But he had no hesitation in doing all manner of things without more than a perfunctory consultation with the Vicar, and the Vicar, though always ready to be saved trouble, much resented the churchwarden's managing ways. He really seemed to look upon himself as the most important person in the parish. Mr. Carey constantly told his wife that if Josiah Graves did not take care he would give him a good rap over the knuckles one day; but Mrs. Carey advised him to bear with Josiah Graves: he meant well, and it was not his fault if he was not quite a gentleman. The Vicar, finding his comfort in the practice of a Christian virtue, exercised forbearance; but he revenged himself by calling the churchwarden Bismarck behind his back. Once there had been a serious quarrel between the pair, and Mrs. Carey still thought of that anxious time with dismay. The Conservative candidate had announced his intention of addressing a meeting at Blackstable; and Josiah Graves, having arranged that it should take place in the Mission Hall, went to Mr. Carey and told him that he hoped he would say a few words. It appeared that the candidate had asked Josiah Graves to take the chair. This was more than Mr. Carey could put up with. He had firm views upon the respect which was due to the cloth, and it was ridiculous for a churchwarden to take the chair at a meeting when the Vicar was there. He reminded Josiah Graves that parson meant person, that is, the vicar was the person of the parish. Josiah Graves answered that he was the first to recognise the dignity of the church, but this was a matter of politics, and in his turn he reminded the Vicar that their Blessed Saviour had enjoined upon them to render unto Caesar the things that were Caesar's. To this Mr. Carey replied that the devil could quote scripture to his purpose, himself had sole authority over the Mission Hall, and if he were not asked to be chairman he would refuse the use of it for a political meeting. Josiah Graves told Mr. Carey that he might do as he chose, and for his part he thought the Wesleyan Chapel would be an equally suitable place. Then Mr. Carey said that if Josiah Graves set foot in what was little better than a heathen temple he was not fit to be churchwarden in a Christian parish. Josiah Graves thereupon resigned all his offices, and that very evening sent to the church for his cassock and surplice. His sister, Miss Graves, who kept house for him, gave up her secretaryship of the Maternity Club, which provided the pregnant poor with flannel, baby linen, coals, and five shillings. Mr. Carey said he was at last master in his own house. But soon he found that he was obliged to see to all sorts of things that he knew nothing about; and Josiah Graves, after the first moment of irritation, discovered that he had lost his chief interest in life. Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves were much distressed by the quarrel; they met after a discreet exchange of letters, and made up their minds to put the matter right: they talked, one to her husband, the other to her brother, from morning till night; and since they were persuading these gentlemen to do what in their hearts they wanted, after three weeks of anxiety a reconciliation was effected. It was to both their interests, but they ascribed it to a common love for their Redeemer. The meeting was held at the Mission Hall, and the doctor was asked to be chairman. Mr. Carey and Josiah Graves both made speeches. When Mrs. Carey had finished her business with the banker, she generally went upstairs to have a little chat with his sister; and while the ladies talked of parish matters, the curate or the new bonnet of Mrs. Wilson--Mr. Wilson was the richest man in Blackstable, he was thought to have at least five hundred a year, and he had married his cook--Philip sat demurely in the stiff parlour, used only to receive visitors, and busied himself with the restless movements of goldfish in a bowl. The windows were never opened except to air the room for a few minutes in the morning, and it had a stuffy smell which seemed to Philip to have a mysterious connection with banking. Then Mrs. Carey remembered that she had to go to the grocer, and they continued their way. When the shopping was done they often went down a side street of little houses, mostly of wood, in which fishermen dwelt (and here and there a fisherman sat on his doorstep mending his nets, and nets hung to dry upon the doors), till they came to a small beach, shut in on each side by warehouses, but with a view of the sea. Mrs. Carey stood for a few minutes and looked at it, it was turbid and yellow, [and who knows what thoughts passed through her mind?] while Philip searched for flat stones to play ducks and drakes. Then they walked slowly back. They looked into the post office to get the right time, nodded to Mrs. Wigram the doctor's wife, who sat at her window sewing, and so got home. Dinner was at one o'clock; and on Monday, Tuesday, and Wednesday it consisted of beef, roast, hashed, and minced, and on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday of mutton. On Sunday they ate one of their own chickens. In the afternoon Philip did his lessons, He was taught Latin and mathematics by his uncle who knew neither, and French and the piano by his aunt. Of French she was ignorant, but she knew the piano well enough to accompany the old-fashioned songs she had sung for thirty years. Uncle William used to tell Philip that when he was a curate his wife had known twelve songs by heart, which she could sing at a moment's notice whenever she was asked. She often sang still when there was a tea-party at the vicarage. There were few people whom the Careys cared to ask there, and their parties consisted always of the curate, Josiah Graves with his sister, Dr. Wigram and his wife. After tea Miss Graves played one or two of Mendelssohn's Songs without Words, and Mrs. Carey sang When the Swallows Homeward Fly, or Trot, Trot, My Pony. But the Careys did not give tea-parties often; the preparations upset them, and when their guests were gone they felt themselves exhausted. They preferred to have tea by themselves, and after tea they played backgammon. Mrs. Carey arranged that her husband should win, because he did not like losing. They had cold supper at eight. It was a scrappy meal because Mary Ann resented getting anything ready after tea, and Mrs. Carey helped to clear away. Mrs. Carey seldom ate more than bread and butter, with a little stewed fruit to follow, but the Vicar had a slice of cold meat. Immediately after supper Mrs. Carey rang the bell for prayers, and then Philip went to bed. He rebelled against being undressed by Mary Ann and after a while succeeded in establishing his right to dress and undress himself. At nine o'clock Mary Ann brought in the eggs and the plate. Mrs. Carey wrote the date on each egg and put the number down in a book. She then took the plate-basket on her arm and went upstairs. Mr. Carey continued to read one of his old books, but as the clock struck ten he got up, put out the lamps, and followed his wife to bed. When Philip arrived there was some difficulty in deciding on which evening he should have his bath. It was never easy to get plenty of hot water, since the kitchen boiler did not work, and it was impossible for two persons to have a bath on the same day. The only man who had a bathroom in Blackstable was Mr. Wilson, and it was thought ostentatious of him. Mary Ann had her bath in the kitchen on Monday night, because she liked to begin the week clean. Uncle William could not have his on Saturday, because he had a heavy day before him and he was always a little tired after a bath, so he had it on Friday. Mrs. Carey had hers on Thursday for the same reason. It looked as though Saturday were naturally indicated for Philip, but Mary Ann said she couldn't keep the fire up on Saturday night: what with all the cooking on Sunday, having to make pastry and she didn't know what all, she did not feel up to giving the boy his bath on Saturday night; and it was quite clear that he could not bath himself. Mrs. Carey was shy about bathing a boy, and of course the Vicar had his sermon. But the Vicar insisted that Philip should be clean and sweet for the lord's Day. Mary Ann said she would rather go than be put upon--and after eighteen years she didn't expect to have more work given her, and they might show some consideration--and Philip said he didn't want anyone to bath him, but could very well bath himself. This settled it. Mary Ann said she was quite sure he wouldn't bath himself properly, and rather than he should go dirty--and not because he was going into the presence of the Lord, but because she couldn't abide a boy who wasn't properly washed--she'd work herself to the bone even if it was Saturday night. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> VII Sunday was a day crowded with incident. Mr. Carey was accustomed to say that he was the only man in his parish who worked seven days a week. The household got up half an hour earlier than usual. No lying abed for a poor parson on the day of rest, Mr. Carey remarked as Mary Ann knocked at the door punctually at eight. It took Mrs. Carey longer to dress, and she got down to breakfast at nine, a little breathless, only just before her husband. Mr. Carey's boots stood in front of the fire to warm. Prayers were longer than usual, and the breakfast more substantial. After breakfast the Vicar cut thin slices of bread for the communion, and Philip was privileged to cut off the crust. He was sent to the study to fetch a marble paperweight, with which Mr. Carey pressed the bread till it was thin and pulpy, and then it was cut into small squares. The amount was regulated by the weather. On a very bad day few people came to church, and on a very fine one, though many came, few stayed for communion. There were most when it was dry enough to make the walk to church pleasant, but not so fine that people wanted to hurry away. Then Mrs. Carey brought the communion plate out of the safe, which stood in the pantry, and the Vicar polished it with a chamois leather. At ten the fly drove up, and Mr. Carey got into his boots. Mrs. Carey took several minutes to put on her bonnet, during which the Vicar, in a voluminous cloak, stood in the hall with just such an expression on his face as would have become an early Christian about to be led into the arena. It was extraordinary that after thirty years of marriage his wife could not be ready in time on Sunday morning. At last she came, in black satin; the Vicar did not like colours in a clergyman's wife at any time, but on Sundays he was determined that she should wear black; now and then, in conspiracy with Miss Graves, she ventured a white feather or a pink rose in her bonnet, but the Vicar insisted that it should disappear; he said he would not go to church with the scarlet woman: Mrs. Carey sighed as a woman but obeyed as a wife. They were about to step into the carriage when the Vicar remembered that no one had given him his egg. They knew that he must have an egg for his voice, there were two women in the house, and no one had the least regard for his comfort. Mrs. Carey scolded Mary Ann, and Mary Ann answered that she could not think of everything. She hurried away to fetch an egg, and Mrs. Carey beat it up in a glass of sherry. The Vicar swallowed it at a gulp. The communion plate was stowed in the carriage, and they set off. The fly came from The Red Lion and had a peculiar smell of stale straw. They drove with both windows closed so that the Vicar should not catch cold. The sexton was waiting at the porch to take the communion plate, and while the Vicar went to the vestry Mrs. Carey and Philip settled themselves in the vicarage pew. Mrs. Carey placed in front of her the sixpenny bit she was accustomed to put in the plate, and gave Philip threepence for the same purpose. The church filled up gradually and the service began. Philip grew bored during the sermon, but if he fidgetted Mrs. Carey put a gentle hand on his arm and looked at him reproachfully. He regained interest when the final hymn was sung and Mr. Graves passed round with the plate. When everyone had gone Mrs. Carey went into Miss Graves' pew to have a few words with her while they were waiting for the gentlemen, and Philip went to the vestry. His uncle, the curate, and Mr. Graves were still in their surplices. Mr. Carey gave him the remains of the consecrated bread and told him he might eat it. He had been accustomed to eat it himself, as it seemed blasphemous to throw it away, but Philip's keen appetite relieved him from the duty. Then they counted the money. It consisted of pennies, sixpences and threepenny bits. There were always two single shillings, one put in the plate by the Vicar and the other by Mr. Graves; and sometimes there was a florin. Mr. Graves told the Vicar who had given this. It was always a stranger to Blackstable, and Mr. Carey wondered who he was. But Miss Graves had observed the rash act and was able to tell Mrs. Carey that the stranger came from London, was married and had children. During the drive home Mrs. Carey passed the information on, and the Vicar made up his mind to call on him and ask for a subscription to the Additional Curates Society. Mr. Carey asked if Philip had behaved properly; and Mrs. Carey remarked that Mrs. Wigram had a new mantle, Mr. Cox was not in church, and somebody thought that Miss Phillips was engaged. When they reached the vicarage they all felt that they deserved a substantial dinner. When this was over Mrs. Carey went to her room to rest, and Mr. Carey lay down on the sofa in the drawing-room for forty winks. They had tea at five, and the Vicar ate an egg to support himself for evensong. Mrs. Carey did not go to this so that Mary Ann might, but she read the service through and the hymns. Mr. Carey walked to church in the evening, and Philip limped along by his side. The walk through the darkness along the country road strangely impressed him, and the church with all its lights in the distance, coming gradually nearer, seemed very friendly. At first he was shy with his uncle, but little by little grew used to him, and he would slip his hand in his uncle's and walk more easily for the feeling of protection. They had supper when they got home. Mr. Carey's slippers were waiting for him on a footstool in front of the fire and by their side Philip's, one the shoe of a small boy, the other misshapen and odd. He was dreadfully tired when he went up to bed, and he did not resist when Mary Ann undressed him. She kissed him after she tucked him up, and he began to love her. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> VIII Philip had led always the solitary life of an only child, and his loneliness at the vicarage was no greater than it had been when his mother lived. He made friends with Mary Ann. She was a chubby little person of thirty-five, the daughter of a fisherman, and had come to the vicarage at eighteen; it was her first place and she had no intention of leaving it; but she held a possible marriage as a rod over the timid heads of her master and mistress. Her father and mother lived in a little house off Harbour Street, and she went to see them on her evenings out. Her stories of the sea touched Philip's imagination, and the narrow alleys round the harbour grew rich with the romance which his young fancy lent them. One evening he asked whether he might go home with her; but his aunt was afraid that he might catch something, and his uncle said that evil communications corrupted good manners. He disliked the fisher folk, who were rough, uncouth, and went to chapel. But Philip was more comfortable in the kitchen than in the dining-room, and, whenever he could, he took his toys and played there. His aunt was not sorry. She did not like disorder, and though she recognised that boys must be expected to be untidy she preferred that he should make a mess in the kitchen. If he fidgeted his uncle was apt to grow restless and say it was high time he went to school. Mrs. Carey thought Philip very young for this, and her heart went out to the motherless child; but her attempts to gain his affection were awkward, and the boy, feeling shy, received her demonstrations with so much sullenness that she was mortified. Sometimes she heard his shrill voice raised in laughter in the kitchen, but when she went in, he grew suddenly silent, and he flushed darkly when Mary Ann explained the joke. Mrs. Carey could not see anything amusing in what she heard, and she smiled with constraint. "He seems happier with Mary Ann than with us, William," she said, when she returned to her sewing. "One can see he's been very badly brought up. He wants licking into shape." On the second Sunday after Philip arrived an unlucky incident occurred. Mr. Carey had retired as usual after dinner for a little snooze in the drawing-room, but he was in an irritable mood and could not sleep. Josiah Graves that morning had objected strongly to some candlesticks with which the Vicar had adorned the altar. He had bought them second-hand in Tercanbury, and he thought they looked very well. But Josiah Graves said they were popish. This was a taunt that always aroused the Vicar. He had been at Oxford during the movement which ended in the secession from the Established Church of Edward Manning, and he felt a certain sympathy for the Church of Rome. He would willingly have made the service more ornate than had been usual in the low-church parish of Blackstable, and in his secret soul he yearned for processions and lighted candles. He drew the line at incense. He hated the word protestant. He called himself a Catholic. He was accustomed to say that Papists required an epithet, they were Roman Catholic; but the Church of England was Catholic in the best, the fullest, and the noblest sense of the term. He was pleased to think that his shaven face gave him the look of a priest, and in his youth he had possessed an ascetic air which added to the impression. He often related that on one of his holidays in Boulogne, one of those holidays upon which his wife for economy's sake did not accompany him, when he was sitting in a church, the cure had come up to him and invited him to preach a sermon. He dismissed his curates when they married, having decided views on the celibacy of the unbeneficed clergy. But when at an election the Liberals had written on his garden fence in large blue letters: This way to Rome, he had been very angry, and threatened to prosecute the leaders of the Liberal party in Blackstable. He made up his mind now that nothing Josiah Graves said would induce him to remove the candlesticks from the altar, and he muttered Bismarck to himself once or twice irritably. Suddenly he heard an unexpected noise. He pulled the handkerchief off his face, got up from the sofa on which he was lying, and went into the dining-room. Philip was seated on the table with all his bricks around him. He had built a monstrous castle, and some defect in the foundation had just brought the structure down in noisy ruin. "What are you doing with those bricks, Philip? You know you're not allowed to play games on Sunday." Philip stared at him for a moment with frightened eyes, and, as his habit was, flushed deeply. "I always used to play at home," he answered. "I'm sure your dear mamma never allowed you to do such a wicked thing as that." Philip did not know it was wicked; but if it was, he did not wish it to be supposed that his mother had consented to it. He hung his head and did not answer. "Don't you know it's very, very wicked to play on Sunday? What d'you suppose it's called the day of rest for? You're going to church tonight, and how can you face your Maker when you've been breaking one of His laws in the afternoon?" Mr. Carey told him to put the bricks away at once, and stood over him while Philip did so. "You're a very naughty boy," he repeated. "Think of the grief you're causing your poor mother in heaven." Philip felt inclined to cry, but he had an instinctive disinclination to letting other people see his tears, and he clenched his teeth to prevent the sobs from escaping. Mr. Carey sat down in his arm-chair and began to turn over the pages of a book. Philip stood at the window. The vicarage was set back from the highroad to Tercanbury, and from the dining-room one saw a semicircular strip of lawn and then as far as the horizon green fields. Sheep were grazing in them. The sky was forlorn and gray. Philip felt infinitely unhappy. Presently Mary Ann came in to lay the tea, and Aunt Louisa descended the stairs. "Have you had a nice little nap, William?" she asked. "No," he answered. "Philip made so much noise that I couldn't sleep a wink." This was not quite accurate, for he had been kept awake by his own thoughts; and Philip, listening sullenly, reflected that he had only made a noise once, and there was no reason why his uncle should not have slept before or after. When Mrs. Carey asked for an explanation the Vicar narrated the facts. "He hasn't even said he was sorry," he finished. "Oh, Philip, I'm sure you're sorry," said Mrs. Carey, anxious that the child should not seem wickeder to his uncle than need be. Philip did not reply. He went on munching his bread and butter. He did not know what power it was in him that prevented him from making any expression of regret. He felt his ears tingling, he was a little inclined to cry, but no word would issue from his lips. "You needn't make it worse by sulking," said Mr. Carey. Tea was finished in silence. Mrs. Carey looked at Philip surreptitiously now and then, but the Vicar elaborately ignored him. When Philip saw his uncle go upstairs to get ready for church he went into the hall and got his hat and coat, but when the Vicar came downstairs and saw him, he said: "I don't wish you to go to church tonight, Philip. I don't think you're in a proper frame of mind to enter the House of God." Philip did not say a word. He felt it was a deep humiliation that was placed upon him, and his cheeks reddened. He stood silently watching his uncle put on his broad hat and his voluminous cloak. Mrs. Carey as usual went to the door to see him off. Then she turned to Philip. "Never mind, Philip, you won't be a naughty boy next Sunday, will you, and then your uncle will take you to church with him in the evening." She took off his hat and coat, and led him into the dining-room. "Shall you and I read the service together, Philip, and we'll sing the hymns at the harmonium. Would you like that?" Philip shook his head decidedly. Mrs. Carey was taken aback. If he would not read the evening service with her she did not know what to do with him. "Then what would you like to do until your uncle comes back?" she asked helplessly. Philip broke his silence at last. "I want to be left alone," he said. "Philip, how can you say anything so unkind? Don't you know that your uncle and I only want your good? Don't you love me at all?" "I hate you. I wish you was dead." Mrs. Carey gasped. He said the words so savagely that it gave her quite a start. She had nothing to say. She sat down in her husband's chair; and as she thought of her desire to love the friendless, crippled boy and her eager wish that he should love her--she was a barren woman and, even though it was clearly God's will that she should be childless, she could scarcely bear to look at little children sometimes, her heart ached so--the tears rose to her eyes and one by one, slowly, rolled down her cheeks. Philip watched her in amazement. She took out her handkerchief, and now she cried without restraint. Suddenly Philip realised that she was crying because of what he had said, and he was sorry. He went up to her silently and kissed her. It was the first kiss he had ever given her without being asked. And the poor lady, so small in her black satin, shrivelled up and sallow, with her funny corkscrew curls, took the little boy on her lap and put her arms around him and wept as though her heart would break. But her tears were partly tears of happiness, for she felt that the strangeness between them was gone. She loved him now with a new love because he had made her suffer. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> IX On the following Sunday, when the Vicar was making his preparations to go into the drawing-room for his nap--all the actions of his life were conducted with ceremony--and Mrs. Carey was about to go upstairs, Philip asked: "What shall I do if I'm not allowed to play?" "Can't you sit still for once and be quiet?" "I can't sit still till tea-time." Mr. Carey looked out of the window, but it was cold and raw, and he could not suggest that Philip should go into the garden. "I know what you can do. You can learn by heart the collect for the day." He took the prayer-book which was used for prayers from the harmonium, and turned the pages till he came to the place he wanted. "It's not a long one. If you can say it without a mistake when I come in to tea you shall have the top of my egg." Mrs. Carey drew up Philip's chair to the dining-room table--they had bought him a high chair by now--and placed the book in front of him. "The devil finds work for idle hands to do," said Mr. Carey. He put some more coals on the fire so that there should be a cheerful blaze when he came in to tea, and went into the drawing-room. He loosened his collar, arranged the cushions, and settled himself comfortably on the sofa. But thinking the drawing-room a little chilly, Mrs. Carey brought him a rug from the hall; she put it over his legs and tucked it round his feet. She drew the blinds so that the light should not offend his eyes, and since he had closed them already went out of the room on tiptoe. The Vicar was at peace with himself today, and in ten minutes he was asleep. He snored softly. It was the Sixth Sunday after Epiphany, and the collect began with the words: O God, whose blessed Son was manifested that he might destroy the works of the devil, and make us the sons of God, and heirs of Eternal life. Philip read it through. He could make no sense of it. He began saying the words aloud to himself, but many of them were unknown to him, and the construction of the sentence was strange. He could not get more than two lines in his head. And his attention was constantly wandering: there were fruit trees trained on the walls of the vicarage, and a long twig beat now and then against the windowpane; sheep grazed stolidly in the field beyond the garden. It seemed as though there were knots inside his brain. Then panic seized him that he would not know the words by tea-time, and he kept on whispering them to himself quickly; he did not try to understand, but merely to get them parrot-like into his memory. Mrs. Carey could not sleep that afternoon, and by four o'clock she was so wide awake that she came downstairs. She thought she would hear Philip his collect so that he should make no mistakes when he said it to his uncle. His uncle then would be pleased; he would see that the boy's heart was in the right place. But when Mrs. Carey came to the dining-room and was about to go in, she heard a sound that made her stop suddenly. Her heart gave a little jump. She turned away and quietly slipped out of the front-door. She walked round the house till she came to the dining-room window and then cautiously looked in. Philip was still sitting on the chair she had put him in, but his head was on the table buried in his arms, and he was sobbing desperately. She saw the convulsive movement of his shoulders. Mrs. Carey was frightened. A thing that had always struck her about the child was that he seemed so collected. She had never seen him cry. And now she realised that his calmness was some instinctive shame of showing his feelings: he hid himself to weep. Without thinking that her husband disliked being wakened suddenly, she burst into the drawing-room. "William, William," she said. "The boy's crying as though his heart would break." Mr. Carey sat up and disentangled himself from the rug about his legs. "What's he got to cry about?" "I don't know.... Oh, William, we can't let the boy be unhappy. D'you think it's our fault? If we'd had children we'd have known what to do." Mr. Carey looked at her in perplexity. He felt extraordinarily helpless. "He can't be crying because I gave him the collect to learn. It's not more than ten lines." "Don't you think I might take him some picture books to look at, William? There are some of the Holy Land. There couldn't be anything wrong in that." "Very well, I don't mind." Mrs. Carey went into the study. To collect books was Mr. Carey's only passion, and he never went into Tercanbury without spending an hour or two in the second-hand shop; he always brought back four or five musty volumes. He never read them, for he had long lost the habit of reading, but he liked to turn the pages, look at the illustrations if they were illustrated, and mend the bindings. He welcomed wet days because on them he could stay at home without pangs of conscience and spend the afternoon with white of egg and a glue-pot, patching up the Russia leather of some battered quarto. He had many volumes of old travels, with steel engravings, and Mrs. Carey quickly found two which described Palestine. She coughed elaborately at the door so that Philip should have time to compose himself, she felt that he would be humiliated if she came upon him in the midst of his tears, then she rattled the door handle. When she went in Philip was poring over the prayer-book, hiding his eyes with his hands so that she might not see he had been crying. "Do you know the collect yet?" she said. He did not answer for a moment, and she felt that he did not trust his voice. She was oddly embarrassed. "I can't learn it by heart," he said at last, with a gasp. "Oh, well, never mind," she said. "You needn't. I've got some picture books for you to look at. Come and sit on my lap, and we'll look at them together." Philip slipped off his chair and limped over to her. He looked down so that she should not see his eyes. She put her arms round him. "Look," she said, "that's the place where our blessed Lord was born." She showed him an Eastern town with flat roofs and cupolas and minarets. In the foreground was a group of palm-trees, and under them were resting two Arabs and some camels. Philip passed his hand over the picture as if he wanted to feel the houses and the loose habiliments of the nomads. "Read what it says," he asked. Mrs. Carey in her even voice read the opposite page. It was a romantic narrative of some Eastern traveller of the thirties, pompous maybe, but fragrant with the emotion with which the East came to the generation that followed Byron and Chateaubriand. In a moment or two Philip interrupted her. "I want to see another picture." When Mary Ann came in and Mrs. Carey rose to help her lay the cloth. Philip took the book in his hands and hurried through the illustrations. It was with difficulty that his aunt induced him to put the book down for tea. He had forgotten his horrible struggle to get the collect by heart; he had forgotten his tears. Next day it was raining, and he asked for the book again. Mrs. Carey gave it him joyfully. Talking over his future with her husband she had found that both desired him to take orders, and this eagerness for the book which described places hallowed by the presence of Jesus seemed a good sign. It looked as though the boy's mind addressed itself naturally to holy things. But in a day or two he asked for more books. Mr. Carey took him into his study, showed him the shelf in which he kept illustrated works, and chose for him one that dealt with Rome. Philip took it greedily. The pictures led him to a new amusement. He began to read the page before and the page after each engraving to find out what it was about, and soon he lost all interest in his toys. Then, when no one was near, he took out books for himself; and perhaps because the first impression on his mind was made by an Eastern town, he found his chief amusement in those which described the Levant. His heart beat with excitement at the pictures of mosques and rich palaces; but there was one, in a book on Constantinople, which peculiarly stirred his imagination. It was called the Hall of the Thousand Columns. It was a Byzantine cistern, which the popular fancy had endowed with fantastic vastness; and the legend which he read told that a boat was always moored at the entrance to tempt the unwary, but no traveller venturing into the darkness had ever been seen again. And Philip wondered whether the boat went on for ever through one pillared alley after another or came at last to some strange mansion. One day a good fortune befell him, for he hit upon Lane's translation of The Thousand Nights and a Night. He was captured first by the illustrations, and then he began to read, to start with, the stories that dealt with magic, and then the others; and those he liked he read again and again. He could think of nothing else. He forgot the life about him. He had to be called two or three times before he would come to his dinner. Insensibly he formed the most delightful habit in the world, the habit of reading: he did not know that thus he was providing himself with a refuge from all the distress of life; he did not know either that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment. Presently he began to read other things. His brain was precocious. His uncle and aunt, seeing that he occupied himself and neither worried nor made a noise, ceased to trouble themselves about him. Mr. Carey had so many books that he did not know them, and as he read little he forgot the odd lots he had bought at one time and another because they were cheap. Haphazard among the sermons and homilies, the travels, the lives of the Saints, the Fathers, the histories of the church, were old-fashioned novels; and these Philip at last discovered. He chose them by their titles, and the first he read was The Lancashire Witches, and then he read The Admirable Crichton, and then many more. Whenever he started a book with two solitary travellers riding along the brink of a desperate ravine he knew he was safe. The summer was come now, and the gardener, an old sailor, made him a hammock and fixed it up for him in the branches of a weeping willow. And here for long hours he lay, hidden from anyone who might come to the vicarage, reading, reading passionately. Time passed and it was July; August came: on Sundays the church was crowded with strangers, and the collection at the offertory often amounted to two pounds. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey went out of the garden much during this period; for they disliked strange faces, and they looked upon the visitors from London with aversion. The house opposite was taken for six weeks by a gentleman who had two little boys, and he sent in to ask if Philip would like to go and play with them; but Mrs. Carey returned a polite refusal. She was afraid that Philip would be corrupted by little boys from London. He was going to be a clergyman, and it was necessary that he should be preserved from contamination. She liked to see in him an infant Samuel. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 5-9

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At the vicarage Philip learns more about his parents. His father was a brilliant surgeon on the staff of St. Luke's Hospital in London. He earned a lot of money but spent it freely, for instance, on his marriage to one of his patients, a penniless but well-connected young woman. . The parson, seeing the lavish entertaining at his younger brother's home in London prophesies the worst will happen. He had seen grapes in the dining room, an expense he could not even imagine! When a packet of photographs arrives at the parsonage for Philip, the parson is surprised. Mrs. Carey, fearing she would die in childbirth, had gotten out of bed and had photographs taken of her so her son would not forget her. She had beautiful blonde hair and had put on an evening dress and furs. The parson cannot understand why she had a dozen taken instead of one. . The vicarage at Blackstable in Kent is very dull and never changes its routine. Mr. Carey shares The Times with two neighbors and starts his day with the newspaper. Philip accompanies Mrs. Carey to the market in the fishing village of Blackstable. She is careful to patronize the merchants who are church members. . When the churchwarden, Josiah Graves, quarrels with the vicar over whether he can chair a committee or whether the vicar should do it, Graves resigns, and then Mrs. Carey and Miss Graves have to mend fences behind the scenes. Philip has to wait while his aunt visits with people in town and amuses himself by skipping stones on the beach. In the afternoons, Philip learns Latin and mathematics from his uncle, and French and piano from his aunt. . There are few parties, and the Careys do not mingle much. They like to have tea and backgammon by themselves. Sundays are more tense because they are church days, and Philip has to attend two services while his uncle preaches and not fidget, though he is bored. . He begins to love the maid, Mary Ann, for she bathes him, tucks him in bed and tells him stories of the sea that touch his imagination. He spends time near her playing in the kitchen. . The uncle will not let Philip go home with Mary Ann, for he fears the rough fisher folk who go to chapel instead of church. The aunt wants to mother Philip, but she doesn't know how and feels awkward around the boy. . When Philip accidentally makes a noise playing on Sunday while his uncle is napping, the vicar shames him as wicked for playing on Sunday and won't let him go to service. His aunt tries to cheer him up, but he lashes out at her, saying he hates her. She begins to cry and takes him on her lap. . The next Sunday the vicar gives Philip prayers to memorize to keep him busy, so he won't play. The boy doesn't understand them and goes into panic. His aunt finds him sobbing. She intervenes with her husband, allowing him to look at picture books from their library to amuse him. This is how he gets into the habit of reading. He soon begins a course of unsupervised reading, picking out what is most thrilling. In the summer, he reads for hours in a hammock in the garden. He is not allowed to play with visiting children from London who might be a bad influence. The Careys expect Philip to take holy orders when he grows up.

Commentary on Chapters V-IX . The narrator does not comment but details the smallness of the world Philip inhabits with his aunt and uncle in the vicarage. For instance, his aunt will not look at any dissenter or non-Anglican she passes in the street. The uncle believes the fisher folk who go to chapel to be rough and wicked. This is the late Victorian period when such religious differences were important. His uncle drums into him that only gentlemen belong to the Church of England, while the lower classes go to "chapel," run by other Protestant sects. From a larger point of view, the divisions are minute: Christian against Christian. But the various sects had doctrinal and class differences. . Josiah Graves, the church warden, is in a power struggle with his pastor. One of their petty quarrels concerns the vicar's love of candlesticks and other "popish" customs. The vicar had been influenced by the Oxford Movement when many Anglicans were lured over to the Church of Rome because of its ritual, and consequently, Mr. Carey has some sympathy with lavish ceremonies. The more Puritan Anglicans, like Josiah Graves, are deeply suspicious of such practice. The Anglican or Church of England prided itself on being a "middle way" between the extremes of the Roman Catholic Church and the more Puritan dissenters who did not want any images between them and God. . Philip is made to feel guilty over equally small things, such as playing on Sunday. The vicar shames him, saying his mother will be grieved in heaven. He feels humiliation, the beginning of his deep shame about being inadequate. His aunt tries to help him escape the restrictions the uncle puts on him, and once she introduces him to picture books and stories, he has found his refuge, his escape. He chooses books that have magic and adventure. His aunt and uncle cannot be bothered with him much, so he reads whatever books he wants. A warning note sounds when it is revealed they expect him to be an Anglican minister, like the uncle. . The perceptive reader sees already he doesn't seem to fit into that mold. His sensitivity comes to the surface when he breaks down under his uncle's harshness. His uncle is surprised, saying he gave the boy a simple task. The uncle is not really mean but very rigid and unsympathetic. He doesn't know how to teach or motivate a child. . Philip is precocious and restless, with an active imagination. His uncle and aunt bore him. His reading liberates him. However, "he did not know that he was creating for himself an unreal world which would make the real world of every day a source of bitter disappointment" . Like many sensitive people, Philip will have a great difficulty with the discrepancies and injustices of life. This is especially compounded by the era he grows up in, for Victorian convention is very narrow and stuffy. He is too different.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_10_to_14.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_3_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 10-14

chapters 10-14

{"name": "Chapters 10-14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter10-14", "summary": "The Careys decide the boy must go to the prep school attached to King's School, Tercanbury, where the clergy send their sons to prepare for Holy Orders. Philip is a little frightened for he has read stories about going to school. Even driving up to the building is a bad omen, for it looks like a prison. They are greeted by the headmaster, Mr. Watson, who is unbearably and forcefully cheery and loud. He shows Philip to the playground and introduces him to another boy, Venning. . Venning asks about his clubfoot and asks to see it. When Philip refuses, the boy kicks him hard in the shin. Philip is so surprised he does nothing. Other boys arrive and talk about cricket. Philip explains he can't play because of his clubfoot. . He is awakened in the morning by a bell in his own dormitory cubicle that contains a bed, chair, and washstand. There are fifty boarders and many day students. After prayers with Mr. Watson, there is a sickening breakfast of bread and poor butter. The other boys have treats from home like potted meats or can buy bacon and eggs. Philip decides he will write to Aunt Louisa for some extras. . On the playground, he sees the day-boys, considered inferior because they are from local people or merchant families. Philip is put into the lower-second form class with Master Rice, who has a nice manner with the boys. On the playground, however, the boys play a running game, and because he limps, Philip cannot play well. The boys imitate his clumsy run and torment him. He is frightened and does not understand why he is being attacked. When the boys go off to play football, Mr. Rice kindly shows Philip the way to the field where he watches them. He is excused from sports because of his foot. . At night, in the dormitory, the boys beat up on him until he shows them his clubfoot. They express disgust. He stifles his tears in his pillow in his humiliation. In time, they lose interest in his deformity, but he becomes extremely sensitive and withdrawn. The biggest bully, Singer, dislikes him and gives him a hard time. In one way he is triumphant and that is at the game of Nibs, when the boys gamble for nibs or pen tips. Philip wins from Singer, but Mr. Watson had forbidden this form of gambling. When the two are caught, Watson canes or hits Singer as punishment, but he doesn't hit Philip, saying \"I can't hit a cripple\" . The other boys scorn him because he got off for being a cripple. In fights with the other boys, he is forced into backing down, and this misery makes him dread the future. . Two years pass, however, and he has earned a different kind of respect as being almost at the top of his class. He will be head boy, with all his collection of prizes. Yet this is a difficult time of life, for he is twelve and entering adolescence, where the narrator explains, a person becomes aware of himself as an individual. This is not a pleasant awakening for Philip who finds himself cut off from others because of his disability. He is forced to think for himself. . He is surprised to find himself making up stories to another boy who breaks his pen-holder. He begins to cry and says it was given him by his mother before she died. He cries as if the lie were true, and then feels remorse. He is worried that the Tempter is forcing him to sin. . In a wave of religious feeling that sweeps the school, he joins a Bible League and discovers the verse about prayer being able to move mountains if one has the faith. He decides to pray for his foot to be healed. He gives a date for the miracle, by the end of Christmas break, and prays with his whole heart. When it does not heal, he asks his uncle why prayers are not answered. The vicar says it means faith is not great enough. Philip is disillusioned, thinking probably no one ever has enough faith, for he had truly tried. .", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters X-XIV . The narrator shows us the formation of mind and character as Philip begins to grow up. We see the seminal incidents in his life. For instance, it is only at school that he truly becomes aware he is a \"cripple.\" Until school, he has been around few people and none his age. In English schools, as in most other private or public schools, children can be cruel to one another. They engage in power struggles without sympathy or understanding. This was even worse for Philip, who is sensitive, and made to feel different, shut out from society. He does not have a chance for the same give and take with others, to get a perspective on his life, or find common ground. This mirrors Maugham's own difficulty with his stammer. . As before, his outlet is through the imagination and intellect. He excels at his studies, and yet, he cannot understand why he made up the lie about the pen to get sympathy. He believes his own lie because he has a good imagination to act out his part, and as was said before, the line can become blurred between imagination and reality. In fact, when he is bullied, \"It seemed to his childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever\" . He thinks he is living in a bad dream, and that one day he will wake to find his mother. This motif is repeated when he is unhappy: life is a bad dream; it is unreal. . Philip is terrified by his own temptation to manipulate others for sympathy, since he can't win their admiration. The admirable thing about Philip is that he is unusually reflective for a young boy. But is this a blessing or curse? The narrator intrudes with his analysis. He says that although every child becomes aware that it is a separate and individual body, not every one becomes fully conscious enough to be an individual personality. The luckiest people are not conscious of themselves, for \"their activities are shared by all\" . Philip is forced to live the inner life of the mind; \"he was forced to think for himself\" . In this way, he is alone, though conscious, able to come to his own original conclusions about life. This is both good and bad, for he may not be accurate in his assessment: \"He made his own experience into a general rule\" . . This ability to form his own conclusions is seen when he prays to God to heal his foot. When it does not happen, his uncle's explanation that a rejected prayer means there was not enough faith does not make sense to him. He knows he tried with every ounce of innocent faith he had. He concludes his uncle doesn't know what he is talking about or else God demands too much: \"I suppose no one ever has faith enough\" . While he was praying, he tried to be as uncomfortable as possible, freezing in the cold, assuming that prayers were more acceptable to God if he was uncomfortable. These are all the remnants of the Victorian religious belief he is about to slough off, making him too full of doubt to take Holy Orders."}

<CHAPTER> X The Careys made up their minds to send Philip to King's School at Tercanbury. The neighbouring clergy sent their sons there. It was united by long tradition to the Cathedral: its headmaster was an honorary Canon, and a past headmaster was the Archdeacon. Boys were encouraged there to aspire to Holy Orders, and the education was such as might prepare an honest lad to spend his life in God's service. A preparatory school was attached to it, and to this it was arranged that Philip should go. Mr. Carey took him into Tercanbury one Thursday afternoon towards the end of September. All day Philip had been excited and rather frightened. He knew little of school life but what he had read in the stories of The Boy's Own Paper. He had also read Eric, or Little by Little. When they got out of the train at Tercanbury, Philip felt sick with apprehension, and during the drive in to the town sat pale and silent. The high brick wall in front of the school gave it the look of a prison. There was a little door in it, which opened on their ringing; and a clumsy, untidy man came out and fetched Philip's tin trunk and his play-box. They were shown into the drawing-room; it was filled with massive, ugly furniture, and the chairs of the suite were placed round the walls with a forbidding rigidity. They waited for the headmaster. "What's Mr. Watson like?" asked Philip, after a while. "You'll see for yourself." There was another pause. Mr. Carey wondered why the headmaster did not come. Presently Philip made an effort and spoke again. "Tell him I've got a club-foot," he said. Before Mr. Carey could speak the door burst open and Mr. Watson swept into the room. To Philip he seemed gigantic. He was a man of over six feet high, and broad, with enormous hands and a great red beard; he talked loudly in a jovial manner; but his aggressive cheerfulness struck terror in Philip's heart. He shook hands with Mr. Carey, and then took Philip's small hand in his. "Well, young fellow, are you glad to come to school?" he shouted. Philip reddened and found no word to answer. "How old are you?" "Nine," said Philip. "You must say sir," said his uncle. "I expect you've got a good lot to learn," the headmaster bellowed cheerily. To give the boy confidence he began to tickle him with rough fingers. Philip, feeling shy and uncomfortable, squirmed under his touch. "I've put him in the small dormitory for the present.... You'll like that, won't you?" he added to Philip. "Only eight of you in there. You won't feel so strange." Then the door opened, and Mrs. Watson came in. She was a dark woman with black hair, neatly parted in the middle. She had curiously thick lips and a small round nose. Her eyes were large and black. There was a singular coldness in her appearance. She seldom spoke and smiled more seldom still. Her husband introduced Mr. Carey to her, and then gave Philip a friendly push towards her. "This is a new boy, Helen, His name's Carey." Without a word she shook hands with Philip and then sat down, not speaking, while the headmaster asked Mr. Carey how much Philip knew and what books he had been working with. The Vicar of Blackstable was a little embarrassed by Mr. Watson's boisterous heartiness, and in a moment or two got up. "I think I'd better leave Philip with you now." "That's all right," said Mr. Watson. "He'll be safe with me. He'll get on like a house on fire. Won't you, young fellow?" Without waiting for an answer from Philip the big man burst into a great bellow of laughter. Mr. Carey kissed Philip on the forehead and went away. "Come along, young fellow," shouted Mr. Watson. "I'll show you the school-room." He swept out of the drawing-room with giant strides, and Philip hurriedly limped behind him. He was taken into a long, bare room with two tables that ran along its whole length; on each side of them were wooden forms. "Nobody much here yet," said Mr. Watson. "I'll just show you the playground, and then I'll leave you to shift for yourself." Mr. Watson led the way. Philip found himself in a large play-ground with high brick walls on three sides of it. On the fourth side was an iron railing through which you saw a vast lawn and beyond this some of the buildings of King's School. One small boy was wandering disconsolately, kicking up the gravel as he walked. "Hulloa, Venning," shouted Mr. Watson. "When did you turn up?" The small boy came forward and shook hands. "Here's a new boy. He's older and bigger than you, so don't you bully him." The headmaster glared amicably at the two children, filling them with fear by the roar of his voice, and then with a guffaw left them. "What's your name?" "Carey." "What's your father?" "He's dead." "Oh! Does your mother wash?" "My mother's dead, too." Philip thought this answer would cause the boy a certain awkwardness, but Venning was not to be turned from his facetiousness for so little. "Well, did she wash?" he went on. "Yes," said Philip indignantly. "She was a washerwoman then?" "No, she wasn't." "Then she didn't wash." The little boy crowed with delight at the success of his dialectic. Then he caught sight of Philip's feet. "What's the matter with your foot?" Philip instinctively tried to withdraw it from sight. He hid it behind the one which was whole. "I've got a club-foot," he answered. "How did you get it?" "I've always had it." "Let's have a look." "No." "Don't then." The little boy accompanied the words with a sharp kick on Philip's shin, which Philip did not expect and thus could not guard against. The pain was so great that it made him gasp, but greater than the pain was the surprise. He did not know why Venning kicked him. He had not the presence of mind to give him a black eye. Besides, the boy was smaller than he, and he had read in The Boy's Own Paper that it was a mean thing to hit anyone smaller than yourself. While Philip was nursing his shin a third boy appeared, and his tormentor left him. In a little while he noticed that the pair were talking about him, and he felt they were looking at his feet. He grew hot and uncomfortable. But others arrived, a dozen together, and then more, and they began to talk about their doings during the holidays, where they had been, and what wonderful cricket they had played. A few new boys appeared, and with these presently Philip found himself talking. He was shy and nervous. He was anxious to make himself pleasant, but he could not think of anything to say. He was asked a great many questions and answered them all quite willingly. One boy asked him whether he could play cricket. "No," answered Philip. "I've got a club-foot." The boy looked down quickly and reddened. Philip saw that he felt he had asked an unseemly question. He was too shy to apologise and looked at Philip awkwardly. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XI Next morning when the clanging of a bell awoke Philip he looked round his cubicle in astonishment. Then a voice sang out, and he remembered where he was. "Are you awake, Singer?" The partitions of the cubicle were of polished pitch-pine, and there was a green curtain in front. In those days there was little thought of ventilation, and the windows were closed except when the dormitory was aired in the morning. Philip got up and knelt down to say his prayers. It was a cold morning, and he shivered a little; but he had been taught by his uncle that his prayers were more acceptable to God if he said them in his nightshirt than if he waited till he was dressed. This did not surprise him, for he was beginning to realise that he was the creature of a God who appreciated the discomfort of his worshippers. Then he washed. There were two baths for the fifty boarders, and each boy had a bath once a week. The rest of his washing was done in a small basin on a wash-stand, which with the bed and a chair, made up the furniture of each cubicle. The boys chatted gaily while they dressed. Philip was all ears. Then another bell sounded, and they ran downstairs. They took their seats on the forms on each side of the two long tables in the school-room; and Mr. Watson, followed by his wife and the servants, came in and sat down. Mr. Watson read prayers in an impressive manner, and the supplications thundered out in his loud voice as though they were threats personally addressed to each boy. Philip listened with anxiety. Then Mr. Watson read a chapter from the Bible, and the servants trooped out. In a moment the untidy youth brought in two large pots of tea and on a second journey immense dishes of bread and butter. Philip had a squeamish appetite, and the thick slabs of poor butter on the bread turned his stomach, but he saw other boys scraping it off and followed their example. They all had potted meats and such like, which they had brought in their play-boxes; and some had 'extras,' eggs or bacon, upon which Mr. Watson made a profit. When he had asked Mr. Carey whether Philip was to have these, Mr. Carey replied that he did not think boys should be spoilt. Mr. Watson quite agreed with him--he considered nothing was better than bread and butter for growing lads--but some parents, unduly pampering their offspring, insisted on it. Philip noticed that 'extras' gave boys a certain consideration and made up his mind, when he wrote to Aunt Louisa, to ask for them. After breakfast the boys wandered out into the play-ground. Here the day-boys were gradually assembling. They were sons of the local clergy, of the officers at the Depot, and of such manufacturers or men of business as the old town possessed. Presently a bell rang, and they all trooped into school. This consisted of a large, long room at opposite ends of which two under-masters conducted the second and third forms, and of a smaller one, leading out of it, used by Mr. Watson, who taught the first form. To attach the preparatory to the senior school these three classes were known officially, on speech days and in reports, as upper, middle, and lower second. Philip was put in the last. The master, a red-faced man with a pleasant voice, was called Rice; he had a jolly manner with boys, and the time passed quickly. Philip was surprised when it was a quarter to eleven and they were let out for ten minutes' rest. The whole school rushed noisily into the play-ground. The new boys were told to go into the middle, while the others stationed themselves along opposite walls. They began to play Pig in the Middle. The old boys ran from wall to wall while the new boys tried to catch them: when one was seized and the mystic words said--one, two, three, and a pig for me--he became a prisoner and, turning sides, helped to catch those who were still free. Philip saw a boy running past and tried to catch him, but his limp gave him no chance; and the runners, taking their opportunity, made straight for the ground he covered. Then one of them had the brilliant idea of imitating Philip's clumsy run. Other boys saw it and began to laugh; then they all copied the first; and they ran round Philip, limping grotesquely, screaming in their treble voices with shrill laughter. They lost their heads with the delight of their new amusement, and choked with helpless merriment. One of them tripped Philip up and he fell, heavily as he always fell, and cut his knee. They laughed all the louder when he got up. A boy pushed him from behind, and he would have fallen again if another had not caught him. The game was forgotten in the entertainment of Philip's deformity. One of them invented an odd, rolling limp that struck the rest as supremely ridiculous, and several of the boys lay down on the ground and rolled about in laughter: Philip was completely scared. He could not make out why they were laughing at him. His heart beat so that he could hardly breathe, and he was more frightened than he had ever been in his life. He stood still stupidly while the boys ran round him, mimicking and laughing; they shouted to him to try and catch them; but he did not move. He did not want them to see him run any more. He was using all his strength to prevent himself from crying. Suddenly the bell rang, and they all trooped back to school. Philip's knee was bleeding, and he was dusty and dishevelled. For some minutes Mr. Rice could not control his form. They were excited still by the strange novelty, and Philip saw one or two of them furtively looking down at his feet. He tucked them under the bench. In the afternoon they went up to play football, but Mr. Watson stopped Philip on the way out after dinner. "I suppose you can't play football, Carey?" he asked him. Philip blushed self-consciously. "No, sir." "Very well. You'd better go up to the field. You can walk as far as that, can't you?" Philip had no idea where the field was, but he answered all the same. "Yes, sir." The boys went in charge of Mr. Rice, who glanced at Philip and seeing he had not changed, asked why he was not going to play. "Mr. Watson said I needn't, sir," said Philip. "Why?" There were boys all round him, looking at him curiously, and a feeling of shame came over Philip. He looked down without answering. Others gave the reply. "He's got a club-foot, sir." "Oh, I see." Mr. Rice was quite young; he had only taken his degree a year before; and he was suddenly embarrassed. His instinct was to beg the boy's pardon, but he was too shy to do so. He made his voice gruff and loud. "Now then, you boys, what are you waiting about for? Get on with you." Some of them had already started and those that were left now set off, in groups of two or three. "You'd better come along with me, Carey," said the master "You don't know the way, do you?" Philip guessed the kindness, and a sob came to his throat. "I can't go very fast, sir." "Then I'll go very slow," said the master, with a smile. Philip's heart went out to the red-faced, commonplace young man who said a gentle word to him. He suddenly felt less unhappy. But at night when they went up to bed and were undressing, the boy who was called Singer came out of his cubicle and put his head in Philip's. "I say, let's look at your foot," he said. "No," answered Philip. He jumped into bed quickly. "Don't say no to me," said Singer. "Come on, Mason." The boy in the next cubicle was looking round the corner, and at the words he slipped in. They made for Philip and tried to tear the bed-clothes off him, but he held them tightly. "Why can't you leave me alone?" he cried. Singer seized a brush and with the back of it beat Philip's hands clenched on the blanket. Philip cried out. "Why don't you show us your foot quietly?" "I won't." In desperation Philip clenched his fist and hit the boy who tormented him, but he was at a disadvantage, and the boy seized his arm. He began to turn it. "Oh, don't, don't," said Philip. "You'll break my arm." "Stop still then and put out your foot." Philip gave a sob and a gasp. The boy gave the arm another wrench. The pain was unendurable. "All right. I'll do it," said Philip. He put out his foot. Singer still kept his hand on Philip's wrist. He looked curiously at the deformity. "Isn't it beastly?" said Mason. Another came in and looked too. "Ugh," he said, in disgust. "My word, it is rum," said Singer, making a face. "Is it hard?" He touched it with the tip of his forefinger, cautiously, as though it were something that had a life of its own. Suddenly they heard Mr. Watson's heavy tread on the stairs. They threw the clothes back on Philip and dashed like rabbits into their cubicles. Mr. Watson came into the dormitory. Raising himself on tiptoe he could see over the rod that bore the green curtain, and he looked into two or three of the cubicles. The little boys were safely in bed. He put out the light and went out. Singer called out to Philip, but he did not answer. He had got his teeth in the pillow so that his sobbing should be inaudible. He was not crying for the pain they had caused him, nor for the humiliation he had suffered when they looked at his foot, but with rage at himself because, unable to stand the torture, he had put out his foot of his own accord. And then he felt the misery of his life. It seemed to his childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever. For no particular reason he remembered that cold morning when Emma had taken him out of bed and put him beside his mother. He had not thought of it once since it happened, but now he seemed to feel the warmth of his mother's body against his and her arms around him. Suddenly it seemed to him that his life was a dream, his mother's death, and the life at the vicarage, and these two wretched days at school, and he would awake in the morning and be back again at home. His tears dried as he thought of it. He was too unhappy, it must be nothing but a dream, and his mother was alive, and Emma would come up presently and go to bed. He fell asleep. But when he awoke next morning it was to the clanging of a bell, and the first thing his eyes saw was the green curtain of his cubicle. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XII As time went on Philip's deformity ceased to interest. It was accepted like one boy's red hair and another's unreasonable corpulence. But meanwhile he had grown horribly sensitive. He never ran if he could help it, because he knew it made his limp more conspicuous, and he adopted a peculiar walk. He stood still as much as he could, with his club-foot behind the other, so that it should not attract notice, and he was constantly on the look out for any reference to it. Because he could not join in the games which other boys played, their life remained strange to him; he only interested himself from the outside in their doings; and it seemed to him that there was a barrier between them and him. Sometimes they seemed to think that it was his fault if he could not play football, and he was unable to make them understand. He was left a good deal to himself. He had been inclined to talkativeness, but gradually he became silent. He began to think of the difference between himself and others. The biggest boy in his dormitory, Singer, took a dislike to him, and Philip, small for his age, had to put up with a good deal of hard treatment. About half-way through the term a mania ran through the school for a game called Nibs. It was a game for two, played on a table or a form with steel pens. You had to push your nib with the finger-nail so as to get the point of it over your opponent's, while he manoeuvred to prevent this and to get the point of his nib over the back of yours; when this result was achieved you breathed on the ball of your thumb, pressed it hard on the two nibs, and if you were able then to lift them without dropping either, both nibs became yours. Soon nothing was seen but boys playing this game, and the more skilful acquired vast stores of nibs. But in a little while Mr. Watson made up his mind that it was a form of gambling, forbade the game, and confiscated all the nibs in the boys' possession. Philip had been very adroit, and it was with a heavy heart that he gave up his winning; but his fingers itched to play still, and a few days later, on his way to the football field, he went into a shop and bought a pennyworth of J pens. He carried them loose in his pocket and enjoyed feeling them. Presently Singer found out that he had them. Singer had given up his nibs too, but he had kept back a very large one, called a Jumbo, which was almost unconquerable, and he could not resist the opportunity of getting Philip's Js out of him. Though Philip knew that he was at a disadvantage with his small nibs, he had an adventurous disposition and was willing to take the risk; besides, he was aware that Singer would not allow him to refuse. He had not played for a week and sat down to the game now with a thrill of excitement. He lost two of his small nibs quickly, and Singer was jubilant, but the third time by some chance the Jumbo slipped round and Philip was able to push his J across it. He crowed with triumph. At that moment Mr. Watson came in. "What are you doing?" he asked. He looked from Singer to Philip, but neither answered. "Don't you know that I've forbidden you to play that idiotic game?" Philip's heart beat fast. He knew what was coming and was dreadfully frightened, but in his fright there was a certain exultation. He had never been swished. Of course it would hurt, but it was something to boast about afterwards. "Come into my study." The headmaster turned, and they followed him side by side Singer whispered to Philip: "We're in for it." Mr. Watson pointed to Singer. "Bend over," he said. Philip, very white, saw the boy quiver at each stroke, and after the third he heard him cry out. Three more followed. "That'll do. Get up." Singer stood up. The tears were streaming down his face. Philip stepped forward. Mr. Watson looked at him for a moment. "I'm not going to cane you. You're a new boy. And I can't hit a cripple. Go away, both of you, and don't be naughty again." When they got back into the school-room a group of boys, who had learned in some mysterious way what was happening, were waiting for them. They set upon Singer at once with eager questions. Singer faced them, his face red with the pain and marks of tears still on his cheeks. He pointed with his head at Philip, who was standing a little behind him. "He got off because he's a cripple," he said angrily. Philip stood silent and flushed. He felt that they looked at him with contempt. "How many did you get?" one boy asked Singer. But he did not answer. He was angry because he had been hurt "Don't ask me to play Nibs with you again," he said to Philip. "It's jolly nice for you. You don't risk anything." "I didn't ask you." "Didn't you!" He quickly put out his foot and tripped Philip up. Philip was always rather unsteady on his feet, and he fell heavily to the ground. "Cripple," said Singer. For the rest of the term he tormented Philip cruelly, and, though Philip tried to keep out of his way, the school was so small that it was impossible; he tried being friendly and jolly with him; he abased himself, so far as to buy him a knife; but though Singer took the knife he was not placated. Once or twice, driven beyond endurance, he hit and kicked the bigger boy, but Singer was so much stronger that Philip was helpless, and he was always forced after more or less torture to beg his pardon. It was that which rankled with Philip: he could not bear the humiliation of apologies, which were wrung from him by pain greater than he could bear. And what made it worse was that there seemed no end to his wretchedness; Singer was only eleven and would not go to the upper school till he was thirteen. Philip realised that he must live two years with a tormentor from whom there was no escape. He was only happy while he was working and when he got into bed. And often there recurred to him then that queer feeling that his life with all its misery was nothing but a dream, and that he would awake in the morning in his own little bed in London. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XIII Two years passed, and Philip was nearly twelve. He was in the first form, within two or three places of the top, and after Christmas when several boys would be leaving for the senior school he would be head boy. He had already quite a collection of prizes, worthless books on bad paper, but in gorgeous bindings decorated with the arms of the school: his position had freed him from bullying, and he was not unhappy. His fellows forgave him his success because of his deformity. "After all, it's jolly easy for him to get prizes," they said, "there's nothing he CAN do but swat." He had lost his early terror of Mr. Watson. He had grown used to the loud voice, and when the headmaster's heavy hand was laid on his shoulder Philip discerned vaguely the intention of a caress. He had the good memory which is more useful for scholastic achievements than mental power, and he knew Mr. Watson expected him to leave the preparatory school with a scholarship. But he had grown very self-conscious. The new-born child does not realise that his body is more a part of himself than surrounding objects, and will play with his toes without any feeling that they belong to him more than the rattle by his side; and it is only by degrees, through pain, that he understands the fact of the body. And experiences of the same kind are necessary for the individual to become conscious of himself; but here there is the difference that, although everyone becomes equally conscious of his body as a separate and complete organism, everyone does not become equally conscious of himself as a complete and separate personality. The feeling of apartness from others comes to most with puberty, but it is not always developed to such a degree as to make the difference between the individual and his fellows noticeable to the individual. It is such as he, as little conscious of himself as the bee in a hive, who are the lucky in life, for they have the best chance of happiness: their activities are shared by all, and their pleasures are only pleasures because they are enjoyed in common; you will see them on Whit-Monday dancing on Hampstead Heath, shouting at a football match, or from club windows in Pall Mall cheering a royal procession. It is because of them that man has been called a social animal. Philip passed from the innocence of childhood to bitter consciousness of himself by the ridicule which his club-foot had excited. The circumstances of his case were so peculiar that he could not apply to them the ready-made rules which acted well enough in ordinary affairs, and he was forced to think for himself. The many books he had read filled his mind with ideas which, because he only half understood them, gave more scope to his imagination. Beneath his painful shyness something was growing up within him, and obscurely he realised his personality. But at times it gave him odd surprises; he did things, he knew not why, and afterwards when he thought of them found himself all at sea. There was a boy called Luard between whom and Philip a friendship had arisen, and one day, when they were playing together in the school-room, Luard began to perform some trick with an ebony pen-holder of Philip's. "Don't play the giddy ox," said Philip. "You'll only break it." "I shan't." But no sooner were the words out of the boy's mouth than the pen-holder snapped in two. Luard looked at Philip with dismay. "Oh, I say, I'm awfully sorry." The tears rolled down Philip's cheeks, but he did not answer. "I say, what's the matter?" said Luard, with surprise. "I'll get you another one exactly the same." "It's not about the pen-holder I care," said Philip, in a trembling voice, "only it was given me by my mater, just before she died." "I say, I'm awfully sorry, Carey." "It doesn't matter. It wasn't your fault." Philip took the two pieces of the pen-holder and looked at them. He tried to restrain his sobs. He felt utterly miserable. And yet he could not tell why, for he knew quite well that he had bought the pen-holder during his last holidays at Blackstable for one and twopence. He did not know in the least what had made him invent that pathetic story, but he was quite as unhappy as though it had been true. The pious atmosphere of the vicarage and the religious tone of the school had made Philip's conscience very sensitive; he absorbed insensibly the feeling about him that the Tempter was ever on the watch to gain his immortal soul; and though he was not more truthful than most boys he never told a lie without suffering from remorse. When he thought over this incident he was very much distressed, and made up his mind that he must go to Luard and tell him that the story was an invention. Though he dreaded humiliation more than anything in the world, he hugged himself for two or three days at the thought of the agonising joy of humiliating himself to the Glory of God. But he never got any further. He satisfied his conscience by the more comfortable method of expressing his repentance only to the Almighty. But he could not understand why he should have been so genuinely affected by the story he was making up. The tears that flowed down his grubby cheeks were real tears. Then by some accident of association there occurred to him that scene when Emma had told him of his mother's death, and, though he could not speak for crying, he had insisted on going in to say good-bye to the Misses Watkin so that they might see his grief and pity him. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XIV Then a wave of religiosity passed through the school. Bad language was no longer heard, and the little nastinesses of small boys were looked upon with hostility; the bigger boys, like the lords temporal of the Middle Ages, used the strength of their arms to persuade those weaker than themselves to virtuous courses. Philip, his restless mind avid for new things, became very devout. He heard soon that it was possible to join a Bible League, and wrote to London for particulars. These consisted in a form to be filled up with the applicant's name, age, and school; a solemn declaration to be signed that he would read a set portion of Holy Scripture every night for a year; and a request for half a crown; this, it was explained, was demanded partly to prove the earnestness of the applicant's desire to become a member of the League, and partly to cover clerical expenses. Philip duly sent the papers and the money, and in return received a calendar worth about a penny, on which was set down the appointed passage to be read each day, and a sheet of paper on one side of which was a picture of the Good Shepherd and a lamb, and on the other, decoratively framed in red lines, a short prayer which had to be said before beginning to read. Every evening he undressed as quickly as possible in order to have time for his task before the gas was put out. He read industriously, as he read always, without criticism, stories of cruelty, deceit, ingratitude, dishonesty, and low cunning. Actions which would have excited his horror in the life about him, in the reading passed through his mind without comment, because they were committed under the direct inspiration of God. The method of the League was to alternate a book of the Old Testament with a book of the New, and one night Philip came across these words of Jesus Christ: If ye have faith, and doubt not, ye shall not only do this which is done to the fig-tree, but also if ye shall say unto this mountain, Be thou removed, and be thou cast into the sea; it shall be done. And all this, whatsoever ye shall ask in prayer, believing, ye shall receive. They made no particular impression on him, but it happened that two or three days later, being Sunday, the Canon in residence chose them for the text of his sermon. Even if Philip had wanted to hear this it would have been impossible, for the boys of King's School sit in the choir, and the pulpit stands at the corner of the transept so that the preacher's back is almost turned to them. The distance also is so great that it needs a man with a fine voice and a knowledge of elocution to make himself heard in the choir; and according to long usage the Canons of Tercanbury are chosen for their learning rather than for any qualities which might be of use in a cathedral church. But the words of the text, perhaps because he had read them so short a while before, came clearly enough to Philip's ears, and they seemed on a sudden to have a personal application. He thought about them through most of the sermon, and that night, on getting into bed, he turned over the pages of the Gospel and found once more the passage. Though he believed implicitly everything he saw in print, he had learned already that in the Bible things that said one thing quite clearly often mysteriously meant another. There was no one he liked to ask at school, so he kept the question he had in mind till the Christmas holidays, and then one day he made an opportunity. It was after supper and prayers were just finished. Mrs. Carey was counting the eggs that Mary Ann had brought in as usual and writing on each one the date. Philip stood at the table and pretended to turn listlessly the pages of the Bible. "I say, Uncle William, this passage here, does it really mean that?" He put his finger against it as though he had come across it accidentally. Mr. Carey looked up over his spectacles. He was holding The Blackstable Times in front of the fire. It had come in that evening damp from the press, and the Vicar always aired it for ten minutes before he began to read. "What passage is that?" he asked. "Why, this about if you have faith you can remove mountains." "If it says so in the Bible it is so, Philip," said Mrs. Carey gently, taking up the plate-basket. Philip looked at his uncle for an answer. "It's a matter of faith." "D'you mean to say that if you really believed you could move mountains you could?" "By the grace of God," said the Vicar. "Now, say good-night to your uncle, Philip," said Aunt Louisa. "You're not wanting to move a mountain tonight, are you?" Philip allowed himself to be kissed on the forehead by his uncle and preceded Mrs. Carey upstairs. He had got the information he wanted. His little room was icy, and he shivered when he put on his nightshirt. But he always felt that his prayers were more pleasing to God when he said them under conditions of discomfort. The coldness of his hands and feet were an offering to the Almighty. And tonight he sank on his knees; buried his face in his hands, and prayed to God with all his might that He would make his club-foot whole. It was a very small thing beside the moving of mountains. He knew that God could do it if He wished, and his own faith was complete. Next morning, finishing his prayers with the same request, he fixed a date for the miracle. "Oh, God, in Thy loving mercy and goodness, if it be Thy will, please make my foot all right on the night before I go back to school." He was glad to get his petition into a formula, and he repeated it later in the dining-room during the short pause which the Vicar always made after prayers, before he rose from his knees. He said it again in the evening and again, shivering in his nightshirt, before he got into bed. And he believed. For once he looked forward with eagerness to the end of the holidays. He laughed to himself as he thought of his uncle's astonishment when he ran down the stairs three at a time; and after breakfast he and Aunt Louisa would have to hurry out and buy a new pair of boots. At school they would be astounded. "Hulloa, Carey, what have you done with your foot?" "Oh, it's all right now," he would answer casually, as though it were the most natural thing in the world. He would be able to play football. His heart leaped as he saw himself running, running, faster than any of the other boys. At the end of the Easter term there were the sports, and he would be able to go in for the races; he rather fancied himself over the hurdles. It would be splendid to be like everyone else, not to be stared at curiously by new boys who did not know about his deformity, nor at the baths in summer to need incredible precautions, while he was undressing, before he could hide his foot in the water. He prayed with all the power of his soul. No doubts assailed him. He was confident in the word of God. And the night before he was to go back to school he went up to bed tremulous with excitement. There was snow on the ground, and Aunt Louisa had allowed herself the unaccustomed luxury of a fire in her bed-room; but in Philip's little room it was so cold that his fingers were numb, and he had great difficulty in undoing his collar. His teeth chattered. The idea came to him that he must do something more than usual to attract the attention of God, and he turned back the rug which was in front of his bed so that he could kneel on the bare boards; and then it struck him that his nightshirt was a softness that might displease his Maker, so he took it off and said his prayers naked. When he got into bed he was so cold that for some time he could not sleep, but when he did, it was so soundly that Mary Ann had to shake him when she brought in his hot water next morning. She talked to him while she drew the curtains, but he did not answer; he had remembered at once that this was the morning for the miracle. His heart was filled with joy and gratitude. His first instinct was to put down his hand and feel the foot which was whole now, but to do this seemed to doubt the goodness of God. He knew that his foot was well. But at last he made up his mind, and with the toes of his right foot he just touched his left. Then he passed his hand over it. He limped downstairs just as Mary Ann was going into the dining-room for prayers, and then he sat down to breakfast. "You're very quiet this morning, Philip," said Aunt Louisa presently. "He's thinking of the good breakfast he'll have at school to-morrow," said the Vicar. When Philip answered, it was in a way that always irritated his uncle, with something that had nothing to do with the matter in hand. He called it a bad habit of wool-gathering. "Supposing you'd asked God to do something," said Philip, "and really believed it was going to happen, like moving a mountain, I mean, and you had faith, and it didn't happen, what would it mean?" "What a funny boy you are!" said Aunt Louisa. "You asked about moving mountains two or three weeks ago." "It would just mean that you hadn't got faith," answered Uncle William. Philip accepted the explanation. If God had not cured him, it was because he did not really believe. And yet he did not see how he could believe more than he did. But perhaps he had not given God enough time. He had only asked Him for nineteen days. In a day or two he began his prayer again, and this time he fixed upon Easter. That was the day of His Son's glorious resurrection, and God in His happiness might be mercifully inclined. But now Philip added other means of attaining his desire: he began to wish, when he saw a new moon or a dappled horse, and he looked out for shooting stars; during exeat they had a chicken at the vicarage, and he broke the lucky bone with Aunt Louisa and wished again, each time that his foot might be made whole. He was appealing unconsciously to gods older to his race than the God of Israel. And he bombarded the Almighty with his prayer, at odd times of the day, whenever it occurred to him, in identical words always, for it seemed to him important to make his request in the same terms. But presently the feeling came to him that this time also his faith would not be great enough. He could not resist the doubt that assailed him. He made his own experience into a general rule. "I suppose no one ever has faith enough," he said. It was like the salt which his nurse used to tell him about: you could catch any bird by putting salt on his tail; and once he had taken a little bag of it into Kensington Gardens. But he could never get near enough to put the salt on a bird's tail. Before Easter he had given up the struggle. He felt a dull resentment against his uncle for taking him in. The text which spoke of the moving of mountains was just one of those that said one thing and meant another. He thought his uncle had been playing a practical joke on him. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 10-14

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The Careys decide the boy must go to the prep school attached to King's School, Tercanbury, where the clergy send their sons to prepare for Holy Orders. Philip is a little frightened for he has read stories about going to school. Even driving up to the building is a bad omen, for it looks like a prison. They are greeted by the headmaster, Mr. Watson, who is unbearably and forcefully cheery and loud. He shows Philip to the playground and introduces him to another boy, Venning. . Venning asks about his clubfoot and asks to see it. When Philip refuses, the boy kicks him hard in the shin. Philip is so surprised he does nothing. Other boys arrive and talk about cricket. Philip explains he can't play because of his clubfoot. . He is awakened in the morning by a bell in his own dormitory cubicle that contains a bed, chair, and washstand. There are fifty boarders and many day students. After prayers with Mr. Watson, there is a sickening breakfast of bread and poor butter. The other boys have treats from home like potted meats or can buy bacon and eggs. Philip decides he will write to Aunt Louisa for some extras. . On the playground, he sees the day-boys, considered inferior because they are from local people or merchant families. Philip is put into the lower-second form class with Master Rice, who has a nice manner with the boys. On the playground, however, the boys play a running game, and because he limps, Philip cannot play well. The boys imitate his clumsy run and torment him. He is frightened and does not understand why he is being attacked. When the boys go off to play football, Mr. Rice kindly shows Philip the way to the field where he watches them. He is excused from sports because of his foot. . At night, in the dormitory, the boys beat up on him until he shows them his clubfoot. They express disgust. He stifles his tears in his pillow in his humiliation. In time, they lose interest in his deformity, but he becomes extremely sensitive and withdrawn. The biggest bully, Singer, dislikes him and gives him a hard time. In one way he is triumphant and that is at the game of Nibs, when the boys gamble for nibs or pen tips. Philip wins from Singer, but Mr. Watson had forbidden this form of gambling. When the two are caught, Watson canes or hits Singer as punishment, but he doesn't hit Philip, saying "I can't hit a cripple" . The other boys scorn him because he got off for being a cripple. In fights with the other boys, he is forced into backing down, and this misery makes him dread the future. . Two years pass, however, and he has earned a different kind of respect as being almost at the top of his class. He will be head boy, with all his collection of prizes. Yet this is a difficult time of life, for he is twelve and entering adolescence, where the narrator explains, a person becomes aware of himself as an individual. This is not a pleasant awakening for Philip who finds himself cut off from others because of his disability. He is forced to think for himself. . He is surprised to find himself making up stories to another boy who breaks his pen-holder. He begins to cry and says it was given him by his mother before she died. He cries as if the lie were true, and then feels remorse. He is worried that the Tempter is forcing him to sin. . In a wave of religious feeling that sweeps the school, he joins a Bible League and discovers the verse about prayer being able to move mountains if one has the faith. He decides to pray for his foot to be healed. He gives a date for the miracle, by the end of Christmas break, and prays with his whole heart. When it does not heal, he asks his uncle why prayers are not answered. The vicar says it means faith is not great enough. Philip is disillusioned, thinking probably no one ever has enough faith, for he had truly tried. .

Commentary on Chapters X-XIV . The narrator shows us the formation of mind and character as Philip begins to grow up. We see the seminal incidents in his life. For instance, it is only at school that he truly becomes aware he is a "cripple." Until school, he has been around few people and none his age. In English schools, as in most other private or public schools, children can be cruel to one another. They engage in power struggles without sympathy or understanding. This was even worse for Philip, who is sensitive, and made to feel different, shut out from society. He does not have a chance for the same give and take with others, to get a perspective on his life, or find common ground. This mirrors Maugham's own difficulty with his stammer. . As before, his outlet is through the imagination and intellect. He excels at his studies, and yet, he cannot understand why he made up the lie about the pen to get sympathy. He believes his own lie because he has a good imagination to act out his part, and as was said before, the line can become blurred between imagination and reality. In fact, when he is bullied, "It seemed to his childish mind that this unhappiness must go on for ever" . He thinks he is living in a bad dream, and that one day he will wake to find his mother. This motif is repeated when he is unhappy: life is a bad dream; it is unreal. . Philip is terrified by his own temptation to manipulate others for sympathy, since he can't win their admiration. The admirable thing about Philip is that he is unusually reflective for a young boy. But is this a blessing or curse? The narrator intrudes with his analysis. He says that although every child becomes aware that it is a separate and individual body, not every one becomes fully conscious enough to be an individual personality. The luckiest people are not conscious of themselves, for "their activities are shared by all" . Philip is forced to live the inner life of the mind; "he was forced to think for himself" . In this way, he is alone, though conscious, able to come to his own original conclusions about life. This is both good and bad, for he may not be accurate in his assessment: "He made his own experience into a general rule" . . This ability to form his own conclusions is seen when he prays to God to heal his foot. When it does not happen, his uncle's explanation that a rejected prayer means there was not enough faith does not make sense to him. He knows he tried with every ounce of innocent faith he had. He concludes his uncle doesn't know what he is talking about or else God demands too much: "I suppose no one ever has faith enough" . While he was praying, he tried to be as uncomfortable as possible, freezing in the cold, assuming that prayers were more acceptable to God if he was uncomfortable. These are all the remnants of the Victorian religious belief he is about to slough off, making him too full of doubt to take Holy Orders.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_32_to_35.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_6_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 32-35

chapters 32-35

{"name": "Chapters 32-35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter32-35", "summary": "These chapters tell the summer visit to his aunt and uncle Carey in Blackstable where Philip has his first affair. . At the vicarage, Philip meets Emily Wilkinson, the governess friend of the Careys who had recommended his teacher in Germany. She is also staying the summer on vacation. She is somewhat attractive, estimated by the Careys to be between 35 and 40. She and Philip get on because she is a modern woman influenced by her years working in Paris and Berlin. She has some affectations, speaks French phrases and English with a French accent. She talks incessantly of the mysteries of Paris, exciting Philip with hinted stories of her love affairs and the artists she met. She has a sense of humor and understands his jokes. . He realizes slowly that she is flirting, and he has to figure out how to court a woman, taking her suggestions about how the French men know how to make love. He is somewhat repulsed by her older appearance, though she dresses well. He cannot understand why she looks old in the morning and pretty at night in the dark. They walk in the gardens, read and discuss, and she gives him music lessons. They attend parties and tennis matches. Finally, he figures out a way to be alone with her in the house while the family is at church. He goes to her bedroom, and despite the fact he is suddenly not attracted, he manages to have his first sexual experience. . The next day he is revolted by her, but she is suddenly in love with him and speaks French endearments. He thinks, \"What rot women talk!\" But he ironically speaks equal rot by writing a letter to Hayward of his exploit, dressing it up with his fantasy of the way he wished it had been--a young beautiful girl whose \"laughter was like a rippling brook\" . . Philip takes it as an adventure and feels manly, completely surprised that Miss Wilkinson expresses real love and wants his constant attention now. She tries to make him feel guilty and obligated, and he is happy when the summer is over and he can be rid of her demands. She expects him to write every day. He receives a letter from Hayward full of enthusiasm for his perfect first love, and Philip is disgusted because everyone has taken seriously what for him was play. . Meanwhile, Philip has been surprised at how old his aunt and uncle appear. The uncle now seems insignificant to him and his aunt very frail and ready to blow away. He thinks what a pity their lives never amounted to anything and they will die, a waste. He does not want this for himself. He does feel some affection for his aunt who obviously loves him and has missed him. . He does not want to go to Oxford, and his uncle can't afford it. They settle on his being a chartered accountant. He does not much care, just so he can get to London to begin his life. He will pay three hundred pounds to Herbert Carter to be an articled pupil for five years. The uncle is assured that although accountancy is not one of the traditional occupations for a gentleman, it is becoming so in the modern world with the rise of business.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters XXXII-XXXV . Philip is the arrogant young man of nineteen here, but there is a lot of humor in these chapters, while they introduce themes that will later become tragic. It is all from the young man's point of view, and his aim and Emily's are opposite. . She is the clergy daughter whose only chances have been marriage or becoming a governess. She is too much of a free spirit to have stayed at home and tries to make her governess positions sound glamorous. Whether or not she has had all the affairs she hints of, she does have some genuine feeling for Philip and even suggests moving to London to be near him. He is appalled at her demanding ways and declaration of love, because for him, \"It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said\" . Here it is evident that he is not clear about the difference between his fantasy and reality. He is just trying to learn the part of a lover because it is a new role. He is a bit cold and heartless. . When first aware that Emily is flirting, he is surprised because \"he had expected more glamour\" . She is not the heroine of a book, and he is constantly agonizing about her age or turned off every other moment by some defect like her thick ankles. He describes his exploit in the letter to Hayward, not as it happened, but as a scene out of the novel he just read, Scenes of Bohemian Life by Murger. . It is a game and a part for him. He can't understand why her feelings are hurt. For that matter, he has trouble relating to his aunt and uncle as human beings as well, dismissing them as useless old people whose lives are past. Emily is the first woman who has been attracted to him, and that gives him the confidence to flirt with girls at a tennis match, an act that hurts her. He has not yet learned what others feel or his effect on them. . Perhaps Emily wants a husband or lover to get out of being a governess. The Careys make much of her social standing. She is defined as a \"lady\" because she is a clergyman's daughter. She is getting older, and there is more at stake for her than for him, as she points out. They do have some important things in common: they come from the same class, are educated, have a liberal modern point of view, have the same sense of humor, and even smoke cigarettes together. They amuse one another, and she teaches him music. However, her possessiveness and demands on him spoil it. He \"felt a queer pang of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the ideal\" . But he puts it behind him easily, anxious to get on to his real life. . One of the surprising things is that his lameness does not seem to be an issue for her, and he has surprisingly been able to learn tennis and is good at it."}

<CHAPTER> XXXII Philip was surprised when he saw his uncle and aunt. He had never noticed before that they were quite old people. The Vicar received him with his usual, not unamiable indifference. He was a little stouter, a little balder, a little grayer. Philip saw how insignificant he was. His face was weak and self-indulgent. Aunt Louisa took him in her arms and kissed him; and tears of happiness flowed down her cheeks. Philip was touched and embarrassed; he had not known with what a hungry love she cared for him. "Oh, the time has seemed long since you've been away, Philip," she cried. She stroked his hands and looked into his face with glad eyes. "You've grown. You're quite a man now." There was a very small moustache on his upper lip. He had bought a razor and now and then with infinite care shaved the down off his smooth chin. "We've been so lonely without you." And then shyly, with a little break in her voice, she asked: "You are glad to come back to your home, aren't you?" "Yes, rather." She was so thin that she seemed almost transparent, the arms she put round his neck were frail bones that reminded you of chicken bones, and her faded face was oh! so wrinkled. The gray curls which she still wore in the fashion of her youth gave her a queer, pathetic look; and her little withered body was like an autumn leaf, you felt it might be blown away by the first sharp wind. Philip realised that they had done with life, these two quiet little people: they belonged to a past generation, and they were waiting there patiently, rather stupidly, for death; and he, in his vigour and his youth, thirsting for excitement and adventure, was appalled at the waste. They had done nothing, and when they went it would be just as if they had never been. He felt a great pity for Aunt Louisa, and he loved her suddenly because she loved him. Then Miss Wilkinson, who had kept discreetly out of the way till the Careys had had a chance of welcoming their nephew, came into the room. "This is Miss Wilkinson, Philip," said Mrs. Carey. "The prodigal has returned," she said, holding out her hand. "I have brought a rose for the prodigal's buttonhole." With a gay smile she pinned to Philip's coat the flower she had just picked in the garden. He blushed and felt foolish. He knew that Miss Wilkinson was the daughter of his Uncle William's last rector, and he had a wide acquaintance with the daughters of clergymen. They wore ill-cut clothes and stout boots. They were generally dressed in black, for in Philip's early years at Blackstable homespuns had not reached East Anglia, and the ladies of the clergy did not favour colours. Their hair was done very untidily, and they smelt aggressively of starched linen. They considered the feminine graces unbecoming and looked the same whether they were old or young. They bore their religion arrogantly. The closeness of their connection with the church made them adopt a slightly dictatorial attitude to the rest of mankind. Miss Wilkinson was very different. She wore a white muslin gown stamped with gay little bunches of flowers, and pointed, high-heeled shoes, with open-work stockings. To Philip's inexperience it seemed that she was wonderfully dressed; he did not see that her frock was cheap and showy. Her hair was elaborately dressed, with a neat curl in the middle of the forehead: it was very black, shiny and hard, and it looked as though it could never be in the least disarranged. She had large black eyes and her nose was slightly aquiline; in profile she had somewhat the look of a bird of prey, but full face she was prepossessing. She smiled a great deal, but her mouth was large and when she smiled she tried to hide her teeth, which were big and rather yellow. But what embarrassed Philip most was that she was heavily powdered: he had very strict views on feminine behaviour and did not think a lady ever powdered; but of course Miss Wilkinson was a lady because she was a clergyman's daughter, and a clergyman was a gentleman. Philip made up his mind to dislike her thoroughly. She spoke with a slight French accent; and he did not know why she should, since she had been born and bred in the heart of England. He thought her smile affected, and the coy sprightliness of her manner irritated him. For two or three days he remained silent and hostile, but Miss Wilkinson apparently did not notice it. She was very affable. She addressed her conversation almost exclusively to him, and there was something flattering in the way she appealed constantly to his sane judgment. She made him laugh too, and Philip could never resist people who amused him: he had a gift now and then of saying neat things; and it was pleasant to have an appreciative listener. Neither the Vicar nor Mrs. Carey had a sense of humour, and they never laughed at anything he said. As he grew used to Miss Wilkinson, and his shyness left him, he began to like her better; he found the French accent picturesque; and at a garden party which the doctor gave she was very much better dressed than anyone else. She wore a blue foulard with large white spots, and Philip was tickled at the sensation it caused. "I'm certain they think you're no better than you should be," he told her, laughing. "It's the dream of my life to be taken for an abandoned hussy," she answered. One day when Miss Wilkinson was in her room he asked Aunt Louisa how old she was. "Oh, my dear, you should never ask a lady's age; but she's certainly too old for you to marry." The Vicar gave his slow, obese smile. "She's no chicken, Louisa," he said. "She was nearly grown up when we were in Lincolnshire, and that was twenty years ago. She wore a pigtail hanging down her back." "She may not have been more than ten," said Philip. "She was older than that," said Aunt Louisa. "I think she was near twenty," said the Vicar. "Oh no, William. Sixteen or seventeen at the outside." "That would make her well over thirty," said Philip. At that moment Miss Wilkinson tripped downstairs, singing a song by Benjamin Goddard. She had put her hat on, for she and Philip were going for a walk, and she held out her hand for him to button her glove. He did it awkwardly. He felt embarrassed but gallant. Conversation went easily between them now, and as they strolled along they talked of all manner of things. She told Philip about Berlin, and he told her of his year in Heidelberg. As he spoke, things which had appeared of no importance gained a new interest: he described the people at Frau Erlin's house; and to the conversations between Hayward and Weeks, which at the time seemed so significant, he gave a little twist, so that they looked absurd. He was flattered at Miss Wilkinson's laughter. "I'm quite frightened of you," she said. "You're so sarcastic." Then she asked him playfully whether he had not had any love affairs at Heidelberg. Without thinking, he frankly answered that he had not; but she refused to believe him. "How secretive you are!" she said. "At your age is it likely?" He blushed and laughed. "You want to know too much," he said. "Ah, I thought so," she laughed triumphantly. "Look at him blushing." He was pleased that she should think he had been a sad dog, and he changed the conversation so as to make her believe he had all sorts of romantic things to conceal. He was angry with himself that he had not. There had been no opportunity. Miss Wilkinson was dissatisfied with her lot. She resented having to earn her living and told Philip a long story of an uncle of her mother's, who had been expected to leave her a fortune but had married his cook and changed his will. She hinted at the luxury of her home and compared her life in Lincolnshire, with horses to ride and carriages to drive in, with the mean dependence of her present state. Philip was a little puzzled when he mentioned this afterwards to Aunt Louisa, and she told him that when she knew the Wilkinsons they had never had anything more than a pony and a dog-cart; Aunt Louisa had heard of the rich uncle, but as he was married and had children before Emily was born she could never have had much hope of inheriting his fortune. Miss Wilkinson had little good to say of Berlin, where she was now in a situation. She complained of the vulgarity of German life, and compared it bitterly with the brilliance of Paris, where she had spent a number of years. She did not say how many. She had been governess in the family of a fashionable portrait-painter, who had married a Jewish wife of means, and in their house she had met many distinguished people. She dazzled Philip with their names. Actors from the Comedie Francaise had come to the house frequently, and Coquelin, sitting next her at dinner, had told her he had never met a foreigner who spoke such perfect French. Alphonse Daudet had come also, and he had given her a copy of Sappho: he had promised to write her name in it, but she had forgotten to remind him. She treasured the volume none the less and she would lend it to Philip. Then there was Maupassant. Miss Wilkinson with a rippling laugh looked at Philip knowingly. What a man, but what a writer! Hayward had talked of Maupassant, and his reputation was not unknown to Philip. "Did he make love to you?" he asked. The words seemed to stick funnily in his throat, but he asked them nevertheless. He liked Miss Wilkinson very much now, and was thrilled by her conversation, but he could not imagine anyone making love to her. "What a question!" she cried. "Poor Guy, he made love to every woman he met. It was a habit that he could not break himself of." She sighed a little, and seemed to look back tenderly on the past. "He was a charming man," she murmured. A greater experience than Philip's would have guessed from these words the probabilities of the encounter: the distinguished writer invited to luncheon en famille, the governess coming in sedately with the two tall girls she was teaching; the introduction: "Notre Miss Anglaise." "Mademoiselle." And the luncheon during which the Miss Anglaise sat silent while the distinguished writer talked to his host and hostess. But to Philip her words called up much more romantic fancies. "Do tell me all about him," he said excitedly. "There's nothing to tell," she said truthfully, but in such a manner as to convey that three volumes would scarcely have contained the lurid facts. "You mustn't be curious." She began to talk of Paris. She loved the boulevards and the Bois. There was grace in every street, and the trees in the Champs Elysees had a distinction which trees had not elsewhere. They were sitting on a stile now by the high-road, and Miss Wilkinson looked with disdain upon the stately elms in front of them. And the theatres: the plays were brilliant, and the acting was incomparable. She often went with Madame Foyot, the mother of the girls she was educating, when she was trying on clothes. "Oh, what a misery to be poor!" she cried. "These beautiful things, it's only in Paris they know how to dress, and not to be able to afford them! Poor Madame Foyot, she had no figure. Sometimes the dressmaker used to whisper to me: 'Ah, Mademoiselle, if she only had your figure.'" Philip noticed then that Miss Wilkinson had a robust form and was proud of it. "Men are so stupid in England. They only think of the face. The French, who are a nation of lovers, know how much more important the figure is." Philip had never thought of such things before, but he observed now that Miss Wilkinson's ankles were thick and ungainly. He withdrew his eyes quickly. "You should go to France. Why don't you go to Paris for a year? You would learn French, and it would--deniaiser you." "What is that?" asked Philip. She laughed slyly. "You must look it out in the dictionary. Englishmen do not know how to treat women. They are so shy. Shyness is ridiculous in a man. They don't know how to make love. They can't even tell a woman she is charming without looking foolish." Philip felt himself absurd. Miss Wilkinson evidently expected him to behave very differently; and he would have been delighted to say gallant and witty things, but they never occurred to him; and when they did he was too much afraid of making a fool of himself to say them. "Oh, I love Paris," sighed Miss Wilkinson. "But I had to go to Berlin. I was with the Foyots till the girls married, and then I could get nothing to do, and I had the chance of this post in Berlin. They're relations of Madame Foyot, and I accepted. I had a tiny apartment in the Rue Breda, on the cinquieme: it wasn't at all respectable. You know about the Rue Breda--ces dames, you know." Philip nodded, not knowing at all what she meant, but vaguely suspecting, and anxious she should not think him too ignorant. "But I didn't care. Je suis libre, n'est-ce pas?" She was very fond of speaking French, which indeed she spoke well. "Once I had such a curious adventure there." She paused a little and Philip pressed her to tell it. "You wouldn't tell me yours in Heidelberg," she said. "They were so unadventurous," he retorted. "I don't know what Mrs. Carey would say if she knew the sort of things we talk about together." "You don't imagine I shall tell her." "Will you promise?" When he had done this, she told him how an art-student who had a room on the floor above her--but she interrupted herself. "Why don't you go in for art? You paint so prettily." "Not well enough for that." "That is for others to judge. Je m'y connais, and I believe you have the making of a great artist." "Can't you see Uncle William's face if I suddenly told him I wanted to go to Paris and study art?" "You're your own master, aren't you?" "You're trying to put me off. Please go on with the story." Miss Wilkinson, with a little laugh, went on. The art-student had passed her several times on the stairs, and she had paid no particular attention. She saw that he had fine eyes, and he took off his hat very politely. And one day she found a letter slipped under her door. It was from him. He told her that he had adored her for months, and that he waited about the stairs for her to pass. Oh, it was a charming letter! Of course she did not reply, but what woman could help being flattered? And next day there was another letter! It was wonderful, passionate, and touching. When next she met him on the stairs she did not know which way to look. And every day the letters came, and now he begged her to see him. He said he would come in the evening, vers neuf heures, and she did not know what to do. Of course it was impossible, and he might ring and ring, but she would never open the door; and then while she was waiting for the tinkling of the bell, all nerves, suddenly he stood before her. She had forgotten to shut the door when she came in. "C'etait une fatalite." "And what happened then?" asked Philip. "That is the end of the story," she replied, with a ripple of laughter. Philip was silent for a moment. His heart beat quickly, and strange emotions seemed to be hustling one another in his heart. He saw the dark staircase and the chance meetings, and he admired the boldness of the letters--oh, he would never have dared to do that--and then the silent, almost mysterious entrance. It seemed to him the very soul of romance. "What was he like?" "Oh, he was handsome. Charmant garcon." "Do you know him still?" Philip felt a slight feeling of irritation as he asked this. "He treated me abominably. Men are always the same. You're heartless, all of you." "I don't know about that," said Philip, not without embarrassment. "Let us go home," said Miss Wilkinson. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXXIII Philip could not get Miss Wilkinson's story out of his head. It was clear enough what she meant even though she cut it short, and he was a little shocked. That sort of thing was all very well for married women, he had read enough French novels to know that in France it was indeed the rule, but Miss Wilkinson was English and unmarried; her father was a clergyman. Then it struck him that the art-student probably was neither the first nor the last of her lovers, and he gasped: he had never looked upon Miss Wilkinson like that; it seemed incredible that anyone should make love to her. In his ingenuousness he doubted her story as little as he doubted what he read in books, and he was angry that such wonderful things never happened to him. It was humiliating that if Miss Wilkinson insisted upon his telling her of his adventures in Heidelberg he would have nothing to tell. It was true that he had some power of invention, but he was not sure whether he could persuade her that he was steeped in vice; women were full of intuition, he had read that, and she might easily discover that he was fibbing. He blushed scarlet as he thought of her laughing up her sleeve. Miss Wilkinson played the piano and sang in a rather tired voice; but her songs, Massenet, Benjamin Goddard, and Augusta Holmes, were new to Philip; and together they spent many hours at the piano. One day she wondered if he had a voice and insisted on trying it. She told him he had a pleasant baritone and offered to give him lessons. At first with his usual bashfulness he refused, but she insisted, and then every morning at a convenient time after breakfast she gave him an hour's lesson. She had a natural gift for teaching, and it was clear that she was an excellent governess. She had method and firmness. Though her French accent was so much part of her that it remained, all the mellifluousness of her manner left her when she was engaged in teaching. She put up with no nonsense. Her voice became a little peremptory, and instinctively she suppressed inattention and corrected slovenliness. She knew what she was about and put Philip to scales and exercises. When the lesson was over she resumed without effort her seductive smiles, her voice became again soft and winning, but Philip could not so easily put away the pupil as she the pedagogue; and this impression convicted with the feelings her stories had aroused in him. He looked at her more narrowly. He liked her much better in the evening than in the morning. In the morning she was rather lined and the skin of her neck was just a little rough. He wished she would hide it, but the weather was very warm just then and she wore blouses which were cut low. She was very fond of white; in the morning it did not suit her. At night she often looked very attractive, she put on a gown which was almost a dinner dress, and she wore a chain of garnets round her neck; the lace about her bosom and at her elbows gave her a pleasant softness, and the scent she wore (at Blackstable no one used anything but Eau de Cologne, and that only on Sundays or when suffering from a sick headache) was troubling and exotic. She really looked very young then. Philip was much exercised over her age. He added twenty and seventeen together, and could not bring them to a satisfactory total. He asked Aunt Louisa more than once why she thought Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven: she didn't look more than thirty, and everyone knew that foreigners aged more rapidly than English women; Miss Wilkinson had lived so long abroad that she might almost be called a foreigner. He personally wouldn't have thought her more than twenty-six. "She's more than that," said Aunt Louisa. Philip did not believe in the accuracy of the Careys' statements. All they distinctly remembered was that Miss Wilkinson had not got her hair up the last time they saw her in Lincolnshire. Well, she might have been twelve then: it was so long ago and the Vicar was always so unreliable. They said it was twenty years ago, but people used round figures, and it was just as likely to be eighteen years, or seventeen. Seventeen and twelve were only twenty-nine, and hang it all, that wasn't old, was it? Cleopatra was forty-eight when Antony threw away the world for her sake. It was a fine summer. Day after day was hot and cloudless; but the heat was tempered by the neighbourhood of the sea, and there was a pleasant exhilaration in the air, so that one was excited and not oppressed by the August sunshine. There was a pond in the garden in which a fountain played; water lilies grew in it and gold fish sunned themselves on the surface. Philip and Miss Wilkinson used to take rugs and cushions there after dinner and lie on the lawn in the shade of a tall hedge of roses. They talked and read all the afternoon. They smoked cigarettes, which the Vicar did not allow in the house; he thought smoking a disgusting habit, and used frequently to say that it was disgraceful for anyone to grow a slave to a habit. He forgot that he was himself a slave to afternoon tea. One day Miss Wilkinson gave Philip La Vie de Boheme. She had found it by accident when she was rummaging among the books in the Vicar's study. It had been bought in a lot with something Mr. Carey wanted and had remained undiscovered for ten years. Philip began to read Murger's fascinating, ill-written, absurd masterpiece, and fell at once under its spell. His soul danced with joy at that picture of starvation which is so good-humoured, of squalor which is so picturesque, of sordid love which is so romantic, of bathos which is so moving. Rodolphe and Mimi, Musette and Schaunard! They wander through the gray streets of the Latin Quarter, finding refuge now in one attic, now in another, in their quaint costumes of Louis Philippe, with their tears and their smiles, happy-go-lucky and reckless. Who can resist them? It is only when you return to the book with a sounder judgment that you find how gross their pleasures were, how vulgar their minds; and you feel the utter worthlessness, as artists and as human beings, of that gay procession. Philip was enraptured. "Don't you wish you were going to Paris instead of London?" asked Miss Wilkinson, smiling at his enthusiasm. "It's too late now even if I did," he answered. During the fortnight he had been back from Germany there had been much discussion between himself and his uncle about his future. He had refused definitely to go to Oxford, and now that there was no chance of his getting scholarships even Mr. Carey came to the conclusion that he could not afford it. His entire fortune had consisted of only two thousand pounds, and though it had been invested in mortgages at five per cent, he had not been able to live on the interest. It was now a little reduced. It would be absurd to spend two hundred a year, the least he could live on at a university, for three years at Oxford which would lead him no nearer to earning his living. He was anxious to go straight to London. Mrs. Carey thought there were only four professions for a gentleman, the Army, the Navy, the Law, and the Church. She had added medicine because her brother-in-law practised it, but did not forget that in her young days no one ever considered the doctor a gentleman. The first two were out of the question, and Philip was firm in his refusal to be ordained. Only the law remained. The local doctor had suggested that many gentlemen now went in for engineering, but Mrs. Carey opposed the idea at once. "I shouldn't like Philip to go into trade," she said. "No, he must have a profession," answered the Vicar. "Why not make him a doctor like his father?" "I should hate it," said Philip. Mrs. Carey was not sorry. The Bar seemed out of the question, since he was not going to Oxford, for the Careys were under the impression that a degree was still necessary for success in that calling; and finally it was suggested that he should become articled to a solicitor. They wrote to the family lawyer, Albert Nixon, who was co-executor with the Vicar of Blackstable for the late Henry Carey's estate, and asked him whether he would take Philip. In a day or two the answer came back that he had not a vacancy, and was very much opposed to the whole scheme; the profession was greatly overcrowded, and without capital or connections a man had small chance of becoming more than a managing clerk; he suggested, however, that Philip should become a chartered accountant. Neither the Vicar nor his wife knew in the least what this was, and Philip had never heard of anyone being a chartered accountant; but another letter from the solicitor explained that the growth of modern businesses and the increase of companies had led to the formation of many firms of accountants to examine the books and put into the financial affairs of their clients an order which old-fashioned methods had lacked. Some years before a Royal Charter had been obtained, and the profession was becoming every year more respectable, lucrative, and important. The chartered accountants whom Albert Nixon had employed for thirty years happened to have a vacancy for an articled pupil, and would take Philip for a fee of three hundred pounds. Half of this would be returned during the five years the articles lasted in the form of salary. The prospect was not exciting, but Philip felt that he must decide on something, and the thought of living in London over-balanced the slight shrinking he felt. The Vicar of Blackstable wrote to ask Mr. Nixon whether it was a profession suited to a gentleman; and Mr. Nixon replied that, since the Charter, men were going into it who had been to public schools and a university; moreover, if Philip disliked the work and after a year wished to leave, Herbert Carter, for that was the accountant's name, would return half the money paid for the articles. This settled it, and it was arranged that Philip should start work on the fifteenth of September. "I have a full month before me," said Philip. "And then you go to freedom and I to bondage," returned Miss Wilkinson. Her holidays were to last six weeks, and she would be leaving Blackstable only a day or two before Philip. "I wonder if we shall ever meet again," she said. "I don't know why not." "Oh, don't speak in that practical way. I never knew anyone so unsentimental." Philip reddened. He was afraid that Miss Wilkinson would think him a milksop: after all she was a young woman, sometimes quite pretty, and he was getting on for twenty; it was absurd that they should talk of nothing but art and literature. He ought to make love to her. They had talked a good deal of love. There was the art-student in the Rue Breda, and then there was the painter in whose family she had lived so long in Paris: he had asked her to sit for him, and had started to make love to her so violently that she was forced to invent excuses not to sit to him again. It was clear enough that Miss Wilkinson was used to attentions of that sort. She looked very nice now in a large straw hat: it was hot that afternoon, the hottest day they had had, and beads of sweat stood in a line on her upper lip. He called to mind Fraulein Cacilie and Herr Sung. He had never thought of Cacilie in an amorous way, she was exceedingly plain; but now, looking back, the affair seemed very romantic. He had a chance of romance too. Miss Wilkinson was practically French, and that added zest to a possible adventure. When he thought of it at night in bed, or when he sat by himself in the garden reading a book, he was thrilled by it; but when he saw Miss Wilkinson it seemed less picturesque. At all events, after what she had told him, she would not be surprised if he made love to her. He had a feeling that she must think it odd of him to make no sign: perhaps it was only his fancy, but once or twice in the last day or two he had imagined that there was a suspicion of contempt in her eyes. "A penny for your thoughts," said Miss Wilkinson, looking at him with a smile. "I'm not going to tell you," he answered. He was thinking that he ought to kiss her there and then. He wondered if she expected him to do it; but after all he didn't see how he could without any preliminary business at all. She would just think him mad, or she might slap his face; and perhaps she would complain to his uncle. He wondered how Herr Sung had started with Fraulein Cacilie. It would be beastly if she told his uncle: he knew what his uncle was, he would tell the doctor and Josiah Graves; and he would look a perfect fool. Aunt Louisa kept on saying that Miss Wilkinson was thirty-seven if she was a day; he shuddered at the thought of the ridicule he would be exposed to; they would say she was old enough to be his mother. "Twopence for your thoughts," smiled Miss Wilkinson. "I was thinking about you," he answered boldly. That at all events committed him to nothing. "What were you thinking?" "Ah, now you want to know too much." "Naughty boy!" said Miss Wilkinson. There it was again! Whenever he had succeeded in working himself up she said something which reminded him of the governess. She called him playfully a naughty boy when he did not sing his exercises to her satisfaction. This time he grew quite sulky. "I wish you wouldn't treat me as if I were a child." "Are you cross?" "Very." "I didn't mean to." She put out her hand and he took it. Once or twice lately when they shook hands at night he had fancied she slightly pressed his hand, but this time there was no doubt about it. He did not quite know what he ought to say next. Here at last was his chance of an adventure, and he would be a fool not to take it; but it was a little ordinary, and he had expected more glamour. He had read many descriptions of love, and he felt in himself none of that uprush of emotion which novelists described; he was not carried off his feet in wave upon wave of passion; nor was Miss Wilkinson the ideal: he had often pictured to himself the great violet eyes and the alabaster skin of some lovely girl, and he had thought of himself burying his face in the rippling masses of her auburn hair. He could not imagine himself burying his face in Miss Wilkinson's hair, it always struck him as a little sticky. All the same it would be very satisfactory to have an intrigue, and he thrilled with the legitimate pride he would enjoy in his conquest. He owed it to himself to seduce her. He made up his mind to kiss Miss Wilkinson; not then, but in the evening; it would be easier in the dark, and after he had kissed her the rest would follow. He would kiss her that very evening. He swore an oath to that effect. He laid his plans. After supper he suggested that they should take a stroll in the garden. Miss Wilkinson accepted, and they sauntered side by side. Philip was very nervous. He did not know why, but the conversation would not lead in the right direction; he had decided that the first thing to do was to put his arm round her waist; but he could not suddenly put his arm round her waist when she was talking of the regatta which was to be held next week. He led her artfully into the darkest parts of the garden, but having arrived there his courage failed him. They sat on a bench, and he had really made up his mind that here was his opportunity when Miss Wilkinson said she was sure there were earwigs and insisted on moving. They walked round the garden once more, and Philip promised himself he would take the plunge before they arrived at that bench again; but as they passed the house, they saw Mrs. Carey standing at the door. "Hadn't you young people better come in? I'm sure the night air isn't good for you." "Perhaps we had better go in," said Philip. "I don't want you to catch cold." He said it with a sigh of relief. He could attempt nothing more that night. But afterwards, when he was alone in his room, he was furious with himself. He had been a perfect fool. He was certain that Miss Wilkinson expected him to kiss her, otherwise she wouldn't have come into the garden. She was always saying that only Frenchmen knew how to treat women. Philip had read French novels. If he had been a Frenchman he would have seized her in his arms and told her passionately that he adored her; he would have pressed his lips on her nuque. He did not know why Frenchmen always kissed ladies on the nuque. He did not himself see anything so very attractive in the nape of the neck. Of course it was much easier for Frenchmen to do these things; the language was such an aid; Philip could never help feeling that to say passionate things in English sounded a little absurd. He wished now that he had never undertaken the siege of Miss Wilkinson's virtue; the first fortnight had been so jolly, and now he was wretched; but he was determined not to give in, he would never respect himself again if he did, and he made up his mind irrevocably that the next night he would kiss her without fail. Next day when he got up he saw it was raining, and his first thought was that they would not be able to go into the garden that evening. He was in high spirits at breakfast. Miss Wilkinson sent Mary Ann in to say that she had a headache and would remain in bed. She did not come down till tea-time, when she appeared in a becoming wrapper and a pale face; but she was quite recovered by supper, and the meal was very cheerful. After prayers she said she would go straight to bed, and she kissed Mrs. Carey. Then she turned to Philip. "Good gracious!" she cried. "I was just going to kiss you too." "Why don't you?" he said. She laughed and held out her hand. She distinctly pressed his. The following day there was not a cloud in the sky, and the garden was sweet and fresh after the rain. Philip went down to the beach to bathe and when he came home ate a magnificent dinner. They were having a tennis party at the vicarage in the afternoon and Miss Wilkinson put on her best dress. She certainly knew how to wear her clothes, and Philip could not help noticing how elegant she looked beside the curate's wife and the doctor's married daughter. There were two roses in her waistband. She sat in a garden chair by the side of the lawn, holding a red parasol over herself, and the light on her face was very becoming. Philip was fond of tennis. He served well and as he ran clumsily played close to the net: notwithstanding his club-foot he was quick, and it was difficult to get a ball past him. He was pleased because he won all his sets. At tea he lay down at Miss Wilkinson's feet, hot and panting. "Flannels suit you," she said. "You look very nice this afternoon." He blushed with delight. "I can honestly return the compliment. You look perfectly ravishing." She smiled and gave him a long look with her black eyes. After supper he insisted that she should come out. "Haven't you had enough exercise for one day?" "It'll be lovely in the garden tonight. The stars are all out." He was in high spirits. "D'you know, Mrs. Carey has been scolding me on your account?" said Miss Wilkinson, when they were sauntering through the kitchen garden. "She says I mustn't flirt with you." "Have you been flirting with me? I hadn't noticed it." "She was only joking." "It was very unkind of you to refuse to kiss me last night." "If you saw the look your uncle gave me when I said what I did!" "Was that all that prevented you?" "I prefer to kiss people without witnesses." "There are no witnesses now." Philip put his arm round her waist and kissed her lips. She only laughed a little and made no attempt to withdraw. It had come quite naturally. Philip was very proud of himself. He said he would, and he had. It was the easiest thing in the world. He wished he had done it before. He did it again. "Oh, you mustn't," she said. "Why not?" "Because I like it," she laughed. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXXIV Next day after dinner they took their rugs and cushions to the fountain, and their books; but they did not read. Miss Wilkinson made herself comfortable and she opened the red sun-shade. Philip was not at all shy now, but at first she would not let him kiss her. "It was very wrong of me last night," she said. "I couldn't sleep, I felt I'd done so wrong." "What nonsense!" he cried. "I'm sure you slept like a top." "What do you think your uncle would say if he knew?" "There's no reason why he should know." He leaned over her, and his heart went pit-a-pat. "Why d'you want to kiss me?" He knew he ought to reply: "Because I love you." But he could not bring himself to say it. "Why do you think?" he asked instead. She looked at him with smiling eyes and touched his face with the tips of her fingers. "How smooth your face is," she murmured. "I want shaving awfully," he said. It was astonishing how difficult he found it to make romantic speeches. He found that silence helped him much more than words. He could look inexpressible things. Miss Wilkinson sighed. "Do you like me at all?" "Yes, awfully." When he tried to kiss her again she did not resist. He pretended to be much more passionate than he really was, and he succeeded in playing a part which looked very well in his own eyes. "I'm beginning to be rather frightened of you," said Miss Wilkinson. "You'll come out after supper, won't you?" he begged. "Not unless you promise to behave yourself." "I'll promise anything." He was catching fire from the flame he was partly simulating, and at tea-time he was obstreperously merry. Miss Wilkinson looked at him nervously. "You mustn't have those shining eyes," she said to him afterwards. "What will your Aunt Louisa think?" "I don't care what she thinks." Miss Wilkinson gave a little laugh of pleasure. They had no sooner finished supper than he said to her: "Are you going to keep me company while I smoke a cigarette?" "Why don't you let Miss Wilkinson rest?" said Mrs. Carey. "You must remember she's not as young as you." "Oh, I'd like to go out, Mrs. Carey," she said, rather acidly. "After dinner walk a mile, after supper rest a while," said the Vicar. "Your aunt is very nice, but she gets on my nerves sometimes," said Miss Wilkinson, as soon as they closed the side-door behind them. Philip threw away the cigarette he had just lighted, and flung his arms round her. She tried to push him away. "You promised you'd be good, Philip." "You didn't think I was going to keep a promise like that?" "Not so near the house, Philip," she said. "Supposing someone should come out suddenly?" He led her to the kitchen garden where no one was likely to come, and this time Miss Wilkinson did not think of earwigs. He kissed her passionately. It was one of the things that puzzled him that he did not like her at all in the morning, and only moderately in the afternoon, but at night the touch of her hand thrilled him. He said things that he would never have thought himself capable of saying; he could certainly never have said them in the broad light of day; and he listened to himself with wonder and satisfaction. "How beautifully you make love," she said. That was what he thought himself. "Oh, if I could only say all the things that burn my heart!" he murmured passionately. It was splendid. It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said. It was only that he exaggerated a little. He was tremendously interested and excited in the effect he could see it had on her. It was obviously with an effort that at last she suggested going in. "Oh, don't go yet," he cried. "I must," she muttered. "I'm frightened." He had a sudden intuition what was the right thing to do then. "I can't go in yet. I shall stay here and think. My cheeks are burning. I want the night-air. Good-night." He held out his hand seriously, and she took it in silence. He thought she stifled a sob. Oh, it was magnificent! When, after a decent interval during which he had been rather bored in the dark garden by himself, he went in he found that Miss Wilkinson had already gone to bed. After that things were different between them. The next day and the day after Philip showed himself an eager lover. He was deliciously flattered to discover that Miss Wilkinson was in love with him: she told him so in English, and she told him so in French. She paid him compliments. No one had ever informed him before that his eyes were charming and that he had a sensual mouth. He had never bothered much about his personal appearance, but now, when occasion presented, he looked at himself in the glass with satisfaction. When he kissed her it was wonderful to feel the passion that seemed to thrill her soul. He kissed her a good deal, for he found it easier to do that than to say the things he instinctively felt she expected of him. It still made him feel a fool to say he worshipped her. He wished there were someone to whom he could boast a little, and he would willingly have discussed minute points of his conduct. Sometimes she said things that were enigmatic, and he was puzzled. He wished Hayward had been there so that he could ask him what he thought she meant, and what he had better do next. He could not make up his mind whether he ought to rush things or let them take their time. There were only three weeks more. "I can't bear to think of that," she said. "It breaks my heart. And then perhaps we shall never see one another again." "If you cared for me at all, you wouldn't be so unkind to me," he whispered. "Oh, why can't you be content to let it go on as it is? Men are always the same. They're never satisfied." And when he pressed her, she said: "But don't you see it's impossible. How can we here?" He proposed all sorts of schemes, but she would not have anything to do with them. "I daren't take the risk. It would be too dreadful if your aunt found out." A day or two later he had an idea which seemed brilliant. "Look here, if you had a headache on Sunday evening and offered to stay at home and look after the house, Aunt Louisa would go to church." Generally Mrs. Carey remained in on Sunday evening in order to allow Mary Ann to go to church, but she would welcome the opportunity of attending evensong. Philip had not found it necessary to impart to his relations the change in his views on Christianity which had occurred in Germany; they could not be expected to understand; and it seemed less trouble to go to church quietly. But he only went in the morning. He regarded this as a graceful concession to the prejudices of society and his refusal to go a second time as an adequate assertion of free thought. When he made the suggestion, Miss Wilkinson did not speak for a moment, then shook her head. "No, I won't," she said. But on Sunday at tea-time she surprised Philip. "I don't think I'll come to church this evening," she said suddenly. "I've really got a dreadful headache." Mrs. Carey, much concerned, insisted on giving her some 'drops' which she was herself in the habit of using. Miss Wilkinson thanked her, and immediately after tea announced that she would go to her room and lie down. "Are you sure there's nothing you'll want?" asked Mrs. Carey anxiously. "Quite sure, thank you." "Because, if there isn't, I think I'll go to church. I don't often have the chance of going in the evening." "Oh yes, do go." "I shall be in," said Philip. "If Miss Wilkinson wants anything, she can always call me." "You'd better leave the drawing-room door open, Philip, so that if Miss Wilkinson rings, you'll hear." "Certainly," said Philip. So after six o'clock Philip was left alone in the house with Miss Wilkinson. He felt sick with apprehension. He wished with all his heart that he had not suggested the plan; but it was too late now; he must take the opportunity which he had made. What would Miss Wilkinson think of him if he did not! He went into the hall and listened. There was not a sound. He wondered if Miss Wilkinson really had a headache. Perhaps she had forgotten his suggestion. His heart beat painfully. He crept up the stairs as softly as he could, and he stopped with a start when they creaked. He stood outside Miss Wilkinson's room and listened; he put his hand on the knob of the door-handle. He waited. It seemed to him that he waited for at least five minutes, trying to make up his mind; and his hand trembled. He would willingly have bolted, but he was afraid of the remorse which he knew would seize him. It was like getting on the highest diving-board in a swimming-bath; it looked nothing from below, but when you got up there and stared down at the water your heart sank; and the only thing that forced you to dive was the shame of coming down meekly by the steps you had climbed up. Philip screwed up his courage. He turned the handle softly and walked in. He seemed to himself to be trembling like a leaf. Miss Wilkinson was standing at the dressing-table with her back to the door, and she turned round quickly when she heard it open. "Oh, it's you. What d'you want?" She had taken off her skirt and blouse, and was standing in her petticoat. It was short and only came down to the top of her boots; the upper part of it was black, of some shiny material, and there was a red flounce. She wore a camisole of white calico with short arms. She looked grotesque. Philip's heart sank as he stared at her; she had never seemed so unattractive; but it was too late now. He closed the door behind him and locked it. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXXV Philip woke early next morning. His sleep had been restless; but when he stretched his legs and looked at the sunshine that slid through the Venetian blinds, making patterns on the floor, he sighed with satisfaction. He was delighted with himself. He began to think of Miss Wilkinson. She had asked him to call her Emily, but, he knew not why, he could not; he always thought of her as Miss Wilkinson. Since she chid him for so addressing her, he avoided using her name at all. During his childhood he had often heard a sister of Aunt Louisa, the widow of a naval officer, spoken of as Aunt Emily. It made him uncomfortable to call Miss Wilkinson by that name, nor could he think of any that would have suited her better. She had begun as Miss Wilkinson, and it seemed inseparable from his impression of her. He frowned a little: somehow or other he saw her now at her worst; he could not forget his dismay when she turned round and he saw her in her camisole and the short petticoat; he remembered the slight roughness of her skin and the sharp, long lines on the side of the neck. His triumph was short-lived. He reckoned out her age again, and he did not see how she could be less than forty. It made the affair ridiculous. She was plain and old. His quick fancy showed her to him, wrinkled, haggard, made-up, in those frocks which were too showy for her position and too young for her years. He shuddered; he felt suddenly that he never wanted to see her again; he could not bear the thought of kissing her. He was horrified with himself. Was that love? He took as long as he could over dressing in order to put back the moment of seeing her, and when at last he went into the dining-room it was with a sinking heart. Prayers were over, and they were sitting down at breakfast. "Lazybones," Miss Wilkinson cried gaily. He looked at her and gave a little gasp of relief. She was sitting with her back to the window. She was really quite nice. He wondered why he had thought such things about her. His self-satisfaction returned to him. He was taken aback by the change in her. She told him in a voice thrilling with emotion immediately after breakfast that she loved him; and when a little later they went into the drawing-room for his singing lesson and she sat down on the music-stool she put up her face in the middle of a scale and said: "Embrasse-moi." When he bent down she flung her arms round his neck. It was slightly uncomfortable, for she held him in such a position that he felt rather choked. "Ah, je t'aime. Je t'aime. Je t'aime," she cried, with her extravagantly French accent. Philip wished she would speak English. "I say, I don't know if it's struck you that the gardener's quite likely to pass the window any minute." "Ah, je m'en fiche du jardinier. Je m'en refiche, et je m'en contrefiche." Philip thought it was very like a French novel, and he did not know why it slightly irritated him. At last he said: "Well, I think I'll tootle along to the beach and have a dip." "Oh, you're not going to leave me this morning--of all mornings?" Philip did not quite know why he should not, but it did not matter. "Would you like me to stay?" he smiled. "Oh, you darling! But no, go. Go. I want to think of you mastering the salt sea waves, bathing your limbs in the broad ocean." He got his hat and sauntered off. "What rot women talk!" he thought to himself. But he was pleased and happy and flattered. She was evidently frightfully gone on him. As he limped along the high street of Blackstable he looked with a tinge of superciliousness at the people he passed. He knew a good many to nod to, and as he gave them a smile of recognition he thought to himself, if they only knew! He did want someone to know very badly. He thought he would write to Hayward, and in his mind composed the letter. He would talk of the garden and the roses, and the little French governess, like an exotic flower amongst them, scented and perverse: he would say she was French, because--well, she had lived in France so long that she almost was, and besides it would be shabby to give the whole thing away too exactly, don't you know; and he would tell Hayward how he had seen her first in her pretty muslin dress and of the flower she had given him. He made a delicate idyl of it: the sunshine and the sea gave it passion and magic, and the stars added poetry, and the old vicarage garden was a fit and exquisite setting. There was something Meredithian about it: it was not quite Lucy Feverel and not quite Clara Middleton; but it was inexpressibly charming. Philip's heart beat quickly. He was so delighted with his fancies that he began thinking of them again as soon as he crawled back, dripping and cold, into his bathing-machine. He thought of the object of his affections. She had the most adorable little nose and large brown eyes--he would describe her to Hayward--and masses of soft brown hair, the sort of hair it was delicious to bury your face in, and a skin which was like ivory and sunshine, and her cheek was like a red, red rose. How old was she? Eighteen perhaps, and he called her Musette. Her laughter was like a rippling brook, and her voice was so soft, so low, it was the sweetest music he had ever heard. "What ARE you thinking about?" Philip stopped suddenly. He was walking slowly home. "I've been waving at you for the last quarter of a mile. You ARE absent-minded." Miss Wilkinson was standing in front of him, laughing at his surprise. "I thought I'd come and meet you." "That's awfully nice of you," he said. "Did I startle you?" "You did a bit," he admitted. He wrote his letter to Hayward all the same. There were eight pages of it. The fortnight that remained passed quickly, and though each evening, when they went into the garden after supper, Miss Wilkinson remarked that one day more had gone, Philip was in too cheerful spirits to let the thought depress him. One night Miss Wilkinson suggested that it would be delightful if she could exchange her situation in Berlin for one in London. Then they could see one another constantly. Philip said it would be very jolly, but the prospect aroused no enthusiasm in him; he was looking forward to a wonderful life in London, and he preferred not to be hampered. He spoke a little too freely of all he meant to do, and allowed Miss Wilkinson to see that already he was longing to be off. "You wouldn't talk like that if you loved me," she cried. He was taken aback and remained silent. "What a fool I've been," she muttered. To his surprise he saw that she was crying. He had a tender heart, and hated to see anyone miserable. "Oh, I'm awfully sorry. What have I done? Don't cry." "Oh, Philip, don't leave me. You don't know what you mean to me. I have such a wretched life, and you've made me so happy." He kissed her silently. There really was anguish in her tone, and he was frightened. It had never occurred to him that she meant what she said quite, quite seriously. "I'm awfully sorry. You know I'm frightfully fond of you. I wish you would come to London." "You know I can't. Places are almost impossible to get, and I hate English life." Almost unconscious that he was acting a part, moved by her distress, he pressed her more and more. Her tears vaguely flattered him, and he kissed her with real passion. But a day or two later she made a real scene. There was a tennis-party at the vicarage, and two girls came, daughters of a retired major in an Indian regiment who had lately settled in Blackstable. They were very pretty, one was Philip's age and the other was a year or two younger. Being used to the society of young men (they were full of stories of hill-stations in India, and at that time the stories of Rudyard Kipling were in every hand) they began to chaff Philip gaily; and he, pleased with the novelty--the young ladies at Blackstable treated the Vicar's nephew with a certain seriousness--was gay and jolly. Some devil within him prompted him to start a violent flirtation with them both, and as he was the only young man there, they were quite willing to meet him half-way. It happened that they played tennis quite well and Philip was tired of pat-ball with Miss Wilkinson (she had only begun to play when she came to Blackstable), so when he arranged the sets after tea he suggested that Miss Wilkinson should play against the curate's wife, with the curate as her partner; and he would play later with the new-comers. He sat down by the elder Miss O'Connor and said to her in an undertone: "We'll get the duffers out of the way first, and then we'll have a jolly set afterwards." Apparently Miss Wilkinson overheard him, for she threw down her racket, and, saying she had a headache, went away. It was plain to everyone that she was offended. Philip was annoyed that she should make the fact public. The set was arranged without her, but presently Mrs. Carey called him. "Philip, you've hurt Emily's feelings. She's gone to her room and she's crying." "What about?" "Oh, something about a duffer's set. Do go to her, and say you didn't mean to be unkind, there's a good boy." "All right." He knocked at Miss Wilkinson's door, but receiving no answer went in. He found her lying face downwards on her bed, weeping. He touched her on the shoulder. "I say, what on earth's the matter?" "Leave me alone. I never want to speak to you again." "What have I done? I'm awfully sorry if I've hurt your feelings. I didn't mean to. I say, do get up." "Oh, I'm so unhappy. How could you be cruel to me? You know I hate that stupid game. I only play because I want to play with you." She got up and walked towards the dressing-table, but after a quick look in the glass sank into a chair. She made her handkerchief into a ball and dabbed her eyes with it. "I've given you the greatest thing a woman can give a man--oh, what a fool I was--and you have no gratitude. You must be quite heartless. How could you be so cruel as to torment me by flirting with those vulgar girls. We've only got just over a week. Can't you even give me that?" Philip stood over her rather sulkily. He thought her behaviour childish. He was vexed with her for having shown her ill-temper before strangers. "But you know I don't care twopence about either of the O'Connors. Why on earth should you think I do?" Miss Wilkinson put away her handkerchief. Her tears had made marks on her powdered face, and her hair was somewhat disarranged. Her white dress did not suit her very well just then. She looked at Philip with hungry, passionate eyes. "Because you're twenty and so's she," she said hoarsely. "And I'm old." Philip reddened and looked away. The anguish of her tone made him feel strangely uneasy. He wished with all his heart that he had never had anything to do with Miss Wilkinson. "I don't want to make you unhappy," he said awkwardly. "You'd better go down and look after your friends. They'll wonder what has become of you." "All right." He was glad to leave her. The quarrel was quickly followed by a reconciliation, but the few days that remained were sometimes irksome to Philip. He wanted to talk of nothing but the future, and the future invariably reduced Miss Wilkinson to tears. At first her weeping affected him, and feeling himself a beast he redoubled his protestations of undying passion; but now it irritated him: it would have been all very well if she had been a girl, but it was silly of a grown-up woman to cry so much. She never ceased reminding him that he was under a debt of gratitude to her which he could never repay. He was willing to acknowledge this since she made a point of it, but he did not really know why he should be any more grateful to her than she to him. He was expected to show his sense of obligation in ways which were rather a nuisance: he had been a good deal used to solitude, and it was a necessity to him sometimes; but Miss Wilkinson looked upon it as an unkindness if he was not always at her beck and call. The Miss O'Connors asked them both to tea, and Philip would have liked to go, but Miss Wilkinson said she only had five days more and wanted him entirely to herself. It was flattering, but a bore. Miss Wilkinson told him stories of the exquisite delicacy of Frenchmen when they stood in the same relation to fair ladies as he to Miss Wilkinson. She praised their courtesy, their passion for self-sacrifice, their perfect tact. Miss Wilkinson seemed to want a great deal. Philip listened to her enumeration of the qualities which must be possessed by the perfect lover, and he could not help feeling a certain satisfaction that she lived in Berlin. "You will write to me, won't you? Write to me every day. I want to know everything you're doing. You must keep nothing from me." "I shall be awfully, busy" he answered. "I'll write as often as I can." She flung her arms passionately round his neck. He was embarrassed sometimes by the demonstrations of her affection. He would have preferred her to be more passive. It shocked him a little that she should give him so marked a lead: it did not tally altogether with his prepossessions about the modesty of the feminine temperament. At length the day came on which Miss Wilkinson was to go, and she came down to breakfast, pale and subdued, in a serviceable travelling dress of black and white check. She looked a very competent governess. Philip was silent too, for he did not quite know what to say that would fit the circumstance; and he was terribly afraid that, if he said something flippant, Miss Wilkinson would break down before his uncle and make a scene. They had said their last good-bye to one another in the garden the night before, and Philip was relieved that there was now no opportunity for them to be alone. He remained in the dining-room after breakfast in case Miss Wilkinson should insist on kissing him on the stairs. He did not want Mary Ann, now a woman hard upon middle age with a sharp tongue, to catch them in a compromising position. Mary Ann did not like Miss Wilkinson and called her an old cat. Aunt Louisa was not very well and could not come to the station, but the Vicar and Philip saw her off. Just as the train was leaving she leaned out and kissed Mr. Carey. "I must kiss you too, Philip," she said. "All right," he said, blushing. He stood up on the step and she kissed him quickly. The train started, and Miss Wilkinson sank into the corner of her carriage and wept disconsolately. Philip, as he walked back to the vicarage, felt a distinct sensation of relief. "Well, did you see her safely off?" asked Aunt Louisa, when they got in. "Yes, she seemed rather weepy. She insisted on kissing me and Philip." "Oh, well, at her age it's not dangerous." Mrs. Carey pointed to the sideboard. "There's a letter for you, Philip. It came by the second post." It was from Hayward and ran as follows: My dear boy, I answer your letter at once. I ventured to read it to a great friend of mine, a charming woman whose help and sympathy have been very precious to me, a woman withal with a real feeling for art and literature; and we agreed that it was charming. You wrote from your heart and you do not know the delightful naivete which is in every line. And because you love you write like a poet. Ah, dear boy, that is the real thing: I felt the glow of your young passion, and your prose was musical from the sincerity of your emotion. You must be happy! I wish I could have been present unseen in that enchanted garden while you wandered hand in hand, like Daphnis and Chloe, amid the flowers. I can see you, my Daphnis, with the light of young love in your eyes, tender, enraptured, and ardent; while Chloe in your arms, so young and soft and fresh, vowing she would ne'er consent--consented. Roses and violets and honeysuckle! Oh, my friend, I envy you. It is so good to think that your first love should have been pure poetry. Treasure the moments, for the immortal gods have given you the Greatest Gift of All, and it will be a sweet, sad memory till your dying day. You will never again enjoy that careless rapture. First love is best love; and she is beautiful and you are young, and all the world is yours. I felt my pulse go faster when with your adorable simplicity you told me that you buried your face in her long hair. I am sure that it is that exquisite chestnut which seems just touched with gold. I would have you sit under a leafy tree side by side, and read together Romeo and Juliet; and then I would have you fall on your knees and on my behalf kiss the ground on which her foot has left its imprint; then tell her it is the homage of a poet to her radiant youth and to your love for her. Yours always, G. Etheridge Hayward. "What damned rot!" said Philip, when he finished the letter. Miss Wilkinson oddly enough had suggested that they should read Romeo and Juliet together; but Philip had firmly declined. Then, as he put the letter in his pocket, he felt a queer little pang of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the ideal. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 32-35

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter32-35

These chapters tell the summer visit to his aunt and uncle Carey in Blackstable where Philip has his first affair. . At the vicarage, Philip meets Emily Wilkinson, the governess friend of the Careys who had recommended his teacher in Germany. She is also staying the summer on vacation. She is somewhat attractive, estimated by the Careys to be between 35 and 40. She and Philip get on because she is a modern woman influenced by her years working in Paris and Berlin. She has some affectations, speaks French phrases and English with a French accent. She talks incessantly of the mysteries of Paris, exciting Philip with hinted stories of her love affairs and the artists she met. She has a sense of humor and understands his jokes. . He realizes slowly that she is flirting, and he has to figure out how to court a woman, taking her suggestions about how the French men know how to make love. He is somewhat repulsed by her older appearance, though she dresses well. He cannot understand why she looks old in the morning and pretty at night in the dark. They walk in the gardens, read and discuss, and she gives him music lessons. They attend parties and tennis matches. Finally, he figures out a way to be alone with her in the house while the family is at church. He goes to her bedroom, and despite the fact he is suddenly not attracted, he manages to have his first sexual experience. . The next day he is revolted by her, but she is suddenly in love with him and speaks French endearments. He thinks, "What rot women talk!" But he ironically speaks equal rot by writing a letter to Hayward of his exploit, dressing it up with his fantasy of the way he wished it had been--a young beautiful girl whose "laughter was like a rippling brook" . . Philip takes it as an adventure and feels manly, completely surprised that Miss Wilkinson expresses real love and wants his constant attention now. She tries to make him feel guilty and obligated, and he is happy when the summer is over and he can be rid of her demands. She expects him to write every day. He receives a letter from Hayward full of enthusiasm for his perfect first love, and Philip is disgusted because everyone has taken seriously what for him was play. . Meanwhile, Philip has been surprised at how old his aunt and uncle appear. The uncle now seems insignificant to him and his aunt very frail and ready to blow away. He thinks what a pity their lives never amounted to anything and they will die, a waste. He does not want this for himself. He does feel some affection for his aunt who obviously loves him and has missed him. . He does not want to go to Oxford, and his uncle can't afford it. They settle on his being a chartered accountant. He does not much care, just so he can get to London to begin his life. He will pay three hundred pounds to Herbert Carter to be an articled pupil for five years. The uncle is assured that although accountancy is not one of the traditional occupations for a gentleman, it is becoming so in the modern world with the rise of business.

Commentary on Chapters XXXII-XXXV . Philip is the arrogant young man of nineteen here, but there is a lot of humor in these chapters, while they introduce themes that will later become tragic. It is all from the young man's point of view, and his aim and Emily's are opposite. . She is the clergy daughter whose only chances have been marriage or becoming a governess. She is too much of a free spirit to have stayed at home and tries to make her governess positions sound glamorous. Whether or not she has had all the affairs she hints of, she does have some genuine feeling for Philip and even suggests moving to London to be near him. He is appalled at her demanding ways and declaration of love, because for him, "It was the most thrilling game he had ever played; and the wonderful thing was that he felt almost all he said" . Here it is evident that he is not clear about the difference between his fantasy and reality. He is just trying to learn the part of a lover because it is a new role. He is a bit cold and heartless. . When first aware that Emily is flirting, he is surprised because "he had expected more glamour" . She is not the heroine of a book, and he is constantly agonizing about her age or turned off every other moment by some defect like her thick ankles. He describes his exploit in the letter to Hayward, not as it happened, but as a scene out of the novel he just read, Scenes of Bohemian Life by Murger. . It is a game and a part for him. He can't understand why her feelings are hurt. For that matter, he has trouble relating to his aunt and uncle as human beings as well, dismissing them as useless old people whose lives are past. Emily is the first woman who has been attracted to him, and that gives him the confidence to flirt with girls at a tennis match, an act that hurts her. He has not yet learned what others feel or his effect on them. . Perhaps Emily wants a husband or lover to get out of being a governess. The Careys make much of her social standing. She is defined as a "lady" because she is a clergyman's daughter. She is getting older, and there is more at stake for her than for him, as she points out. They do have some important things in common: they come from the same class, are educated, have a liberal modern point of view, have the same sense of humor, and even smoke cigarettes together. They amuse one another, and she teaches him music. However, her possessiveness and demands on him spoil it. He "felt a queer pang of bitterness because reality seemed so different from the ideal" . But he puts it behind him easily, anxious to get on to his real life. . One of the surprising things is that his lameness does not seem to be an issue for her, and he has surprisingly been able to learn tennis and is good at it.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_36_to_39.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_7_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 36-39

chapters 36-39

{"name": "Chapters 36-39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter36-39", "summary": "Philip settles into his new rooms in Barnes, London, but he is depressed by the dingy place and that part of town. He goes to the offices of Herbert Carter in Chancery Lane. The managing clerk, Mr. Goodworthy, who is both patronizing and timid, tells Philip the work is lucrative but drudgery and puts him to work alphabetizing letters. He meets Watson, a fellow articled clerk, who is the son of a rich brewer. He dresses and acts like a gentleman, fond of sports and the hunt. He has been to Oxford and condescends to Philip, but Philip thinks it is ironic that at school they looked down on brewers. Mr. Carter tries to give the impression that he is a gentleman and that they want gentlemen in the business to raise the profession. . Philip is interested in the work at first as a novelty. He has to add columns of figures, not one of his strong points. He attends lectures for his examination. In his spare time, he goes to galleries and reads, but Sundays are difficult, for he is alone. He spends one Sunday with Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, but he is shy about going back. Loneliness weighs on him more and more. He spends an evening with Watson, but the man has no culture, and he is ill at ease with him. Suddenly, he despises his own acquirements because of his poverty. He admires Watson's life because he has money and a place. . When he goes to the post office, he finds three letters from Miss Wilkinson. He replies awkwardly, and she bombards him with angry letters about his neglect. She says she cannot live without him. She wants to come see him at Christmas. He lies that he has an engagement. He regrets he had the affair. Watson tells him he has no trouble breaking off with women. He just tells them to go away. . He is alone on Christmas because his aunt and uncle are in Cornwall for their health. After a year at the firm, he works with a clerk named Thompson who is irritated at his mistakes and enjoys insulting him. Philip sees he has no aptitude for this work and slacks off. He tries to imagine what his life would be like if he were Watson. For amusement, he sketches Watson. Watson's family like the sketches and think Philip should be an artist. Mr. Carter finds out he is drawing on office time and scolds him. Philip knows he cannot stand much more of this life. Hayward writes to him of Italy, telling him the only things in life are love and art. He tells Philip to take a risk and study art in Paris. . Philip remembers that people have always told him he has talent, and he begins to think of the French novel about bohemian life in Paris. The artists were poor but they enjoyed life. He yearns for romance and beauty. Goodworthy asks Philip one day if he would like to go to Paris to do some accounts there. Philip jumps at the chance. He is intoxicated by Paris, though Mr. Goodworthy only wants to go to the more vulgar places, the Moulin Rouge and Folies Bergeres. Philip decides he will wait out the year and then go to Paris. . His uncle is shocked by Philip's decision. He is a gentleman, and art and Paris are immoral. Philip bluntly replies he is neither Christian nor a gentleman. He will not inherit his money for another year, so he says he will sell his father's jewelry and use the money to go. His aunt has a soft spot for Philip and does not want him to sell the jewelry, so she offers what is left of her own bridal settlement. It is a very small amount, but she offers up to him 100 pounds. She thinks she hasn't much time to live, and she truly wants to give Philip something so he can realize his dreams.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters XXXVI-XXXIX . Philip's aunt, like his mother, truly loves him with an unselfish love, one of the few pure relationships he has enjoyed. He comes to believe that only parents have disinterested love. She reveals that she is not as much of an old fool as he had thought, for she perfectly understands that his uncle is not in love with her and will not miss her when she dies. She wants to pass on her one precious thing to Philip, who was as close as she could come to having a child. . Philip discovers the loneliness of the big city and not fitting into his surroundings. The life is drab and so is the work, for which he is ill suited. He is astonished at the class issues at Carter's. Carter and Watson represent the middle classes aspiring to the status and culture that have been the privilege of the upper classes. It is now possible for merchant's sons to go to university and hunt and act and dress like gentlemen. Philip thinks how at his school these people were looked down on because they were not born gentlemen. It was perfectly clear who was and who wasn't; people didn't talk about their class all the time. . Yet when his uncle brings up class issues, he reveals the eroding influence of time and his experience on his own thought; he does not easily identify with being either Christian or a gentleman. He thinks he would like the money Watson has so he can pursue his own interests, but he is too cultured to want to hang out with London trades people. Their interests are mundane. He wants not the life of a gentleman, but a romantic and adventurous life, a bohemian life, as he has read about. As Hayward suggests, beauty and love are the only things worth living for. Even Miss Wilkinson has encouraged him that he could be an artist and live on the amount he has from his aunt for a year. . There is a certain cynicism about women in this section. Philip lets the relationship with Miss Wilkinson drop in an awkward manner. He admires Watson for being able to have affairs and then tell the woman to go away, without any conscience."}

<CHAPTER> XXXVI A few days later Philip went to London. The curate had recommended rooms in Barnes, and these Philip engaged by letter at fourteen shillings a week. He reached them in the evening; and the landlady, a funny little old woman with a shrivelled body and a deeply wrinkled face, had prepared high tea for him. Most of the sitting-room was taken up by the sideboard and a square table; against one wall was a sofa covered with horsehair, and by the fireplace an arm-chair to match: there was a white antimacassar over the back of it, and on the seat, because the springs were broken, a hard cushion. After having his tea he unpacked and arranged his books, then he sat down and tried to read; but he was depressed. The silence in the street made him slightly uncomfortable, and he felt very much alone. Next day he got up early. He put on his tail-coat and the tall hat which he had worn at school; but it was very shabby, and he made up his mind to stop at the Stores on his way to the office and buy a new one. When he had done this he found himself in plenty of time and so walked along the Strand. The office of Messrs. Herbert Carter & Co. was in a little street off Chancery Lane, and he had to ask his way two or three times. He felt that people were staring at him a great deal, and once he took off his hat to see whether by chance the label had been left on. When he arrived he knocked at the door; but no one answered, and looking at his watch he found it was barely half past nine; he supposed he was too early. He went away and ten minutes later returned to find an office-boy, with a long nose, pimply face, and a Scotch accent, opening the door. Philip asked for Mr. Herbert Carter. He had not come yet. "When will he be here?" "Between ten and half past." "I'd better wait," said Philip. "What are you wanting?" asked the office-boy. Philip was nervous, but tried to hide the fact by a jocose manner. "Well, I'm going to work here if you have no objection." "Oh, you're the new articled clerk? You'd better come in. Mr. Goodworthy'll be here in a while." Philip walked in, and as he did so saw the office-boy--he was about the same age as Philip and called himself a junior clerk--look at his foot. He flushed and, sitting down, hid it behind the other. He looked round the room. It was dark and very dingy. It was lit by a skylight. There were three rows of desks in it and against them high stools. Over the chimney-piece was a dirty engraving of a prize-fight. Presently a clerk came in and then another; they glanced at Philip and in an undertone asked the office-boy (Philip found his name was Macdougal) who he was. A whistle blew, and Macdougal got up. "Mr. Goodworthy's come. He's the managing clerk. Shall I tell him you're here?" "Yes, please," said Philip. The office-boy went out and in a moment returned. "Will you come this way?" Philip followed him across the passage and was shown into a room, small and barely furnished, in which a little, thin man was standing with his back to the fireplace. He was much below the middle height, but his large head, which seemed to hang loosely on his body, gave him an odd ungainliness. His features were wide and flattened, and he had prominent, pale eyes; his thin hair was sandy; he wore whiskers that grew unevenly on his face, and in places where you would have expected the hair to grow thickly there was no hair at all. His skin was pasty and yellow. He held out his hand to Philip, and when he smiled showed badly decayed teeth. He spoke with a patronising and at the same time a timid air, as though he sought to assume an importance which he did not feel. He said he hoped Philip would like the work; there was a good deal of drudgery about it, but when you got used to it, it was interesting; and one made money, that was the chief thing, wasn't it? He laughed with his odd mixture of superiority and shyness. "Mr. Carter will be here presently," he said. "He's a little late on Monday mornings sometimes. I'll call you when he comes. In the meantime I must give you something to do. Do you know anything about book-keeping or accounts?" "I'm afraid not," answered Philip. "I didn't suppose you would. They don't teach you things at school that are much use in business, I'm afraid." He considered for a moment. "I think I can find you something to do." He went into the next room and after a little while came out with a large cardboard box. It contained a vast number of letters in great disorder, and he told Philip to sort them out and arrange them alphabetically according to the names of the writers. "I'll take you to the room in which the articled clerk generally sits. There's a very nice fellow in it. His name is Watson. He's a son of Watson, Crag, and Thompson--you know--the brewers. He's spending a year with us to learn business." Mr. Goodworthy led Philip through the dingy office, where now six or eight clerks were working, into a narrow room behind. It had been made into a separate apartment by a glass partition, and here they found Watson sitting back in a chair, reading The Sportsman. He was a large, stout young man, elegantly dressed, and he looked up as Mr. Goodworthy entered. He asserted his position by calling the managing clerk Goodworthy. The managing clerk objected to the familiarity, and pointedly called him Mr. Watson, but Watson, instead of seeing that it was a rebuke, accepted the title as a tribute to his gentlemanliness. "I see they've scratched Rigoletto," he said to Philip, as soon as they were left alone. "Have they?" said Philip, who knew nothing about horse-racing. He looked with awe upon Watson's beautiful clothes. His tail-coat fitted him perfectly, and there was a valuable pin artfully stuck in the middle of an enormous tie. On the chimney-piece rested his tall hat; it was saucy and bell-shaped and shiny. Philip felt himself very shabby. Watson began to talk of hunting--it was such an infernal bore having to waste one's time in an infernal office, he would only be able to hunt on Saturdays--and shooting: he had ripping invitations all over the country and of course he had to refuse them. It was infernal luck, but he wasn't going to put up with it long; he was only in this internal hole for a year, and then he was going into the business, and he would hunt four days a week and get all the shooting there was. "You've got five years of it, haven't you?" he said, waving his arm round the tiny room. "I suppose so," said Philip. "I daresay I shall see something of you. Carter does our accounts, you know." Philip was somewhat overpowered by the young gentleman's condescension. At Blackstable they had always looked upon brewing with civil contempt, the Vicar made little jokes about the beerage, and it was a surprising experience for Philip to discover that Watson was such an important and magnificent fellow. He had been to Winchester and to Oxford, and his conversation impressed the fact upon one with frequency. When he discovered the details of Philip's education his manner became more patronising still. "Of course, if one doesn't go to a public school those sort of schools are the next best thing, aren't they?" Philip asked about the other men in the office. "Oh, I don't bother about them much, you know," said Watson. "Carter's not a bad sort. We have him to dine now and then. All the rest are awful bounders." Presently Watson applied himself to some work he had in hand, and Philip set about sorting his letters. Then Mr. Goodworthy came in to say that Mr. Carter had arrived. He took Philip into a large room next door to his own. There was a big desk in it, and a couple of big arm-chairs; a Turkey carpet adorned the floor, and the walls were decorated with sporting prints. Mr. Carter was sitting at the desk and got up to shake hands with Philip. He was dressed in a long frock coat. He looked like a military man; his moustache was waxed, his gray hair was short and neat, he held himself upright, he talked in a breezy way, he lived at Enfield. He was very keen on games and the good of the country. He was an officer in the Hertfordshire Yeomanry and chairman of the Conservative Association. When he was told that a local magnate had said no one would take him for a City man, he felt that he had not lived in vain. He talked to Philip in a pleasant, off-hand fashion. Mr. Goodworthy would look after him. Watson was a nice fellow, perfect gentleman, good sportsman--did Philip hunt? Pity, THE sport for gentlemen. Didn't have much chance of hunting now, had to leave that to his son. His son was at Cambridge, he'd sent him to Rugby, fine school Rugby, nice class of boys there, in a couple of years his son would be articled, that would be nice for Philip, he'd like his son, thorough sportsman. He hoped Philip would get on well and like the work, he mustn't miss his lectures, they were getting up the tone of the profession, they wanted gentlemen in it. Well, well, Mr. Goodworthy was there. If he wanted to know anything Mr. Goodworthy would tell him. What was his handwriting like? Ah well, Mr. Goodworthy would see about that. Philip was overwhelmed by so much gentlemanliness: in East Anglia they knew who were gentlemen and who weren't, but the gentlemen didn't talk about it. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXXVII At first the novelty of the work kept Philip interested. Mr. Carter dictated letters to him, and he had to make fair copies of statements of accounts. Mr. Carter preferred to conduct the office on gentlemanly lines; he would have nothing to do with typewriting and looked upon shorthand with disfavour: the office-boy knew shorthand, but it was only Mr. Goodworthy who made use of his accomplishment. Now and then Philip with one of the more experienced clerks went out to audit the accounts of some firm: he came to know which of the clients must be treated with respect and which were in low water. Now and then long lists of figures were given him to add up. He attended lectures for his first examination. Mr. Goodworthy repeated to him that the work was dull at first, but he would grow used to it. Philip left the office at six and walked across the river to Waterloo. His supper was waiting for him when he reached his lodgings and he spent the evening reading. On Saturday afternoons he went to the National Gallery. Hayward had recommended to him a guide which had been compiled out of Ruskin's works, and with this in hand he went industriously through room after room: he read carefully what the critic had said about a picture and then in a determined fashion set himself to see the same things in it. His Sundays were difficult to get through. He knew no one in London and spent them by himself. Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, asked him to spend a Sunday at Hampstead, and Philip passed a happy day with a set of exuberant strangers; he ate and drank a great deal, took a walk on the heath, and came away with a general invitation to come again whenever he liked; but he was morbidly afraid of being in the way, so waited for a formal invitation. Naturally enough it never came, for with numbers of friends of their own the Nixons did not think of the lonely, silent boy whose claim upon their hospitality was so small. So on Sundays he got up late and took a walk along the tow-path. At Barnes the river is muddy, dingy, and tidal; it has neither the graceful charm of the Thames above the locks nor the romance of the crowded stream below London Bridge. In the afternoon he walked about the common; and that is gray and dingy too; it is neither country nor town; the gorse is stunted; and all about is the litter of civilisation. He went to a play every Saturday night and stood cheerfully for an hour or more at the gallery-door. It was not worth while to go back to Barnes for the interval between the closing of the Museum and his meal in an A. B. C. shop, and the time hung heavily on his hands. He strolled up Bond Street or through the Burlington Arcade, and when he was tired went and sat down in the Park or in wet weather in the public library in St. Martin's Lane. He looked at the people walking about and envied them because they had friends; sometimes his envy turned to hatred because they were happy and he was miserable. He had never imagined that it was possible to be so lonely in a great city. Sometimes when he was standing at the gallery-door the man next to him would attempt a conversation; but Philip had the country boy's suspicion of strangers and answered in such a way as to prevent any further acquaintance. After the play was over, obliged to keep to himself all he thought about it, he hurried across the bridge to Waterloo. When he got back to his rooms, in which for economy no fire had been lit, his heart sank. It was horribly cheerless. He began to loathe his lodgings and the long solitary evenings he spent in them. Sometimes he felt so lonely that he could not read, and then he sat looking into the fire hour after hour in bitter wretchedness. He had spent three months in London now, and except for that one Sunday at Hampstead had never talked to anyone but his fellow-clerks. One evening Watson asked him to dinner at a restaurant and they went to a music-hall together; but he felt shy and uncomfortable. Watson talked all the time of things he did not care about, and while he looked upon Watson as a Philistine he could not help admiring him. He was angry because Watson obviously set no store on his culture, and with his way of taking himself at the estimate at which he saw others held him he began to despise the acquirements which till then had seemed to him not unimportant. He felt for the first time the humiliation of poverty. His uncle sent him fourteen pounds a month and he had had to buy a good many clothes. His evening suit cost him five guineas. He had not dared tell Watson that it was bought in the Strand. Watson said there was only one tailor in London. "I suppose you don't dance," said Watson, one day, with a glance at Philip's club-foot. "No," said Philip. "Pity. I've been asked to bring some dancing men to a ball. I could have introduced you to some jolly girls." Once or twice, hating the thought of going back to Barnes, Philip had remained in town, and late in the evening wandered through the West End till he found some house at which there was a party. He stood among the little group of shabby people, behind the footmen, watching the guests arrive, and he listened to the music that floated through the window. Sometimes, notwithstanding the cold, a couple came on to the balcony and stood for a moment to get some fresh air; and Philip, imagining that they were in love with one another, turned away and limped along the street with a heavy hurt. He would never be able to stand in that man's place. He felt that no woman could ever really look upon him without distaste for his deformity. That reminded him of Miss Wilkinson. He thought of her without satisfaction. Before parting they had made an arrangement that she should write to Charing Cross Post Office till he was able to send her an address, and when he went there he found three letters from her. She wrote on blue paper with violet ink, and she wrote in French. Philip wondered why she could not write in English like a sensible woman, and her passionate expressions, because they reminded him of a French novel, left him cold. She upbraided him for not having written, and when he answered he excused himself by saying that he had been busy. He did not quite know how to start the letter. He could not bring himself to use dearest or darling, and he hated to address her as Emily, so finally he began with the word dear. It looked odd, standing by itself, and rather silly, but he made it do. It was the first love letter he had ever written, and he was conscious of its tameness; he felt that he should say all sorts of vehement things, how he thought of her every minute of the day and how he longed to kiss her beautiful hands and how he trembled at the thought of her red lips, but some inexplicable modesty prevented him; and instead he told her of his new rooms and his office. The answer came by return of post, angry, heart-broken, reproachful: how could he be so cold? Did he not know that she hung on his letters? She had given him all that a woman could give, and this was her reward. Was he tired of her already? Then, because he did not reply for several days, Miss Wilkinson bombarded him with letters. She could not bear his unkindness, she waited for the post, and it never brought her his letter, she cried herself to sleep night after night, she was looking so ill that everyone remarked on it: if he did not love her why did he not say so? She added that she could not live without him, and the only thing was for her to commit suicide. She told him he was cold and selfish and ungrateful. It was all in French, and Philip knew that she wrote in that language to show off, but he was worried all the same. He did not want to make her unhappy. In a little while she wrote that she could not bear the separation any longer, she would arrange to come over to London for Christmas. Philip wrote back that he would like nothing better, only he had already an engagement to spend Christmas with friends in the country, and he did not see how he could break it. She answered that she did not wish to force herself on him, it was quite evident that he did not wish to see her; she was deeply hurt, and she never thought he would repay with such cruelty all her kindness. Her letter was touching, and Philip thought he saw marks of her tears on the paper; he wrote an impulsive reply saying that he was dreadfully sorry and imploring her to come; but it was with relief that he received her answer in which she said that she found it would be impossible for her to get away. Presently when her letters came his heart sank: he delayed opening them, for he knew what they would contain, angry reproaches and pathetic appeals; they would make him feel a perfect beast, and yet he did not see with what he had to blame himself. He put off his answer from day to day, and then another letter would come, saying she was ill and lonely and miserable. "I wish to God I'd never had anything to do with her," he said. He admired Watson because he arranged these things so easily. The young man had been engaged in an intrigue with a girl who played in touring companies, and his account of the affair filled Philip with envious amazement. But after a time Watson's young affections changed, and one day he described the rupture to Philip. "I thought it was no good making any bones about it so I just told her I'd had enough of her," he said. "Didn't she make an awful scene?" asked Philip. "The usual thing, you know, but I told her it was no good trying on that sort of thing with me." "Did she cry?" "She began to, but I can't stand women when they cry, so I said she'd better hook it." Philip's sense of humour was growing keener with advancing years. "And did she hook it?" he asked smiling. "Well, there wasn't anything else for her to do, was there?" Meanwhile the Christmas holidays approached. Mrs. Carey had been ill all through November, and the doctor suggested that she and the Vicar should go to Cornwall for a couple of weeks round Christmas so that she should get back her strength. The result was that Philip had nowhere to go, and he spent Christmas Day in his lodgings. Under Hayward's influence he had persuaded himself that the festivities that attend this season were vulgar and barbaric, and he made up his mind that he would take no notice of the day; but when it came, the jollity of all around affected him strangely. His landlady and her husband were spending the day with a married daughter, and to save trouble Philip announced that he would take his meals out. He went up to London towards mid-day and ate a slice of turkey and some Christmas pudding by himself at Gatti's, and since he had nothing to do afterwards went to Westminster Abbey for the afternoon service. The streets were almost empty, and the people who went along had a preoccupied look; they did not saunter but walked with some definite goal in view, and hardly anyone was alone. To Philip they all seemed happy. He felt himself more solitary than he had ever done in his life. His intention had been to kill the day somehow in the streets and then dine at a restaurant, but he could not face again the sight of cheerful people, talking, laughing, and making merry; so he went back to Waterloo, and on his way through the Westminster Bridge Road bought some ham and a couple of mince pies and went back to Barnes. He ate his food in his lonely little room and spent the evening with a book. His depression was almost intolerable. When he was back at the office it made him very sore to listen to Watson's account of the short holiday. They had had some jolly girls staying with them, and after dinner they had cleared out the drawing-room and had a dance. "I didn't get to bed till three and I don't know how I got there then. By George, I was squiffy." At last Philip asked desperately: "How does one get to know people in London?" Watson looked at him with surprise and with a slightly contemptuous amusement. "Oh, I don't know, one just knows them. If you go to dances you soon get to know as many people as you can do with." Philip hated Watson, and yet he would have given anything to change places with him. The old feeling that he had had at school came back to him, and he tried to throw himself into the other's skin, imagining what life would be if he were Watson. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXXVIII At the end of the year there was a great deal to do. Philip went to various places with a clerk named Thompson and spent the day monotonously calling out items of expenditure, which the other checked; and sometimes he was given long pages of figures to add up. He had never had a head for figures, and he could only do this slowly. Thompson grew irritated at his mistakes. His fellow-clerk was a long, lean man of forty, sallow, with black hair and a ragged moustache; he had hollow cheeks and deep lines on each side of his nose. He took a dislike to Philip because he was an articled clerk. Because he could put down three hundred guineas and keep himself for five years Philip had the chance of a career; while he, with his experience and ability, had no possibility of ever being more than a clerk at thirty-five shillings a week. He was a cross-grained man, oppressed by a large family, and he resented the superciliousness which he fancied he saw in Philip. He sneered at Philip because he was better educated than himself, and he mocked at Philip's pronunciation; he could not forgive him because he spoke without a cockney accent, and when he talked to him sarcastically exaggerated his aitches. At first his manner was merely gruff and repellent, but as he discovered that Philip had no gift for accountancy he took pleasure in humiliating him; his attacks were gross and silly, but they wounded Philip, and in self-defence he assumed an attitude of superiority which he did not feel. "Had a bath this morning?" Thompson said when Philip came to the office late, for his early punctuality had not lasted. "Yes, haven't you?" "No, I'm not a gentleman, I'm only a clerk. I have a bath on Saturday night." "I suppose that's why you're more than usually disagreeable on Monday." "Will you condescend to do a few sums in simple addition today? I'm afraid it's asking a great deal from a gentleman who knows Latin and Greek." "Your attempts at sarcasm are not very happy." But Philip could not conceal from himself that the other clerks, ill-paid and uncouth, were more useful than himself. Once or twice Mr. Goodworthy grew impatient with him. "You really ought to be able to do better than this by now," he said. "You're not even as smart as the office-boy." Philip listened sulkily. He did not like being blamed, and it humiliated him, when, having been given accounts to make fair copies of, Mr. Goodworthy was not satisfied and gave them to another clerk to do. At first the work had been tolerable from its novelty, but now it grew irksome; and when he discovered that he had no aptitude for it, he began to hate it. Often, when he should have been doing something that was given him, he wasted his time drawing little pictures on the office note-paper. He made sketches of Watson in every conceivable attitude, and Watson was impressed by his talent. It occurred to him to take the drawings home, and he came back next day with the praises of his family. "I wonder you didn't become a painter," he said. "Only of course there's no money in it." It chanced that Mr. Carter two or three days later was dining with the Watsons, and the sketches were shown him. The following morning he sent for Philip. Philip saw him seldom and stood in some awe of him. "Look here, young fellow, I don't care what you do out of office-hours, but I've seen those sketches of yours and they're on office-paper, and Mr. Goodworthy tells me you're slack. You won't do any good as a chartered accountant unless you look alive. It's a fine profession, and we're getting a very good class of men in it, but it's a profession in which you have to..." he looked for the termination of his phrase, but could not find exactly what he wanted, so finished rather tamely, "in which you have to look alive." Perhaps Philip would have settled down but for the agreement that if he did not like the work he could leave after a year, and get back half the money paid for his articles. He felt that he was fit for something better than to add up accounts, and it was humiliating that he did so ill something which seemed contemptible. The vulgar scenes with Thompson got on his nerves. In March Watson ended his year at the office and Philip, though he did not care for him, saw him go with regret. The fact that the other clerks disliked them equally, because they belonged to a class a little higher than their own, was a bond of union. When Philip thought that he must spend over four years more with that dreary set of fellows his heart sank. He had expected wonderful things from London and it had given him nothing. He hated it now. He did not know a soul, and he had no idea how he was to get to know anyone. He was tired of going everywhere by himself. He began to feel that he could not stand much more of such a life. He would lie in bed at night and think of the joy of never seeing again that dingy office or any of the men in it, and of getting away from those drab lodgings. A great disappointment befell him in the spring. Hayward had announced his intention of coming to London for the season, and Philip had looked forward very much to seeing him again. He had read so much lately and thought so much that his mind was full of ideas which he wanted to discuss, and he knew nobody who was willing to interest himself in abstract things. He was quite excited at the thought of talking his fill with someone, and he was wretched when Hayward wrote to say that the spring was lovelier than ever he had known it in Italy, and he could not bear to tear himself away. He went on to ask why Philip did not come. What was the use of squandering the days of his youth in an office when the world was beautiful? The letter proceeded. I wonder you can bear it. I think of Fleet Street and Lincoln's Inn now with a shudder of disgust. There are only two things in the world that make life worth living, love and art. I cannot imagine you sitting in an office over a ledger, and do you wear a tall hat and an umbrella and a little black bag? My feeling is that one should look upon life as an adventure, one should burn with the hard, gem-like flame, and one should take risks, one should expose oneself to danger. Why do you not go to Paris and study art? I always thought you had talent. The suggestion fell in with the possibility that Philip for some time had been vaguely turning over in his mind. It startled him at first, but he could not help thinking of it, and in the constant rumination over it he found his only escape from the wretchedness of his present state. They all thought he had talent; at Heidelberg they had admired his water colours, Miss Wilkinson had told him over and over again that they were chasing; even strangers like the Watsons had been struck by his sketches. La Vie de Boheme had made a deep impression on him. He had brought it to London and when he was most depressed he had only to read a few pages to be transported into those chasing attics where Rodolphe and the rest of them danced and loved and sang. He began to think of Paris as before he had thought of London, but he had no fear of a second disillusion; he yearned for romance and beauty and love, and Paris seemed to offer them all. He had a passion for pictures, and why should he not be able to paint as well as anybody else? He wrote to Miss Wilkinson and asked her how much she thought he could live on in Paris. She told him that he could manage easily on eighty pounds a year, and she enthusiastically approved of his project. She told him he was too good to be wasted in an office. Who would be a clerk when he might be a great artist, she asked dramatically, and she besought Philip to believe in himself: that was the great thing. But Philip had a cautious nature. It was all very well for Hayward to talk of taking risks, he had three hundred a year in gilt-edged securities; Philip's entire fortune amounted to no more than eighteen-hundred pounds. He hesitated. Then it chanced that one day Mr. Goodworthy asked him suddenly if he would like to go to Paris. The firm did the accounts for a hotel in the Faubourg St. Honore, which was owned by an English company, and twice a year Mr. Goodworthy and a clerk went over. The clerk who generally went happened to be ill, and a press of work prevented any of the others from getting away. Mr. Goodworthy thought of Philip because he could best be spared, and his articles gave him some claim upon a job which was one of the pleasures of the business. Philip was delighted. "You'll 'ave to work all day," said Mr. Goodworthy, "but we get our evenings to ourselves, and Paris is Paris." He smiled in a knowing way. "They do us very well at the hotel, and they give us all our meals, so it don't cost one anything. That's the way I like going to Paris, at other people's expense." When they arrived at Calais and Philip saw the crowd of gesticulating porters his heart leaped. "This is the real thing," he said to himself. He was all eyes as the train sped through the country; he adored the sand dunes, their colour seemed to him more lovely than anything he had ever seen; and he was enchanted with the canals and the long lines of poplars. When they got out of the Gare du Nord, and trundled along the cobbled streets in a ramshackle, noisy cab, it seemed to him that he was breathing a new air so intoxicating that he could hardly restrain himself from shouting aloud. They were met at the door of the hotel by the manager, a stout, pleasant man, who spoke tolerable English; Mr. Goodworthy was an old friend and he greeted them effusively; they dined in his private room with his wife, and to Philip it seemed that he had never eaten anything so delicious as the beefsteak aux pommes, nor drunk such nectar as the vin ordinaire, which were set before them. To Mr. Goodworthy, a respectable householder with excellent principles, the capital of France was a paradise of the joyously obscene. He asked the manager next morning what there was to be seen that was 'thick.' He thoroughly enjoyed these visits of his to Paris; he said they kept you from growing rusty. In the evenings, after their work was over and they had dined, he took Philip to the Moulin Rouge and the Folies Bergeres. His little eyes twinkled and his face wore a sly, sensual smile as he sought out the pornographic. He went into all the haunts which were specially arranged for the foreigner, and afterwards said that a nation could come to no good which permitted that sort of thing. He nudged Philip when at some revue a woman appeared with practically nothing on, and pointed out to him the most strapping of the courtesans who walked about the hall. It was a vulgar Paris that he showed Philip, but Philip saw it with eyes blinded with illusion. In the early morning he would rush out of the hotel and go to the Champs Elysees, and stand at the Place de la Concorde. It was June, and Paris was silvery with the delicacy of the air. Philip felt his heart go out to the people. Here he thought at last was romance. They spent the inside of a week there, leaving on Sunday, and when Philip late at night reached his dingy rooms in Barnes his mind was made up; he would surrender his articles, and go to Paris to study art; but so that no one should think him unreasonable he determined to stay at the office till his year was up. He was to have his holiday during the last fortnight in August, and when he went away he would tell Herbert Carter that he had no intention of returning. But though Philip could force himself to go to the office every day he could not even pretend to show any interest in the work. His mind was occupied with the future. After the middle of July there was nothing much to do and he escaped a good deal by pretending he had to go to lectures for his first examination. The time he got in this way he spent in the National Gallery. He read books about Paris and books about painting. He was steeped in Ruskin. He read many of Vasari's lives of the painters. He liked that story of Correggio, and he fancied himself standing before some great masterpiece and crying: Anch' io son' pittore. His hesitation had left him now, and he was convinced that he had in him the makings of a great painter. "After all, I can only try," he said to himself. "The great thing in life is to take risks." At last came the middle of August. Mr. Carter was spending the month in Scotland, and the managing clerk was in charge of the office. Mr. Goodworthy had seemed pleasantly disposed to Philip since their trip to Paris, and now that Philip knew he was so soon to be free, he could look upon the funny little man with tolerance. "You're going for your holiday tomorrow, Carey?" he said to him in the evening. All day Philip had been telling himself that this was the last time he would ever sit in that hateful office. "Yes, this is the end of my year." "I'm afraid you've not done very well. Mr. Carter's very dissatisfied with you." "Not nearly so dissatisfied as I am with Mr. Carter," returned Philip cheerfully. "I don't think you should speak like that, Carey." "I'm not coming back. I made the arrangement that if I didn't like accountancy Mr. Carter would return me half the money I paid for my articles and I could chuck it at the end of a year." "You shouldn't come to such a decision hastily." "For ten months I've loathed it all, I've loathed the work, I've loathed the office, I loathe London. I'd rather sweep a crossing than spend my days here." "Well, I must say, I don't think you're very fitted for accountancy." "Good-bye," said Philip, holding out his hand. "I want to thank you for your kindness to me. I'm sorry if I've been troublesome. I knew almost from the beginning I was no good." "Well, if you really do make up your mind it is good-bye. I don't know what you're going to do, but if you're in the neighbourhood at any time come in and see us." Philip gave a little laugh. "I'm afraid it sounds very rude, but I hope from the bottom of my heart that I shall never set eyes on any of you again." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XXXIX The Vicar of Blackstable would have nothing to do with the scheme which Philip laid before him. He had a great idea that one should stick to whatever one had begun. Like all weak men he laid an exaggerated stress on not changing one's mind. "You chose to be an accountant of your own free will," he said. "I just took that because it was the only chance I saw of getting up to town. I hate London, I hate the work, and nothing will induce me to go back to it." Mr. and Mrs. Carey were frankly shocked at Philip's idea of being an artist. He should not forget, they said, that his father and mother were gentlefolk, and painting wasn't a serious profession; it was Bohemian, disreputable, immoral. And then Paris! "So long as I have anything to say in the matter, I shall not allow you to live in Paris," said the Vicar firmly. It was a sink of iniquity. The scarlet woman and she of Babylon flaunted their vileness there; the cities of the plain were not more wicked. "You've been brought up like a gentleman and Christian, and I should be false to the trust laid upon me by your dead father and mother if I allowed you to expose yourself to such temptation." "Well, I know I'm not a Christian and I'm beginning to doubt whether I'm a gentleman," said Philip. The dispute grew more violent. There was another year before Philip took possession of his small inheritance, and during that time Mr. Carey proposed only to give him an allowance if he remained at the office. It was clear to Philip that if he meant not to continue with accountancy he must leave it while he could still get back half the money that had been paid for his articles. The Vicar would not listen. Philip, losing all reserve, said things to wound and irritate. "You've got no right to waste my money," he said at last. "After all it's my money, isn't it? I'm not a child. You can't prevent me from going to Paris if I make up my mind to. You can't force me to go back to London." "All I can do is to refuse you money unless you do what I think fit." "Well, I don't care, I've made up my mind to go to Paris. I shall sell my clothes, and my books, and my father's jewellery." Aunt Louisa sat by in silence, anxious and unhappy. She saw that Philip was beside himself, and anything she said then would but increase his anger. Finally the Vicar announced that he wished to hear nothing more about it and with dignity left the room. For the next three days neither Philip nor he spoke to one another. Philip wrote to Hayward for information about Paris, and made up his mind to set out as soon as he got a reply. Mrs. Carey turned the matter over in her mind incessantly; she felt that Philip included her in the hatred he bore her husband, and the thought tortured her. She loved him with all her heart. At length she spoke to him; she listened attentively while he poured out all his disillusionment of London and his eager ambition for the future. "I may be no good, but at least let me have a try. I can't be a worse failure than I was in that beastly office. And I feel that I can paint. I know I've got it in me." She was not so sure as her husband that they did right in thwarting so strong an inclination. She had read of great painters whose parents had opposed their wish to study, the event had shown with what folly; and after all it was just as possible for a painter to lead a virtuous life to the glory of God as for a chartered accountant. "I'm so afraid of your going to Paris," she said piteously. "It wouldn't be so bad if you studied in London." "If I'm going in for painting I must do it thoroughly, and it's only in Paris that you can get the real thing." At his suggestion Mrs. Carey wrote to the solicitor, saying that Philip was discontented with his work in London, and asking what he thought of a change. Mr. Nixon answered as follows: Dear Mrs. Carey, I have seen Mr. Herbert Carter, and I am afraid I must tell you that Philip has not done so well as one could have wished. If he is very strongly set against the work, perhaps it is better that he should take the opportunity there is now to break his articles. I am naturally very disappointed, but as you know you can take a horse to the water, but you can't make him drink. Yours very sincerely, Albert Nixon. The letter was shown to the Vicar, but served only to increase his obstinacy. He was willing enough that Philip should take up some other profession, he suggested his father's calling, medicine, but nothing would induce him to pay an allowance if Philip went to Paris. "It's a mere excuse for self-indulgence and sensuality," he said. "I'm interested to hear you blame self-indulgence in others," retorted Philip acidly. But by this time an answer had come from Hayward, giving the name of a hotel where Philip could get a room for thirty francs a month and enclosing a note of introduction to the massiere of a school. Philip read the letter to Mrs. Carey and told her he proposed to start on the first of September. "But you haven't got any money?" she said. "I'm going into Tercanbury this afternoon to sell the jewellery." He had inherited from his father a gold watch and chain, two or three rings, some links, and two pins. One of them was a pearl and might fetch a considerable sum. "It's a very different thing, what a thing's worth and what it'll fetch," said Aunt Louisa. Philip smiled, for this was one of his uncle's stock phrases. "I know, but at the worst I think I can get a hundred pounds on the lot, and that'll keep me till I'm twenty-one." Mrs. Carey did not answer, but she went upstairs, put on her little black bonnet, and went to the bank. In an hour she came back. She went to Philip, who was reading in the drawing-room, and handed him an envelope. "What's this?" he asked. "It's a little present for you," she answered, smiling shyly. He opened it and found eleven five-pound notes and a little paper sack bulging with sovereigns. "I couldn't bear to let you sell your father's jewellery. It's the money I had in the bank. It comes to very nearly a hundred pounds." Philip blushed, and, he knew not why, tears suddenly filled his eyes. "Oh, my dear, I can't take it," he said. "It's most awfully good of you, but I couldn't bear to take it." When Mrs. Carey was married she had three hundred pounds, and this money, carefully watched, had been used by her to meet any unforeseen expense, any urgent charity, or to buy Christmas and birthday presents for her husband and for Philip. In the course of years it had diminished sadly, but it was still with the Vicar a subject for jesting. He talked of his wife as a rich woman and he constantly spoke of the 'nest egg.' "Oh, please take it, Philip. I'm so sorry I've been extravagant, and there's only that left. But it'll make me so happy if you'll accept it." "But you'll want it," said Philip. "No, I don't think I shall. I was keeping it in case your uncle died before me. I thought it would be useful to have a little something I could get at immediately if I wanted it, but I don't think I shall live very much longer now." "Oh, my dear, don't say that. Why, of course you're going to live for ever. I can't possibly spare you." "Oh, I'm not sorry." Her voice broke and she hid her eyes, but in a moment, drying them, she smiled bravely. "At first, I used to pray to God that He might not take me first, because I didn't want your uncle to be left alone, I didn't want him to have all the suffering, but now I know that it wouldn't mean so much to your uncle as it would mean to me. He wants to live more than I do, I've never been the wife he wanted, and I daresay he'd marry again if anything happened to me. So I should like to go first. You don't think it's selfish of me, Philip, do you? But I couldn't bear it if he went." Philip kissed her wrinkled, thin cheek. He did not know why the sight he had of that overwhelming love made him feel strangely ashamed. It was incomprehensible that she should care so much for a man who was so indifferent, so selfish, so grossly self-indulgent; and he divined dimly that in her heart she knew his indifference and his selfishness, knew them and loved him humbly all the same. "You will take the money, Philip?" she said, gently stroking his hand. "I know you can do without it, but it'll give me so much happiness. I've always wanted to do something for you. You see, I never had a child of my own, and I've loved you as if you were my son. When you were a little boy, though I knew it was wicked, I used to wish almost that you might be ill, so that I could nurse you day and night. But you were only ill once and then it was at school. I should so like to help you. It's the only chance I shall ever have. And perhaps some day when you're a great artist you won't forget me, but you'll remember that I gave you your start." "It's very good of you," said Philip. "I'm very grateful." A smile came into her tired eyes, a smile of pure happiness. "Oh, I'm so glad." </CHAPTER>

Chapters 36-39

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Philip settles into his new rooms in Barnes, London, but he is depressed by the dingy place and that part of town. He goes to the offices of Herbert Carter in Chancery Lane. The managing clerk, Mr. Goodworthy, who is both patronizing and timid, tells Philip the work is lucrative but drudgery and puts him to work alphabetizing letters. He meets Watson, a fellow articled clerk, who is the son of a rich brewer. He dresses and acts like a gentleman, fond of sports and the hunt. He has been to Oxford and condescends to Philip, but Philip thinks it is ironic that at school they looked down on brewers. Mr. Carter tries to give the impression that he is a gentleman and that they want gentlemen in the business to raise the profession. . Philip is interested in the work at first as a novelty. He has to add columns of figures, not one of his strong points. He attends lectures for his examination. In his spare time, he goes to galleries and reads, but Sundays are difficult, for he is alone. He spends one Sunday with Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, but he is shy about going back. Loneliness weighs on him more and more. He spends an evening with Watson, but the man has no culture, and he is ill at ease with him. Suddenly, he despises his own acquirements because of his poverty. He admires Watson's life because he has money and a place. . When he goes to the post office, he finds three letters from Miss Wilkinson. He replies awkwardly, and she bombards him with angry letters about his neglect. She says she cannot live without him. She wants to come see him at Christmas. He lies that he has an engagement. He regrets he had the affair. Watson tells him he has no trouble breaking off with women. He just tells them to go away. . He is alone on Christmas because his aunt and uncle are in Cornwall for their health. After a year at the firm, he works with a clerk named Thompson who is irritated at his mistakes and enjoys insulting him. Philip sees he has no aptitude for this work and slacks off. He tries to imagine what his life would be like if he were Watson. For amusement, he sketches Watson. Watson's family like the sketches and think Philip should be an artist. Mr. Carter finds out he is drawing on office time and scolds him. Philip knows he cannot stand much more of this life. Hayward writes to him of Italy, telling him the only things in life are love and art. He tells Philip to take a risk and study art in Paris. . Philip remembers that people have always told him he has talent, and he begins to think of the French novel about bohemian life in Paris. The artists were poor but they enjoyed life. He yearns for romance and beauty. Goodworthy asks Philip one day if he would like to go to Paris to do some accounts there. Philip jumps at the chance. He is intoxicated by Paris, though Mr. Goodworthy only wants to go to the more vulgar places, the Moulin Rouge and Folies Bergeres. Philip decides he will wait out the year and then go to Paris. . His uncle is shocked by Philip's decision. He is a gentleman, and art and Paris are immoral. Philip bluntly replies he is neither Christian nor a gentleman. He will not inherit his money for another year, so he says he will sell his father's jewelry and use the money to go. His aunt has a soft spot for Philip and does not want him to sell the jewelry, so she offers what is left of her own bridal settlement. It is a very small amount, but she offers up to him 100 pounds. She thinks she hasn't much time to live, and she truly wants to give Philip something so he can realize his dreams.

Commentary on Chapters XXXVI-XXXIX . Philip's aunt, like his mother, truly loves him with an unselfish love, one of the few pure relationships he has enjoyed. He comes to believe that only parents have disinterested love. She reveals that she is not as much of an old fool as he had thought, for she perfectly understands that his uncle is not in love with her and will not miss her when she dies. She wants to pass on her one precious thing to Philip, who was as close as she could come to having a child. . Philip discovers the loneliness of the big city and not fitting into his surroundings. The life is drab and so is the work, for which he is ill suited. He is astonished at the class issues at Carter's. Carter and Watson represent the middle classes aspiring to the status and culture that have been the privilege of the upper classes. It is now possible for merchant's sons to go to university and hunt and act and dress like gentlemen. Philip thinks how at his school these people were looked down on because they were not born gentlemen. It was perfectly clear who was and who wasn't; people didn't talk about their class all the time. . Yet when his uncle brings up class issues, he reveals the eroding influence of time and his experience on his own thought; he does not easily identify with being either Christian or a gentleman. He thinks he would like the money Watson has so he can pursue his own interests, but he is too cultured to want to hang out with London trades people. Their interests are mundane. He wants not the life of a gentleman, but a romantic and adventurous life, a bohemian life, as he has read about. As Hayward suggests, beauty and love are the only things worth living for. Even Miss Wilkinson has encouraged him that he could be an artist and live on the amount he has from his aunt for a year. . There is a certain cynicism about women in this section. Philip lets the relationship with Miss Wilkinson drop in an awkward manner. He admires Watson for being able to have affairs and then tell the woman to go away, without any conscience.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_52_to_55.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_9_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 52-55

chapters 52-55

{"name": "Chapters 52-55", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter52-55", "summary": "Philip is unexpectedly shaken by his aunt's death, for she has been the closest relative since his mother died. He feels his own mortality. Thinking his uncle will be incapacitated with grief he is surprised to find him at the vicarage carrying on as usual, counting the number of wreaths his wife receives, trying to see if she will outdo the wife of the Vicar of Ferne. His uncle no longer scorns his artistic training but brags to his friends that Philip will paint his portrait. Philip perversely announces he has given up painting. Mr. Carey is astonished at his lack of perseverance and says he supposes he will then become a doctor like his father. Philip answers yes, for he has nothing better in mind. Philip sees the beauty of the English landscape for the first time, because of his painter's training. He congratulates himself on his self-control, bitterly bought by experience. He is told he is unemotional, but that is because he does not let out his feelings. He likes the idea of consciously shaping his own plan to live by. Thinking of what he learned in Paris, especially Cronshaw's remarks about his conventional morality, he begins to read and work out for himself what his views are now. He delights in the philosophy of Hobbes, Spinoza, and Hume. . He decides the Darwinian view of life suits him. There is no good or evil, just the struggle for survival. He makes himself a provisional rule: \"Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman around the corner\" . Now that he has his new theory of life and sixteen hundred pounds, he sets off for London a second time to try his fortune. He arrives at St. Luke's Medical School and attends the opening lecture by Mr. Cameron in the Anatomy Theatre with sixty other students. Philip is older than most of the students and looks down on them, but they are more prepared and catch on quicker. He makes friends with Dunsford, a nice young student, who does not seem particularly bright. While dissecting a corpse together, the students chat about sports and other topics of the day. They warn Philip to be careful not to cut himself, for it could lead to blood poisoning. Philip's attention wanders in lectures because he is out of the habit of paying attention at school, and the knowledge bores him. He wants to be liked by the others but patronizes them. Dunsford takes him to a tea shop and begins flirting with a waitress called Mildred. Mildred ignores them, and Philip thinks she is not pretty. When Mildred is rude to a remark he makes to be sociable, Philip is wounded and decides to punish her by coming back and embarrassing her. No matter what he does, Mildred insults and humiliates him, not the other way around. He doesn't know why he is being petty, and why he can't let it drop.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters LII-LV Philip and his uncle do not communicate well because they have different values. Above all, the vicar believes in sticking to one thing. He does not see life as an adventure or journey of discovery the way Philip does. He has inherited his beliefs and ideas and thinks no more about them. He has duty. Philip is born at the cusp between the Victorian and modern ages. He likes changing scenes and philosophies as he progresses. He feels free to experiment, to throw off what no longer fits. His uncle sees this as irresponsible. Philip moves on to each new stage of his life as a reaction to the previous stage. He can't stand the stuffiness of England, so he goes to the continent. He hates the wasted lives of the artists in Paris, so he comes back home to be a bourgeois doctor. Nothing seems permanently charming, but like the animals in Darwin's theory, he keeps moving and evolving, he \"does everything he likes\" to test out his own powers. When his uncle asks if Paris was a waste of time, he says no; he learned to look at hands and trees. He is being flippant, but he has learned the art of close observation, and this serves him well as his self-analysis and analysis of others becomes sharper. It is not a surprise that he does not especially take to medical school. The students are not interested in the arts or ideas. Philip is intellectual, but he doesn't like to memorize factual information. He thinks he will become a doctor for the money and free time. He is condescending to the young students around him, thinking they are not cultured or worth knowing. It is interesting that he characterizes himself as unemotional and controlled, for now he meets Mildred, one of the more intense episodes of his life, over which he has no control whatever; hence, the title of the book. His new philosophies will not help him here."}

<CHAPTER> LII Next day Philip arrived at Blackstable. Since the death of his mother he had never lost anyone closely connected with him; his aunt's death shocked him and filled him also with a curious fear; he felt for the first time his own mortality. He could not realise what life would be for his uncle without the constant companionship of the woman who had loved and tended him for forty years. He expected to find him broken down with hopeless grief. He dreaded the first meeting; he knew that he could say nothing which would be of use. He rehearsed to himself a number of apposite speeches. He entered the vicarage by the side-door and went into the dining-room. Uncle William was reading the paper. "Your train was late," he said, looking up. Philip was prepared to give way to his emotion, but the matter-of-fact reception startled him. His uncle, subdued but calm, handed him the paper. "There's a very nice little paragraph about her in The Blackstable Times," he said. Philip read it mechanically. "Would you like to come up and see her?" Philip nodded and together they walked upstairs. Aunt Louisa was lying in the middle of the large bed, with flowers all round her. "Would you like to say a short prayer?" said the Vicar. He sank on his knees, and because it was expected of him Philip followed his example. He looked at the little shrivelled face. He was only conscious of one emotion: what a wasted life! In a minute Mr. Carey gave a cough, and stood up. He pointed to a wreath at the foot of the bed. "That's from the Squire," he said. He spoke in a low voice as though he were in church, but one felt that, as a clergyman, he found himself quite at home. "I expect tea is ready." They went down again to the dining-room. The drawn blinds gave a lugubrious aspect. The Vicar sat at the end of the table at which his wife had always sat and poured out the tea with ceremony. Philip could not help feeling that neither of them should have been able to eat anything, but when he saw that his uncle's appetite was unimpaired he fell to with his usual heartiness. They did not speak for a while. Philip set himself to eat an excellent cake with the air of grief which he felt was decent. "Things have changed a great deal since I was a curate," said the Vicar presently. "In my young days the mourners used always to be given a pair of black gloves and a piece of black silk for their hats. Poor Louisa used to make the silk into dresses. She always said that twelve funerals gave her a new dress." Then he told Philip who had sent wreaths; there were twenty-four of them already; when Mrs. Rawlingson, wife of the Vicar at Ferne, had died she had had thirty-two; but probably a good many more would come the next day; the funeral would start at eleven o'clock from the vicarage, and they should beat Mrs. Rawlingson easily. Louisa never liked Mrs. Rawlingson. "I shall take the funeral myself. I promised Louisa I would never let anyone else bury her." Philip looked at his uncle with disapproval when he took a second piece of cake. Under the circumstances he could not help thinking it greedy. "Mary Ann certainly makes capital cakes. I'm afraid no one else will make such good ones." "She's not going?" cried Philip, with astonishment. Mary Ann had been at the vicarage ever since he could remember. She never forgot his birthday, but made a point always of sending him a trifle, absurd but touching. He had a real affection for her. "Yes," answered Mr. Carey. "I didn't think it would do to have a single woman in the house." "But, good heavens, she must be over forty." "Yes, I think she is. But she's been rather troublesome lately, she's been inclined to take too much on herself, and I thought this was a very good opportunity to give her notice." "It's certainly one which isn't likely to recur," said Philip. He took out a cigarette, but his uncle prevented him from lighting it. "Not till after the funeral, Philip," he said gently. "All right," said Philip. "It wouldn't be quite respectful to smoke in the house so long as your poor Aunt Louisa is upstairs." Josiah Graves, churchwarden and manager of the bank, came back to dinner at the vicarage after the funeral. The blinds had been drawn up, and Philip, against his will, felt a curious sensation of relief. The body in the house had made him uncomfortable: in life the poor woman had been all that was kind and gentle; and yet, when she lay upstairs in her bed-room, cold and stark, it seemed as though she cast upon the survivors a baleful influence. The thought horrified Philip. He found himself alone for a minute or two in the dining-room with the churchwarden. "I hope you'll be able to stay with your uncle a while," he said. "I don't think he ought to be left alone just yet." "I haven't made any plans," answered Philip. "If he wants me I shall be very pleased to stay." By way of cheering the bereaved husband the churchwarden during dinner talked of a recent fire at Blackstable which had partly destroyed the Wesleyan chapel. "I hear they weren't insured," he said, with a little smile. "That won't make any difference," said the Vicar. "They'll get as much money as they want to rebuild. Chapel people are always ready to give money." "I see that Holden sent a wreath." Holden was the dissenting minister, and, though for Christ's sake who died for both of them, Mr. Carey nodded to him in the street, he did not speak to him. "I think it was very pushing," he remarked. "There were forty-one wreaths. Yours was beautiful. Philip and I admired it very much." "Don't mention it," said the banker. He had noticed with satisfaction that it was larger than anyone's else. It had looked very well. They began to discuss the people who attended the funeral. Shops had been closed for it, and the churchwarden took out of his pocket the notice which had been printed: "Owing to the funeral of Mrs. Carey this establishment will not be opened till one o'clock." "It was my idea," he said. "I think it was very nice of them to close," said the Vicar. "Poor Louisa would have appreciated that." Philip ate his dinner. Mary Ann had treated the day as Sunday, and they had roast chicken and a gooseberry tart. "I suppose you haven't thought about a tombstone yet?" said the churchwarden. "Yes, I have. I thought of a plain stone cross. Louisa was always against ostentation." "I don't think one can do much better than a cross. If you're thinking of a text, what do you say to: With Christ, which is far better?" The Vicar pursed his lips. It was just like Bismarck to try and settle everything himself. He did not like that text; it seemed to cast an aspersion on himself. "I don't think I should put that. I much prefer: The Lord has given and the Lord has taken away." "Oh, do you? That always seems to me a little indifferent." The Vicar answered with some acidity, and Mr. Graves replied in a tone which the widower thought too authoritative for the occasion. Things were going rather far if he could not choose his own text for his own wife's tombstone. There was a pause, and then the conversation drifted to parish matters. Philip went into the garden to smoke his pipe. He sat on a bench, and suddenly began to laugh hysterically. A few days later his uncle expressed the hope that he would spend the next few weeks at Blackstable. "Yes, that will suit me very well," said Philip. "I suppose it'll do if you go back to Paris in September." Philip did not reply. He had thought much of what Foinet said to him, but he was still so undecided that he did not wish to speak of the future. There would be something fine in giving up art because he was convinced that he could not excel; but unfortunately it would seem so only to himself: to others it would be an admission of defeat, and he did not want to confess that he was beaten. He was an obstinate fellow, and the suspicion that his talent did not lie in one direction made him inclined to force circumstances and aim notwithstanding precisely in that direction. He could not bear that his friends should laugh at him. This might have prevented him from ever taking the definite step of abandoning the study of painting, but the different environment made him on a sudden see things differently. Like many another he discovered that crossing the Channel makes things which had seemed important singularly futile. The life which had been so charming that he could not bear to leave it now seemed inept; he was seized with a distaste for the cafes, the restaurants with their ill-cooked food, the shabby way in which they all lived. He did not care any more what his friends thought about him: Cronshaw with his rhetoric, Mrs. Otter with her respectability, Ruth Chalice with her affectations, Lawson and Clutton with their quarrels; he felt a revulsion from them all. He wrote to Lawson and asked him to send over all his belongings. A week later they arrived. When he unpacked his canvases he found himself able to examine his work without emotion. He noticed the fact with interest. His uncle was anxious to see his pictures. Though he had so greatly disapproved of Philip's desire to go to Paris, he accepted the situation now with equanimity. He was interested in the life of students and constantly put Philip questions about it. He was in fact a little proud of him because he was a painter, and when people were present made attempts to draw him out. He looked eagerly at the studies of models which Philip showed him. Philip set before him his portrait of Miguel Ajuria. "Why did you paint him?" asked Mr. Carey. "Oh, I wanted a model, and his head interested me." "As you haven't got anything to do here I wonder you don't paint me." "It would bore you to sit." "I think I should like it." "We must see about it." Philip was amused at his uncle's vanity. It was clear that he was dying to have his portrait painted. To get something for nothing was a chance not to be missed. For two or three days he threw out little hints. He reproached Philip for laziness, asked him when he was going to start work, and finally began telling everyone he met that Philip was going to paint him. At last there came a rainy day, and after breakfast Mr. Carey said to Philip: "Now, what d'you say to starting on my portrait this morning?" Philip put down the book he was reading and leaned back in his chair. "I've given up painting," he said. "Why?" asked his uncle in astonishment. "I don't think there's much object in being a second-rate painter, and I came to the conclusion that I should never be anything else." "You surprise me. Before you went to Paris you were quite certain that you were a genius." "I was mistaken," said Philip. "I should have thought now you'd taken up a profession you'd have the pride to stick to it. It seems to me that what you lack is perseverance." Philip was a little annoyed that his uncle did not even see how truly heroic his determination was. "'A rolling stone gathers no moss,'" proceeded the clergyman. Philip hated that proverb above all, and it seemed to him perfectly meaningless. His uncle had repeated it often during the arguments which had preceded his departure from business. Apparently it recalled that occasion to his guardian. "You're no longer a boy, you know; you must begin to think of settling down. First you insist on becoming a chartered accountant, and then you get tired of that and you want to become a painter. And now if you please you change your mind again. It points to..." He hesitated for a moment to consider what defects of character exactly it indicated, and Philip finished the sentence. "Irresolution, incompetence, want of foresight, and lack of determination." The Vicar looked up at his nephew quickly to see whether he was laughing at him. Philip's face was serious, but there was a twinkle in his eyes which irritated him. Philip should really be getting more serious. He felt it right to give him a rap over the knuckles. "Your money matters have nothing to do with me now. You're your own master; but I think you should remember that your money won't last for ever, and the unlucky deformity you have doesn't exactly make it easier for you to earn your living." Philip knew by now that whenever anyone was angry with him his first thought was to say something about his club-foot. His estimate of the human race was determined by the fact that scarcely anyone failed to resist the temptation. But he had trained himself not to show any sign that the reminder wounded him. He had even acquired control over the blushing which in his boyhood had been one of his torments. "As you justly remark," he answered, "my money matters have nothing to do with you and I am my own master." "At all events you will do me the justice to acknowledge that I was justified in my opposition when you made up your mind to become an art-student." "I don't know so much about that. I daresay one profits more by the mistakes one makes off one's own bat than by doing the right thing on somebody's else advice. I've had my fling, and I don't mind settling down now." "What at?" Philip was not prepared for the question, since in fact he had not made up his mind. He had thought of a dozen callings. "The most suitable thing you could do is to enter your father's profession and become a doctor." "Oddly enough that is precisely what I intend." He had thought of doctoring among other things, chiefly because it was an occupation which seemed to give a good deal of personal freedom, and his experience of life in an office had made him determine never to have anything more to do with one; his answer to the Vicar slipped out almost unawares, because it was in the nature of a repartee. It amused him to make up his mind in that accidental way, and he resolved then and there to enter his father's old hospital in the autumn. "Then your two years in Paris may be regarded as so much wasted time?" "I don't know about that. I had a very jolly two years, and I learned one or two useful things." "What?" Philip reflected for an instant, and his answer was not devoid of a gentle desire to annoy. "I learned to look at hands, which I'd never looked at before. And instead of just looking at houses and trees I learned to look at houses and trees against the sky. And I learned also that shadows are not black but coloured." "I suppose you think you're very clever. I think your flippancy is quite inane." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> LIII Taking the paper with him Mr. Carey retired to his study. Philip changed his chair for that in which his uncle had been sitting (it was the only comfortable one in the room), and looked out of the window at the pouring rain. Even in that sad weather there was something restful about the green fields that stretched to the horizon. There was an intimate charm in the landscape which he did not remember ever to have noticed before. Two years in France had opened his eyes to the beauty of his own countryside. He thought with a smile of his uncle's remark. It was lucky that the turn of his mind tended to flippancy. He had begun to realise what a great loss he had sustained in the death of his father and mother. That was one of the differences in his life which prevented him from seeing things in the same way as other people. The love of parents for their children is the only emotion which is quite disinterested. Among strangers he had grown up as best he could, but he had seldom been used with patience or forbearance. He prided himself on his self-control. It had been whipped into him by the mockery of his fellows. Then they called him cynical and callous. He had acquired calmness of demeanour and under most circumstances an unruffled exterior, so that now he could not show his feelings. People told him he was unemotional; but he knew that he was at the mercy of his emotions: an accidental kindness touched him so much that sometimes he did not venture to speak in order not to betray the unsteadiness of his voice. He remembered the bitterness of his life at school, the humiliation which he had endured, the banter which had made him morbidly afraid of making himself ridiculous; and he remembered the loneliness he had felt since, faced with the world, the disillusion and the disappointment caused by the difference between what it promised to his active imagination and what it gave. But notwithstanding he was able to look at himself from the outside and smile with amusement. "By Jove, if I weren't flippant, I should hang myself," he thought cheerfully. His mind went back to the answer he had given his uncle when he asked him what he had learnt in Paris. He had learnt a good deal more than he told him. A conversation with Cronshaw had stuck in his memory, and one phrase he had used, a commonplace one enough, had set his brain working. "My dear fellow," Cronshaw said, "there's no such thing as abstract morality." When Philip ceased to believe in Christianity he felt that a great weight was taken from his shoulders; casting off the responsibility which weighed down every action, when every action was infinitely important for the welfare of his immortal soul, he experienced a vivid sense of liberty. But he knew now that this was an illusion. When he put away the religion in which he had been brought up, he had kept unimpaired the morality which was part and parcel of it. He made up his mind therefore to think things out for himself. He determined to be swayed by no prejudices. He swept away the virtues and the vices, the established laws of good and evil, with the idea of finding out the rules of life for himself. He did not know whether rules were necessary at all. That was one of the things he wanted to discover. Clearly much that seemed valid seemed so only because he had been taught it from his earliest youth. He had read a number of books, but they did not help him much, for they were based on the morality of Christianity; and even the writers who emphasised the fact that they did not believe in it were never satisfied till they had framed a system of ethics in accordance with that of the Sermon on the Mount. It seemed hardly worth while to read a long volume in order to learn that you ought to behave exactly like everybody else. Philip wanted to find out how he ought to behave, and he thought he could prevent himself from being influenced by the opinions that surrounded him. But meanwhile he had to go on living, and, until he formed a theory of conduct, he made himself a provisional rule. "Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman round the corner." He thought the best thing he had gained in Paris was a complete liberty of spirit, and he felt himself at last absolutely free. In a desultory way he had read a good deal of philosophy, and he looked forward with delight to the leisure of the next few months. He began to read at haphazard. He entered upon each system with a little thrill of excitement, expecting to find in each some guide by which he could rule his conduct; he felt himself like a traveller in unknown countries and as he pushed forward the enterprise fascinated him; he read emotionally, as other men read pure literature, and his heart leaped as he discovered in noble words what himself had obscurely felt. His mind was concrete and moved with difficulty in regions of the abstract; but, even when he could not follow the reasoning, it gave him a curious pleasure to follow the tortuosities of thoughts that threaded their nimble way on the edge of the incomprehensible. Sometimes great philosophers seemed to have nothing to say to him, but at others he recognised a mind with which he felt himself at home. He was like the explorer in Central Africa who comes suddenly upon wide uplands, with great trees in them and stretches of meadow, so that he might fancy himself in an English park. He delighted in the robust common sense of Thomas Hobbes; Spinoza filled him with awe, he had never before come in contact with a mind so noble, so unapproachable and austere; it reminded him of that statue by Rodin, L'Age d'Airain, which he passionately admired; and then there was Hume: the scepticism of that charming philosopher touched a kindred note in Philip; and, revelling in the lucid style which seemed able to put complicated thought into simple words, musical and measured, he read as he might have read a novel, a smile of pleasure on his lips. But in none could he find exactly what he wanted. He had read somewhere that every man was born a Platonist, an Aristotelian, a Stoic, or an Epicurean; and the history of George Henry Lewes (besides telling you that philosophy was all moonshine) was there to show that the thought of each philosopher was inseparably connected with the man he was. When you knew that you could guess to a great extent the philosophy he wrote. It looked as though you did not act in a certain way because you thought in a certain way, but rather that you thought in a certain way because you were made in a certain way. Truth had nothing to do with it. There was no such thing as truth. Each man was his own philosopher, and the elaborate systems which the great men of the past had composed were only valid for the writers. The thing then was to discover what one was and one's system of philosophy would devise itself. It seemed to Philip that there were three things to find out: man's relation to the world he lives in, man's relation with the men among whom he lives, and finally man's relation to himself. He made an elaborate plan of study. The advantage of living abroad is that, coming in contact with the manners and customs of the people among whom you live, you observe them from the outside and see that they have not the necessity which those who practise them believe. You cannot fail to discover that the beliefs which to you are self-evident to the foreigner are absurd. The year in Germany, the long stay in Paris, had prepared Philip to receive the sceptical teaching which came to him now with such a feeling of relief. He saw that nothing was good and nothing was evil; things were merely adapted to an end. He read The Origin of Species. It seemed to offer an explanation of much that troubled him. He was like an explorer now who has reasoned that certain natural features must present themselves, and, beating up a broad river, finds here the tributary that he expected, there the fertile, populated plains, and further on the mountains. When some great discovery is made the world is surprised afterwards that it was not accepted at once, and even on those who acknowledge its truth the effect is unimportant. The first readers of The Origin of Species accepted it with their reason; but their emotions, which are the ground of conduct, were untouched. Philip was born a generation after this great book was published, and much that horrified its contemporaries had passed into the feeling of the time, so that he was able to accept it with a joyful heart. He was intensely moved by the grandeur of the struggle for life, and the ethical rule which it suggested seemed to fit in with his predispositions. He said to himself that might was right. Society stood on one side, an organism with its own laws of growth and self-preservation, while the individual stood on the other. The actions which were to the advantage of society it termed virtuous and those which were not it called vicious. Good and evil meant nothing more than that. Sin was a prejudice from which the free man should rid himself. Society had three arms in its contest with the individual, laws, public opinion, and conscience: the first two could be met by guile, guile is the only weapon of the weak against the strong: common opinion put the matter well when it stated that sin consisted in being found out; but conscience was the traitor within the gates; it fought in each heart the battle of society, and caused the individual to throw himself, a wanton sacrifice, to the prosperity of his enemy. For it was clear that the two were irreconcilable, the state and the individual conscious of himself. THAT uses the individual for its own ends, trampling upon him if he thwarts it, rewarding him with medals, pensions, honours, when he serves it faithfully; THIS, strong only in his independence, threads his way through the state, for convenience' sake, paying in money or service for certain benefits, but with no sense of obligation; and, indifferent to the rewards, asks only to be left alone. He is the independent traveller, who uses Cook's tickets because they save trouble, but looks with good-humoured contempt on the personally conducted parties. The free man can do no wrong. He does everything he likes--if he can. His power is the only measure of his morality. He recognises the laws of the state and he can break them without sense of sin, but if he is punished he accepts the punishment without rancour. Society has the power. But if for the individual there was no right and no wrong, then it seemed to Philip that conscience lost its power. It was with a cry of triumph that he seized the knave and flung him from his breast. But he was no nearer to the meaning of life than he had been before. Why the world was there and what men had come into existence for at all was as inexplicable as ever. Surely there must be some reason. He thought of Cronshaw's parable of the Persian carpet. He offered it as a solution of the riddle, and mysteriously he stated that it was no answer at all unless you found it out for yourself. "I wonder what the devil he meant," Philip smiled. And so, on the last day of September, eager to put into practice all these new theories of life, Philip, with sixteen hundred pounds and his club-foot, set out for the second time to London to make his third start in life. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> LIV The examination Philip had passed before he was articled to a chartered accountant was sufficient qualification for him to enter a medical school. He chose St. Luke's because his father had been a student there, and before the end of the summer session had gone up to London for a day in order to see the secretary. He got a list of rooms from him, and took lodgings in a dingy house which had the advantage of being within two minutes' walk of the hospital. "You'll have to arrange about a part to dissect," the secretary told him. "You'd better start on a leg; they generally do; they seem to think it easier." Philip found that his first lecture was in anatomy, at eleven, and about half past ten he limped across the road, and a little nervously made his way to the Medical School. Just inside the door a number of notices were pinned up, lists of lectures, football fixtures, and the like; and these he looked at idly, trying to seem at his ease. Young men and boys dribbled in and looked for letters in the rack, chatted with one another, and passed downstairs to the basement, in which was the student's reading-room. Philip saw several fellows with a desultory, timid look dawdling around, and surmised that, like himself, they were there for the first time. When he had exhausted the notices he saw a glass door which led into what was apparently a museum, and having still twenty minutes to spare he walked in. It was a collection of pathological specimens. Presently a boy of about eighteen came up to him. "I say, are you first year?" he said. "Yes," answered Philip. "Where's the lecture room, d'you know? It's getting on for eleven." "We'd better try to find it." They walked out of the museum into a long, dark corridor, with the walls painted in two shades of red, and other youths walking along suggested the way to them. They came to a door marked Anatomy Theatre. Philip found that there were a good many people already there. The seats were arranged in tiers, and just as Philip entered an attendant came in, put a glass of water on the table in the well of the lecture-room and then brought in a pelvis and two thigh-bones, right and left. More men entered and took their seats and by eleven the theatre was fairly full. There were about sixty students. For the most part they were a good deal younger than Philip, smooth-faced boys of eighteen, but there were a few who were older than he: he noticed one tall man, with a fierce red moustache, who might have been thirty; another little fellow with black hair, only a year or two younger; and there was one man with spectacles and a beard which was quite gray. The lecturer came in, Mr. Cameron, a handsome man with white hair and clean-cut features. He called out the long list of names. Then he made a little speech. He spoke in a pleasant voice, with well-chosen words, and he seemed to take a discreet pleasure in their careful arrangement. He suggested one or two books which they might buy and advised the purchase of a skeleton. He spoke of anatomy with enthusiasm: it was essential to the study of surgery; a knowledge of it added to the appreciation of art. Philip pricked up his ears. He heard later that Mr. Cameron lectured also to the students at the Royal Academy. He had lived many years in Japan, with a post at the University of Tokyo, and he flattered himself on his appreciation of the beautiful. "You will have to learn many tedious things," he finished, with an indulgent smile, "which you will forget the moment you have passed your final examination, but in anatomy it is better to have learned and lost than never to have learned at all." He took up the pelvis which was lying on the table and began to describe it. He spoke well and clearly. At the end of the lecture the boy who had spoken to Philip in the pathological museum and sat next to him in the theatre suggested that they should go to the dissecting-room. Philip and he walked along the corridor again, and an attendant told them where it was. As soon as they entered Philip understood what the acrid smell was which he had noticed in the passage. He lit a pipe. The attendant gave a short laugh. "You'll soon get used to the smell. I don't notice it myself." He asked Philip's name and looked at a list on the board. "You've got a leg--number four." Philip saw that another name was bracketed with his own. "What's the meaning of that?" he asked. "We're very short of bodies just now. We've had to put two on each part." The dissecting-room was a large apartment painted like the corridors, the upper part a rich salmon and the dado a dark terra-cotta. At regular intervals down the long sides of the room, at right angles with the wall, were iron slabs, grooved like meat-dishes; and on each lay a body. Most of them were men. They were very dark from the preservative in which they had been kept, and the skin had almost the look of leather. They were extremely emaciated. The attendant took Philip up to one of the slabs. A youth was standing by it. "Is your name Carey?" he asked. "Yes." "Oh, then we've got this leg together. It's lucky it's a man, isn't it?" "Why?" asked Philip. "They generally always like a male better," said the attendant. "A female's liable to have a lot of fat about her." Philip looked at the body. The arms and legs were so thin that there was no shape in them, and the ribs stood out so that the skin over them was tense. A man of about forty-five with a thin, gray beard, and on his skull scanty, colourless hair: the eyes were closed and the lower jaw sunken. Philip could not feel that this had ever been a man, and yet in the row of them there was something terrible and ghastly. "I thought I'd start at two," said the young man who was dissecting with Philip. "All right, I'll be here then." He had bought the day before the case of instruments which was needful, and now he was given a locker. He looked at the boy who had accompanied him into the dissecting-room and saw that he was white. "Make you feel rotten?" Philip asked him. "I've never seen anyone dead before." They walked along the corridor till they came to the entrance of the school. Philip remembered Fanny Price. She was the first dead person he had ever seen, and he remembered how strangely it had affected him. There was an immeasurable distance between the quick and the dead: they did not seem to belong to the same species; and it was strange to think that but a little while before they had spoken and moved and eaten and laughed. There was something horrible about the dead, and you could imagine that they might cast an evil influence on the living. "What d'you say to having something to eat?" said his new friend to Philip. They went down into the basement, where there was a dark room fitted up as a restaurant, and here the students were able to get the same sort of fare as they might have at an aerated bread shop. While they ate (Philip had a scone and butter and a cup of chocolate), he discovered that his companion was called Dunsford. He was a fresh-complexioned lad, with pleasant blue eyes and curly, dark hair, large-limbed, slow of speech and movement. He had just come from Clifton. "Are you taking the Conjoint?" he asked Philip. "Yes, I want to get qualified as soon as I can." "I'm taking it too, but I shall take the F. R. C. S. afterwards. I'm going in for surgery." Most of the students took the curriculum of the Conjoint Board of the College of Surgeons and the College of Physicians; but the more ambitious or the more industrious added to this the longer studies which led to a degree from the University of London. When Philip went to St. Luke's changes had recently been made in the regulations, and the course took five years instead of four as it had done for those who registered before the autumn of 1892. Dunsford was well up in his plans and told Philip the usual course of events. The "first conjoint" examination consisted of biology, anatomy, and chemistry; but it could be taken in sections, and most fellows took their biology three months after entering the school. This science had been recently added to the list of subjects upon which the student was obliged to inform himself, but the amount of knowledge required was very small. When Philip went back to the dissecting-room, he was a few minutes late, since he had forgotten to buy the loose sleeves which they wore to protect their shirts, and he found a number of men already working. His partner had started on the minute and was busy dissecting out cutaneous nerves. Two others were engaged on the second leg, and more were occupied with the arms. "You don't mind my having started?" "That's all right, fire away," said Philip. He took the book, open at a diagram of the dissected part, and looked at what they had to find. "You're rather a dab at this," said Philip. "Oh, I've done a good deal of dissecting before, animals, you know, for the Pre Sci." There was a certain amount of conversation over the dissecting-table, partly about the work, partly about the prospects of the football season, the demonstrators, and the lectures. Philip felt himself a great deal older than the others. They were raw schoolboys. But age is a matter of knowledge rather than of years; and Newson, the active young man who was dissecting with him, was very much at home with his subject. He was perhaps not sorry to show off, and he explained very fully to Philip what he was about. Philip, notwithstanding his hidden stores of wisdom, listened meekly. Then Philip took up the scalpel and the tweezers and began working while the other looked on. "Ripping to have him so thin," said Newson, wiping his hands. "The blighter can't have had anything to eat for a month." "I wonder what he died of," murmured Philip. "Oh, I don't know, any old thing, starvation chiefly, I suppose.... I say, look out, don't cut that artery." "It's all very fine to say, don't cut that artery," remarked one of the men working on the opposite leg. "Silly old fool's got an artery in the wrong place." "Arteries always are in the wrong place," said Newson. "The normal's the one thing you practically never get. That's why it's called the normal." "Don't say things like that," said Philip, "or I shall cut myself." "If you cut yourself," answered Newson, full of information, "wash it at once with antiseptic. It's the one thing you've got to be careful about. There was a chap here last year who gave himself only a prick, and he didn't bother about it, and he got septicaemia." "Did he get all right?" "Oh, no, he died in a week. I went and had a look at him in the P. M. room." Philip's back ached by the time it was proper to have tea, and his luncheon had been so light that he was quite ready for it. His hands smelt of that peculiar odour which he had first noticed that morning in the corridor. He thought his muffin tasted of it too. "Oh, you'll get used to that," said Newson. "When you don't have the good old dissecting-room stink about, you feel quite lonely." "I'm not going to let it spoil my appetite," said Philip, as he followed up the muffin with a piece of cake. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> LV Philip's ideas of the life of medical students, like those of the public at large, were founded on the pictures which Charles Dickens drew in the middle of the nineteenth century. He soon discovered that Bob Sawyer, if he ever existed, was no longer at all like the medical student of the present. It is a mixed lot which enters upon the medical profession, and naturally there are some who are lazy and reckless. They think it is an easy life, idle away a couple of years; and then, because their funds come to an end or because angry parents refuse any longer to support them, drift away from the hospital. Others find the examinations too hard for them; one failure after another robs them of their nerve; and, panic-stricken, they forget as soon as they come into the forbidding buildings of the Conjoint Board the knowledge which before they had so pat. They remain year after year, objects of good-humoured scorn to younger men: some of them crawl through the examination of the Apothecaries Hall; others become non-qualified assistants, a precarious position in which they are at the mercy of their employer; their lot is poverty, drunkenness, and Heaven only knows their end. But for the most part medical students are industrious young men of the middle-class with a sufficient allowance to live in the respectable fashion they have been used to; many are the sons of doctors who have already something of the professional manner; their career is mapped out: as soon as they are qualified they propose to apply for a hospital appointment, after holding which (and perhaps a trip to the Far East as a ship's doctor), they will join their father and spend the rest of their days in a country practice. One or two are marked out as exceptionally brilliant: they will take the various prizes and scholarships which are open each year to the deserving, get one appointment after another at the hospital, go on the staff, take a consulting-room in Harley Street, and, specialising in one subject or another, become prosperous, eminent, and titled. The medical profession is the only one which a man may enter at any age with some chance of making a living. Among the men of Philip's year were three or four who were past their first youth: one had been in the Navy, from which according to report he had been dismissed for drunkenness; he was a man of thirty, with a red face, a brusque manner, and a loud voice. Another was a married man with two children, who had lost money through a defaulting solicitor; he had a bowed look as if the world were too much for him; he went about his work silently, and it was plain that he found it difficult at his age to commit facts to memory. His mind worked slowly. His effort at application was painful to see. Philip made himself at home in his tiny rooms. He arranged his books and hung on the walls such pictures and sketches as he possessed. Above him, on the drawing-room floor, lived a fifth-year man called Griffiths; but Philip saw little of him, partly because he was occupied chiefly in the wards and partly because he had been to Oxford. Such of the students as had been to a university kept a good deal together: they used a variety of means natural to the young in order to impress upon the less fortunate a proper sense of their inferiority; the rest of the students found their Olympian serenity rather hard to bear. Griffiths was a tall fellow, with a quantity of curly red hair and blue eyes, a white skin and a very red mouth; he was one of those fortunate people whom everybody liked, for he had high spirits and a constant gaiety. He strummed a little on the piano and sang comic songs with gusto; and evening after evening, while Philip was reading in his solitary room, he heard the shouts and the uproarious laughter of Griffiths' friends above him. He thought of those delightful evenings in Paris when they would sit in the studio, Lawson and he, Flanagan and Clutton, and talk of art and morals, the love-affairs of the present, and the fame of the future. He felt sick at heart. He found that it was easy to make a heroic gesture, but hard to abide by its results. The worst of it was that the work seemed to him very tedious. He had got out of the habit of being asked questions by demonstrators. His attention wandered at lectures. Anatomy was a dreary science, a mere matter of learning by heart an enormous number of facts; dissection bored him; he did not see the use of dissecting out laboriously nerves and arteries when with much less trouble you could see in the diagrams of a book or in the specimens of the pathological museum exactly where they were. He made friends by chance, but not intimate friends, for he seemed to have nothing in particular to say to his companions. When he tried to interest himself in their concerns, he felt that they found him patronising. He was not of those who can talk of what moves them without caring whether it bores or not the people they talk to. One man, hearing that he had studied art in Paris, and fancying himself on his taste, tried to discuss art with him; but Philip was impatient of views which did not agree with his own; and, finding quickly that the other's ideas were conventional, grew monosyllabic. Philip desired popularity but could bring himself to make no advances to others. A fear of rebuff prevented him from affability, and he concealed his shyness, which was still intense, under a frigid taciturnity. He was going through the same experience as he had done at school, but here the freedom of the medical students' life made it possible for him to live a good deal by himself. It was through no effort of his that he became friendly with Dunsford, the fresh-complexioned, heavy lad whose acquaintance he had made at the beginning of the session. Dunsford attached himself to Philip merely because he was the first person he had known at St. Luke's. He had no friends in London, and on Saturday nights he and Philip got into the habit of going together to the pit of a music-hall or the gallery of a theatre. He was stupid, but he was good-humoured and never took offence; he always said the obvious thing, but when Philip laughed at him merely smiled. He had a very sweet smile. Though Philip made him his butt, he liked him; he was amused by his candour and delighted with his agreeable nature: Dunsford had the charm which himself was acutely conscious of not possessing. They often went to have tea at a shop in Parliament Street, because Dunsford admired one of the young women who waited. Philip did not find anything attractive in her. She was tall and thin, with narrow hips and the chest of a boy. "No one would look at her in Paris," said Philip scornfully. "She's got a ripping face," said Dunsford. "What DOES the face matter?" She had the small regular features, the blue eyes, and the broad low brow, which the Victorian painters, Lord Leighton, Alma Tadema, and a hundred others, induced the world they lived in to accept as a type of Greek beauty. She seemed to have a great deal of hair: it was arranged with peculiar elaboration and done over the forehead in what she called an Alexandra fringe. She was very anaemic. Her thin lips were pale, and her skin was delicate, of a faint green colour, without a touch of red even in the cheeks. She had very good teeth. She took great pains to prevent her work from spoiling her hands, and they were small, thin, and white. She went about her duties with a bored look. Dunsford, very shy with women, had never succeeded in getting into conversation with her; and he urged Philip to help him. "All I want is a lead," he said, "and then I can manage for myself." Philip, to please him, made one or two remarks, but she answered with monosyllables. She had taken their measure. They were boys, and she surmised they were students. She had no use for them. Dunsford noticed that a man with sandy hair and a bristly moustache, who looked like a German, was favoured with her attention whenever he came into the shop; and then it was only by calling her two or three times that they could induce her to take their order. She used the clients whom she did not know with frigid insolence, and when she was talking to a friend was perfectly indifferent to the calls of the hurried. She had the art of treating women who desired refreshment with just that degree of impertinence which irritated them without affording them an opportunity of complaining to the management. One day Dunsford told him her name was Mildred. He had heard one of the other girls in the shop address her. "What an odious name," said Philip. "Why?" asked Dunsford. "I like it." "It's so pretentious." It chanced that on this day the German was not there, and, when she brought the tea, Philip, smiling, remarked: "Your friend's not here today." "I don't know what you mean," she said coldly. "I was referring to the nobleman with the sandy moustache. Has he left you for another?" "Some people would do better to mind their own business," she retorted. She left them, and, since for a minute or two there was no one to attend to, sat down and looked at the evening paper which a customer had left behind him. "You are a fool to put her back up," said Dunsford. "I'm really quite indifferent to the attitude of her vertebrae," replied Philip. But he was piqued. It irritated him that when he tried to be agreeable with a woman she should take offence. When he asked for the bill, he hazarded a remark which he meant to lead further. "Are we no longer on speaking terms?" he smiled. "I'm here to take orders and to wait on customers. I've got nothing to say to them, and I don't want them to say anything to me." She put down the slip of paper on which she had marked the sum they had to pay, and walked back to the table at which she had been sitting. Philip flushed with anger. "That's one in the eye for you, Carey," said Dunsford, when they got outside. "Ill-mannered slut," said Philip. "I shan't go there again." His influence with Dunsford was strong enough to get him to take their tea elsewhere, and Dunsford soon found another young woman to flirt with. But the snub which the waitress had inflicted on him rankled. If she had treated him with civility he would have been perfectly indifferent to her; but it was obvious that she disliked him rather than otherwise, and his pride was wounded. He could not suppress a desire to be even with her. He was impatient with himself because he had so petty a feeling, but three or four days' firmness, during which he would not go to the shop, did not help him to surmount it; and he came to the conclusion that it would be least trouble to see her. Having done so he would certainly cease to think of her. Pretexting an appointment one afternoon, for he was not a little ashamed of his weakness, he left Dunsford and went straight to the shop which he had vowed never again to enter. He saw the waitress the moment he came in and sat down at one of her tables. He expected her to make some reference to the fact that he had not been there for a week, but when she came up for his order she said nothing. He had heard her say to other customers: "You're quite a stranger." She gave no sign that she had ever seen him before. In order to see whether she had really forgotten him, when she brought his tea, he asked: "Have you seen my friend tonight?" "No, he's not been in here for some days." He wanted to use this as the beginning of a conversation, but he was strangely nervous and could think of nothing to say. She gave him no opportunity, but at once went away. He had no chance of saying anything till he asked for his bill. "Filthy weather, isn't it?" he said. It was mortifying that he had been forced to prepare such a phrase as that. He could not make out why she filled him with such embarrassment. "It don't make much difference to me what the weather is, having to be in here all day." There was an insolence in her tone that peculiarly irritated him. A sarcasm rose to his lips, but he forced himself to be silent. "I wish to God she'd say something really cheeky," he raged to himself, "so that I could report her and get her sacked. It would serve her damned well right." </CHAPTER>

Chapters 52-55

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter52-55

Philip is unexpectedly shaken by his aunt's death, for she has been the closest relative since his mother died. He feels his own mortality. Thinking his uncle will be incapacitated with grief he is surprised to find him at the vicarage carrying on as usual, counting the number of wreaths his wife receives, trying to see if she will outdo the wife of the Vicar of Ferne. His uncle no longer scorns his artistic training but brags to his friends that Philip will paint his portrait. Philip perversely announces he has given up painting. Mr. Carey is astonished at his lack of perseverance and says he supposes he will then become a doctor like his father. Philip answers yes, for he has nothing better in mind. Philip sees the beauty of the English landscape for the first time, because of his painter's training. He congratulates himself on his self-control, bitterly bought by experience. He is told he is unemotional, but that is because he does not let out his feelings. He likes the idea of consciously shaping his own plan to live by. Thinking of what he learned in Paris, especially Cronshaw's remarks about his conventional morality, he begins to read and work out for himself what his views are now. He delights in the philosophy of Hobbes, Spinoza, and Hume. . He decides the Darwinian view of life suits him. There is no good or evil, just the struggle for survival. He makes himself a provisional rule: "Follow your inclinations with due regard to the policeman around the corner" . Now that he has his new theory of life and sixteen hundred pounds, he sets off for London a second time to try his fortune. He arrives at St. Luke's Medical School and attends the opening lecture by Mr. Cameron in the Anatomy Theatre with sixty other students. Philip is older than most of the students and looks down on them, but they are more prepared and catch on quicker. He makes friends with Dunsford, a nice young student, who does not seem particularly bright. While dissecting a corpse together, the students chat about sports and other topics of the day. They warn Philip to be careful not to cut himself, for it could lead to blood poisoning. Philip's attention wanders in lectures because he is out of the habit of paying attention at school, and the knowledge bores him. He wants to be liked by the others but patronizes them. Dunsford takes him to a tea shop and begins flirting with a waitress called Mildred. Mildred ignores them, and Philip thinks she is not pretty. When Mildred is rude to a remark he makes to be sociable, Philip is wounded and decides to punish her by coming back and embarrassing her. No matter what he does, Mildred insults and humiliates him, not the other way around. He doesn't know why he is being petty, and why he can't let it drop.

Commentary on Chapters LII-LV Philip and his uncle do not communicate well because they have different values. Above all, the vicar believes in sticking to one thing. He does not see life as an adventure or journey of discovery the way Philip does. He has inherited his beliefs and ideas and thinks no more about them. He has duty. Philip is born at the cusp between the Victorian and modern ages. He likes changing scenes and philosophies as he progresses. He feels free to experiment, to throw off what no longer fits. His uncle sees this as irresponsible. Philip moves on to each new stage of his life as a reaction to the previous stage. He can't stand the stuffiness of England, so he goes to the continent. He hates the wasted lives of the artists in Paris, so he comes back home to be a bourgeois doctor. Nothing seems permanently charming, but like the animals in Darwin's theory, he keeps moving and evolving, he "does everything he likes" to test out his own powers. When his uncle asks if Paris was a waste of time, he says no; he learned to look at hands and trees. He is being flippant, but he has learned the art of close observation, and this serves him well as his self-analysis and analysis of others becomes sharper. It is not a surprise that he does not especially take to medical school. The students are not interested in the arts or ideas. Philip is intellectual, but he doesn't like to memorize factual information. He thinks he will become a doctor for the money and free time. He is condescending to the young students around him, thinking they are not cultured or worth knowing. It is interesting that he characterizes himself as unemotional and controlled, for now he meets Mildred, one of the more intense episodes of his life, over which he has no control whatever; hence, the title of the book. His new philosophies will not help him here.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_87_to_89.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_15_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 87-89

chapters 87-89

{"name": "Chapters 87-89", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter87-89", "summary": "Philip goes to the house of Athelny, the ex-patient, in a slum area that was once grand. Athelny is 5'5\" and speaks eloquently on everything from Spanish literature to the seventeenth century ceiling of the slum house, built by the famous Inigo Jones. Philip meets the nine children of Athelny by his common law wife, Betty, a former servant in his upper class wife's house with whom he ran away. Now he is poor but happy, doing odd jobs to keep his family. . The family takes him in, and he goes there every Sunday for dinner to play with the children and have philosophical discussions with the father. Athelny reminds him of Cronshaw with his independent thought and bohemian lifestyle. Most of all, he feels some spiritual awakening when Athelny introduces him to Spanish art, especially El Greco, the painter of soul whom he had heard about in Paris. He likes the virile idealism of El Greco, but he doesn't quite know how to respond to its message. This is the first real family circle Philip has been part of, and it is natural and charming.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters LXXXVII-LXXXIX . This idyllic family life in the middle of a London slum is a surprise in the story, which so far seems to have centered on Philip's ideals getting smashed one by one. He has learned a modern cynical view of life, and even the artist's ideas of freedom have seemed contradicted by experience. Here he meets the charming Athelny family, hidden in a London slum, fuelled by a fantastic father with wild and mystic ideas. He discourses on old architecture and manners, while raising a brood of beautiful but bastard children. He gives Philip a glance into Spanish mysticism and some force of life he has not yet met: \"he felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life\" and longs to go to Toledo . El Greco seems to \"have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible\" . . So far Philip has disdained idealism because it seemed the weak philosophy of Hayward. He had rejected that early love for beauty for what was gritty and real: \"he wanted man in his nakedness\" . Then in Paris he wanted truth. But here was something better than realism or idealism. It was \"some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen\" . In his journey through this story, Philip is searching for the meaning of life. So far, he has had many teachers and philosophies offered. Athelny shows him another alternative that is full of light but not sentimental. He doesn't know what it is but is attracted. Philip sees a man that should be cast down and overwhelmed by his poverty and large family; instead, he is full of life and love and energy and learning. He gives Philip an example and a lot of advice. . One of the more important pieces of advice he gives Philip is about the choice of wife. Athelny's legal wife was concerned with convention and appearances. Betty is real. He tells the story of the halcyon, the female bird who carries her mate on her own wings when the male bird is tired. Betty is a true partner and help-meet. She is strong and motherly. This interlude with the Athelnys comes between two episodes with Mildred, forming a strong contrast with her, as well as an example for Philip of an unusual family group, out of ordinary convention. Athelny has praised lower class women as being better for partners than upper class women. Philip is about to find his own unconventional family bond."}

<CHAPTER> LXXXVII Ten days later Thorpe Athelny was well enough to leave the hospital. He gave Philip his address, and Philip promised to dine with him at one o'clock on the following Sunday. Athelny had told him that he lived in a house built by Inigo Jones; he had raved, as he raved over everything, over the balustrade of old oak; and when he came down to open the door for Philip he made him at once admire the elegant carving of the lintel. It was a shabby house, badly needing a coat of paint, but with the dignity of its period, in a little street between Chancery Lane and Holborn, which had once been fashionable but was now little better than a slum: there was a plan to pull it down in order to put up handsome offices; meanwhile the rents were small, and Athelny was able to get the two upper floors at a price which suited his income. Philip had not seen him up before and was surprised at his small size; he was not more than five feet and five inches high. He was dressed fantastically in blue linen trousers of the sort worn by working men in France, and a very old brown velvet coat; he wore a bright red sash round his waist, a low collar, and for tie a flowing bow of the kind used by the comic Frenchman in the pages of Punch. He greeted Philip with enthusiasm. He began talking at once of the house and passed his hand lovingly over the balusters. "Look at it, feel it, it's like silk. What a miracle of grace! And in five years the house-breaker will sell it for firewood." He insisted on taking Philip into a room on the first floor, where a man in shirt sleeves, a blousy woman, and three children were having their Sunday dinner. "I've just brought this gentleman in to show him your ceiling. Did you ever see anything so wonderful? How are you, Mrs. Hodgson? This is Mr. Carey, who looked after me when I was in the hospital." "Come in, sir," said the man. "Any friend of Mr. Athelny's is welcome. Mr. Athelny shows the ceiling to all his friends. And it don't matter what we're doing, if we're in bed or if I'm 'aving a wash, in 'e comes." Philip could see that they looked upon Athelny as a little queer; but they liked him none the less and they listened open-mouthed while he discoursed with his impetuous fluency on the beauty of the seventeenth-century ceiling. "What a crime to pull this down, eh, Hodgson? You're an influential citizen, why don't you write to the papers and protest?" The man in shirt sleeves gave a laugh and said to Philip: "Mr. Athelny will 'ave his little joke. They do say these 'ouses are that insanitory, it's not safe to live in them." "Sanitation be damned, give me art," cried Athelny. "I've got nine children and they thrive on bad drains. No, no, I'm not going to take any risk. None of your new-fangled notions for me! When I move from here I'm going to make sure the drains are bad before I take anything." There was a knock at the door, and a little fair-haired girl opened it. "Daddy, mummy says, do stop talking and come and eat your dinner." "This is my third daughter," said Athelny, pointing to her with a dramatic forefinger. "She is called Maria del Pilar, but she answers more willingly to the name of Jane. Jane, your nose wants blowing." "I haven't got a hanky, daddy." "Tut, tut, child," he answered, as he produced a vast, brilliant bandanna, "what do you suppose the Almighty gave you fingers for?" They went upstairs, and Philip was taken into a room with walls panelled in dark oak. In the middle was a narrow table of teak on trestle legs, with two supporting bars of iron, of the kind called in Spain mesa de hieraje. They were to dine there, for two places were laid, and there were two large arm-chairs, with broad flat arms of oak and leathern backs, and leathern seats. They were severe, elegant, and uncomfortable. The only other piece of furniture was a bargueno, elaborately ornamented with gilt iron-work, on a stand of ecclesiastical design roughly but very finely carved. There stood on this two or three lustre plates, much broken but rich in colour; and on the walls were old masters of the Spanish school in beautiful though dilapidated frames: though gruesome in subject, ruined by age and bad treatment, and second-rate in their conception, they had a glow of passion. There was nothing in the room of any value, but the effect was lovely. It was magnificent and yet austere. Philip felt that it offered the very spirit of old Spain. Athelny was in the middle of showing him the inside of the bargueno, with its beautiful ornamentation and secret drawers, when a tall girl, with two plaits of bright brown hair hanging down her back, came in. "Mother says dinner's ready and waiting and I'm to bring it in as soon as you sit down." "Come and shake hands with Mr. Carey, Sally." He turned to Philip. "Isn't she enormous? She's my eldest. How old are you, Sally?" "Fifteen, father, come next June." "I christened her Maria del Sol, because she was my first child and I dedicated her to the glorious sun of Castile; but her mother calls her Sally and her brother Pudding-Face." The girl smiled shyly, she had even, white teeth, and blushed. She was well set-up, tall for her age, with pleasant gray eyes and a broad forehead. She had red cheeks. "Go and tell your mother to come in and shake hands with Mr. Carey before he sits down." "Mother says she'll come in after dinner. She hasn't washed herself yet." "Then we'll go in and see her ourselves. He mustn't eat the Yorkshire pudding till he's shaken the hand that made it." Philip followed his host into the kitchen. It was small and much overcrowded. There had been a lot of noise, but it stopped as soon as the stranger entered. There was a large table in the middle and round it, eager for dinner, were seated Athelny's children. A woman was standing at the oven, taking out baked potatoes one by one. "Here's Mr. Carey, Betty," said Athelny. "Fancy bringing him in here. What will he think?" She wore a dirty apron, and the sleeves of her cotton dress were turned up above her elbows; she had curling pins in her hair. Mrs. Athelny was a large woman, a good three inches taller than her husband, fair, with blue eyes and a kindly expression; she had been a handsome creature, but advancing years and the bearing of many children had made her fat and blousy; her blue eyes had become pale, her skin was coarse and red, the colour had gone out of her hair. She straightened herself, wiped her hand on her apron, and held it out. "You're welcome, sir," she said, in a slow voice, with an accent that seemed oddly familiar to Philip. "Athelny said you was very kind to him in the 'orspital." "Now you must be introduced to the live stock," said Athelny. "That is Thorpe," he pointed to a chubby boy with curly hair, "he is my eldest son, heir to the title, estates, and responsibilities of the family. There is Athelstan, Harold, Edward." He pointed with his forefinger to three smaller boys, all rosy, healthy, and smiling, though when they felt Philip's smiling eyes upon them they looked shyly down at their plates. "Now the girls in order: Maria del Sol..." "Pudding-Face," said one of the small boys. "Your sense of humour is rudimentary, my son. Maria de los Mercedes, Maria del Pilar, Maria de la Concepcion, Maria del Rosario." "I call them Sally, Molly, Connie, Rosie, and Jane," said Mrs. Athelny. "Now, Athelny, you go into your own room and I'll send you your dinner. I'll let the children come in afterwards for a bit when I've washed them." "My dear, if I'd had the naming of you I should have called you Maria of the Soapsuds. You're always torturing these wretched brats with soap." "You go first, Mr. Carey, or I shall never get him to sit down and eat his dinner." Athelny and Philip installed themselves in the great monkish chairs, and Sally brought them in two plates of beef, Yorkshire pudding, baked potatoes, and cabbage. Athelny took sixpence out of his pocket and sent her for a jug of beer. "I hope you didn't have the table laid here on my account," said Philip. "I should have been quite happy to eat with the children." "Oh no, I always have my meals by myself. I like these antique customs. I don't think that women ought to sit down at table with men. It ruins conversation and I'm sure it's very bad for them. It puts ideas in their heads, and women are never at ease with themselves when they have ideas." Both host and guest ate with a hearty appetite. "Did you ever taste such Yorkshire pudding? No one can make it like my wife. That's the advantage of not marrying a lady. You noticed she wasn't a lady, didn't you?" It was an awkward question, and Philip did not know how to answer it. "I never thought about it," he said lamely. Athelny laughed. He had a peculiarly joyous laugh. "No, she's not a lady, nor anything like it. Her father was a farmer, and she's never bothered about aitches in her life. We've had twelve children and nine of them are alive. I tell her it's about time she stopped, but she's an obstinate woman, she's got into the habit of it now, and I don't believe she'll be satisfied till she's had twenty." At that moment Sally came in with the beer, and, having poured out a glass for Philip, went to the other side of the table to pour some out for her father. He put his hand round her waist. "Did you ever see such a handsome, strapping girl? Only fifteen and she might be twenty. Look at her cheeks. She's never had a day's illness in her life. It'll be a lucky man who marries her, won't it, Sally?" Sally listened to all this with a slight, slow smile, not much embarrassed, for she was accustomed to her father's outbursts, but with an easy modesty which was very attractive. "Don't let your dinner get cold, father," she said, drawing herself away from his arm. "You'll call when you're ready for your pudding, won't you?" They were left alone, and Athelny lifted the pewter tankard to his lips. He drank long and deep. "My word, is there anything better than English beer?" he said. "Let us thank God for simple pleasures, roast beef and rice pudding, a good appetite and beer. I was married to a lady once. My God! Don't marry a lady, my boy." Philip laughed. He was exhilarated by the scene, the funny little man in his odd clothes, the panelled room and the Spanish furniture, the English fare: the whole thing had an exquisite incongruity. "You laugh, my boy, you can't imagine marrying beneath you. You want a wife who's an intellectual equal. Your head is crammed full of ideas of comradeship. Stuff and nonsense, my boy! A man doesn't want to talk politics to his wife, and what do you think I care for Betty's views upon the Differential Calculus? A man wants a wife who can cook his dinner and look after his children. I've tried both and I know. Let's have the pudding in." He clapped his hands and presently Sally came. When she took away the plates, Philip wanted to get up and help her, but Athelny stopped him. "Let her alone, my boy. She doesn't want you to fuss about, do you, Sally? And she won't think it rude of you to sit still while she waits upon you. She don't care a damn for chivalry, do you, Sally?" "No, father," answered Sally demurely. "Do you know what I'm talking about, Sally?" "No, father. But you know mother doesn't like you to swear." Athelny laughed boisterously. Sally brought them plates of rice pudding, rich, creamy, and luscious. Athelny attacked his with gusto. "One of the rules of this house is that Sunday dinner should never alter. It is a ritual. Roast beef and rice pudding for fifty Sundays in the year. On Easter Sunday lamb and green peas, and at Michaelmas roast goose and apple sauce. Thus we preserve the traditions of our people. When Sally marries she will forget many of the wise things I have taught her, but she will never forget that if you want to be good and happy you must eat on Sundays roast beef and rice pudding." "You'll call when you're ready for cheese," said Sally impassively. "D'you know the legend of the halcyon?" said Athelny: Philip was growing used to his rapid leaping from one subject to another. "When the kingfisher, flying over the sea, is exhausted, his mate places herself beneath him and bears him along upon her stronger wings. That is what a man wants in a wife, the halcyon. I lived with my first wife for three years. She was a lady, she had fifteen hundred a year, and we used to give nice little dinner parties in our little red brick house in Kensington. She was a charming woman; they all said so, the barristers and their wives who dined with us, and the literary stockbrokers, and the budding politicians; oh, she was a charming woman. She made me go to church in a silk hat and a frock coat, she took me to classical concerts, and she was very fond of lectures on Sunday afternoon; and she sat down to breakfast every morning at eight-thirty, and if I was late breakfast was cold; and she read the right books, admired the right pictures, and adored the right music. My God, how that woman bored me! She is charming still, and she lives in the little red brick house in Kensington, with Morris papers and Whistler's etchings on the walls, and gives the same nice little dinner parties, with veal creams and ices from Gunter's, as she did twenty years ago." Philip did not ask by what means the ill-matched couple had separated, but Athelny told him. "Betty's not my wife, you know; my wife wouldn't divorce me. The children are bastards, every jack one of them, and are they any the worse for that? Betty was one of the maids in the little red brick house in Kensington. Four or five years ago I was on my uppers, and I had seven children, and I went to my wife and asked her to help me. She said she'd make me an allowance if I'd give Betty up and go abroad. Can you see me giving Betty up? We starved for a while instead. My wife said I loved the gutter. I've degenerated; I've come down in the world; I earn three pounds a week as press agent to a linendraper, and every day I thank God that I'm not in the little red brick house in Kensington." Sally brought in Cheddar cheese, and Athelny went on with his fluent conversation. "It's the greatest mistake in the world to think that one needs money to bring up a family. You need money to make them gentlemen and ladies, but I don't want my children to be ladies and gentlemen. Sally's going to earn her living in another year. She's to be apprenticed to a dressmaker, aren't you, Sally? And the boys are going to serve their country. I want them all to go into the Navy; it's a jolly life and a healthy life, good food, good pay, and a pension to end their days on." Philip lit his pipe. Athelny smoked cigarettes of Havana tobacco, which he rolled himself. Sally cleared away. Philip was reserved, and it embarrassed him to be the recipient of so many confidences. Athelny, with his powerful voice in the diminutive body, with his bombast, with his foreign look, with his emphasis, was an astonishing creature. He reminded Philip a good deal of Cronshaw. He appeared to have the same independence of thought, the same bohemianism, but he had an infinitely more vivacious temperament; his mind was coarser, and he had not that interest in the abstract which made Cronshaw's conversation so captivating. Athelny was very proud of the county family to which he belonged; he showed Philip photographs of an Elizabethan mansion, and told him: "The Athelnys have lived there for seven centuries, my boy. Ah, if you saw the chimney-pieces and the ceilings!" There was a cupboard in the wainscoting and from this he took a family tree. He showed it to Philip with child-like satisfaction. It was indeed imposing. "You see how the family names recur, Thorpe, Athelstan, Harold, Edward; I've used the family names for my sons. And the girls, you see, I've given Spanish names to." An uneasy feeling came to Philip that possibly the whole story was an elaborate imposture, not told with any base motive, but merely from a wish to impress, startle, and amaze. Athelny had told him that he was at Winchester; but Philip, sensitive to differences of manner, did not feel that his host had the characteristics of a man educated at a great public school. While he pointed out the great alliances which his ancestors had formed, Philip amused himself by wondering whether Athelny was not the son of some tradesman in Winchester, auctioneer or coal-merchant, and whether a similarity of surname was not his only connection with the ancient family whose tree he was displaying. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> LXXXVIII There was a knock at the door and a troop of children came in. They were clean and tidy, now. Their faces shone with soap, and their hair was plastered down; they were going to Sunday school under Sally's charge. Athelny joked with them in his dramatic, exuberant fashion, and you could see that he was devoted to them all. His pride in their good health and their good looks was touching. Philip felt that they were a little shy in his presence, and when their father sent them off they fled from the room in evident relief. In a few minutes Mrs. Athelny appeared. She had taken her hair out of the curling pins and now wore an elaborate fringe. She had on a plain black dress, a hat with cheap flowers, and was forcing her hands, red and coarse from much work, into black kid gloves. "I'm going to church, Athelny," she said. "There's nothing you'll be wanting, is there?" "Only your prayers, my Betty." "They won't do you much good, you're too far gone for that," she smiled. Then, turning to Philip, she drawled: "I can't get him to go to church. He's no better than an atheist." "Doesn't she look like Rubens' second wife?" cried Athelny. "Wouldn't she look splendid in a seventeenth-century costume? That's the sort of wife to marry, my boy. Look at her." "I believe you'd talk the hind leg off a donkey, Athelny," she answered calmly. She succeeded in buttoning her gloves, but before she went she turned to Philip with a kindly, slightly embarrassed smile. "You'll stay to tea, won't you? Athelny likes someone to talk to, and it's not often he gets anybody who's clever enough." "Of course he'll stay to tea," said Athelny. Then when his wife had gone: "I make a point of the children going to Sunday school, and I like Betty to go to church. I think women ought to be religious. I don't believe myself, but I like women and children to." Philip, strait-laced in matters of truth, was a little shocked by this airy attitude. "But how can you look on while your children are being taught things which you don't think are true?" "If they're beautiful I don't much mind if they're not true. It's asking a great deal that things should appeal to your reason as well as to your sense of the aesthetic. I wanted Betty to become a Roman Catholic, I should have liked to see her converted in a crown of paper flowers, but she's hopelessly Protestant. Besides, religion is a matter of temperament; you will believe anything if you have the religious turn of mind, and if you haven't it doesn't matter what beliefs were instilled into you, you will grow out of them. Perhaps religion is the best school of morality. It is like one of those drugs you gentlemen use in medicine which carries another in solution: it is of no efficacy in itself, but enables the other to be absorbed. You take your morality because it is combined with religion; you lose the religion and the morality stays behind. A man is more likely to be a good man if he has learned goodness through the love of God than through a perusal of Herbert Spencer." This was contrary to all Philip's ideas. He still looked upon Christianity as a degrading bondage that must be cast away at any cost; it was connected subconsciously in his mind with the dreary services in the cathedral at Tercanbury, and the long hours of boredom in the cold church at Blackstable; and the morality of which Athelny spoke was to him no more than a part of the religion which a halting intelligence preserved, when it had laid aside the beliefs which alone made it reasonable. But while he was meditating a reply Athelny, more interested in hearing himself speak than in discussion, broke into a tirade upon Roman Catholicism. For him it was an essential part of Spain; and Spain meant much to him, because he had escaped to it from the conventionality which during his married life he had found so irksome. With large gestures and in the emphatic tone which made what he said so striking, Athelny described to Philip the Spanish cathedrals with their vast dark spaces, the massive gold of the altar-pieces, and the sumptuous iron-work, gilt and faded, the air laden with incense, the silence: Philip almost saw the Canons in their short surplices of lawn, the acolytes in red, passing from the sacristy to the choir; he almost heard the monotonous chanting of vespers. The names which Athelny mentioned, Avila, Tarragona, Saragossa, Segovia, Cordova, were like trumpets in his heart. He seemed to see the great gray piles of granite set in old Spanish towns amid a landscape tawny, wild, and windswept. "I've always thought I should love to go to Seville," he said casually, when Athelny, with one hand dramatically uplifted, paused for a moment. "Seville!" cried Athelny. "No, no, don't go there. Seville: it brings to the mind girls dancing with castanets, singing in gardens by the Guadalquivir, bull-fights, orange-blossom, mantillas, mantones de Manila. It is the Spain of comic opera and Montmartre. Its facile charm can offer permanent entertainment only to an intelligence which is superficial. Theophile Gautier got out of Seville all that it has to offer. We who come after him can only repeat his sensations. He put large fat hands on the obvious and there is nothing but the obvious there; and it is all finger-marked and frayed. Murillo is its painter." Athelny got up from his chair, walked over to the Spanish cabinet, let down the front with its great gilt hinges and gorgeous lock, and displayed a series of little drawers. He took out a bundle of photographs. "Do you know El Greco?" he asked. "Oh, I remember one of the men in Paris was awfully impressed by him." "El Greco was the painter of Toledo. Betty couldn't find the photograph I wanted to show you. It's a picture that El Greco painted of the city he loved, and it's truer than any photograph. Come and sit at the table." Philip dragged his chair forward, and Athelny set the photograph before him. He looked at it curiously, for a long time, in silence. He stretched out his hand for other photographs, and Athelny passed them to him. He had never before seen the work of that enigmatic master; and at the first glance he was bothered by the arbitrary drawing: the figures were extraordinarily elongated; the heads were very small; the attitudes were extravagant. This was not realism, and yet, and yet even in the photographs you had the impression of a troubling reality. Athelny was describing eagerly, with vivid phrases, but Philip only heard vaguely what he said. He was puzzled. He was curiously moved. These pictures seemed to offer some meaning to him, but he did not know what the meaning was. There were portraits of men with large, melancholy eyes which seemed to say you knew not what; there were long monks in the Franciscan habit or in the Dominican, with distraught faces, making gestures whose sense escaped you; there was an Assumption of the Virgin; there was a Crucifixion in which the painter by some magic of feeling had been able to suggest that the flesh of Christ's dead body was not human flesh only but divine; and there was an Ascension in which the Saviour seemed to surge up towards the empyrean and yet to stand upon the air as steadily as though it were solid ground: the uplifted arms of the Apostles, the sweep of their draperies, their ecstatic gestures, gave an impression of exultation and of holy joy. The background of nearly all was the sky by night, the dark night of the soul, with wild clouds swept by strange winds of hell and lit luridly by an uneasy moon. "I've seen that sky in Toledo over and over again," said Athelny. "I have an idea that when first El Greco came to the city it was by such a night, and it made so vehement an impression upon him that he could never get away from it." Philip remembered how Clutton had been affected by this strange master, whose work he now saw for the first time. He thought that Clutton was the most interesting of all the people he had known in Paris. His sardonic manner, his hostile aloofness, had made it difficult to know him; but it seemed to Philip, looking back, that there had been in him a tragic force, which sought vainly to express itself in painting. He was a man of unusual character, mystical after the fashion of a time that had no leaning to mysticism, who was impatient with life because he found himself unable to say the things which the obscure impulses of his heart suggested. His intellect was not fashioned to the uses of the spirit. It was not surprising that he felt a deep sympathy with the Greek who had devised a new technique to express the yearnings of his soul. Philip looked again at the series of portraits of Spanish gentlemen, with ruffles and pointed beards, their faces pale against the sober black of their clothes and the darkness of the background. El Greco was the painter of the soul; and these gentlemen, wan and wasted, not by exhaustion but by restraint, with their tortured minds, seem to walk unaware of the beauty of the world; for their eyes look only in their hearts, and they are dazzled by the glory of the unseen. No painter has shown more pitilessly that the world is but a place of passage. The souls of the men he painted speak their strange longings through their eyes: their senses are miraculously acute, not for sounds and odours and colour, but for the very subtle sensations of the soul. The noble walks with the monkish heart within him, and his eyes see things which saints in their cells see too, and he is unastounded. His lips are not lips that smile. Philip, silent still, returned to the photograph of Toledo, which seemed to him the most arresting picture of them all. He could not take his eyes off it. He felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life. He was tremulous with a sense of adventure. He thought for an instant of the love that had consumed him: love seemed very trivial beside the excitement which now leaped in his heart. The picture he looked at was a long one, with houses crowded upon a hill; in one corner a boy was holding a large map of the town; in another was a classical figure representing the river Tagus; and in the sky was the Virgin surrounded by angels. It was a landscape alien to all Philip's notion, for he had lived in circles that worshipped exact realism; and yet here again, strangely to himself, he felt a reality greater than any achieved by the masters in whose steps humbly he had sought to walk. He heard Athelny say that the representation was so precise that when the citizens of Toledo came to look at the picture they recognised their houses. The painter had painted exactly what he saw but he had seen with the eyes of the spirit. There was something unearthly in that city of pale gray. It was a city of the soul seen by a wan light that was neither that of night nor day. It stood on a green hill, but of a green not of this world, and it was surrounded by massive walls and bastions to be stormed by no machines or engines of man's invention, but by prayer and fasting, by contrite sighs and by mortifications of the flesh. It was a stronghold of God. Those gray houses were made of no stone known to masons, there was something terrifying in their aspect, and you did not know what men might live in them. You might walk through the streets and be unamazed to find them all deserted, and yet not empty; for you felt a presence invisible and yet manifest to every inner sense. It was a mystical city in which the imagination faltered like one who steps out of the light into darkness; the soul walked naked to and fro, knowing the unknowable, and conscious strangely of experience, intimate but inexpressible, of the absolute. And without surprise, in that blue sky, real with a reality that not the eye but the soul confesses, with its rack of light clouds driven by strange breezes, like the cries and the sighs of lost souls, you saw the Blessed Virgin with a gown of red and a cloak of blue, surrounded by winged angels. Philip felt that the inhabitants of that city would have seen the apparition without astonishment, reverent and thankful, and have gone their ways. Athelny spoke of the mystical writers of Spain, of Teresa de Avila, San Juan de la Cruz, Fray Luis de Leon; in all of them was that passion for the unseen which Philip felt in the pictures of El Greco: they seemed to have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible. They were Spaniards of their age, in whom were tremulous all the mighty exploits of a great nation: their fancies were rich with the glories of America and the green islands of the Caribbean Sea; in their veins was the power that had come from age-long battling with the Moor; they were proud, for they were masters of the world; and they felt in themselves the wide distances, the tawny wastes, the snow-capped mountains of Castile, the sunshine and the blue sky, and the flowering plains of Andalusia. Life was passionate and manifold, and because it offered so much they felt a restless yearning for something more; because they were human they were unsatisfied; and they threw this eager vitality of theirs into a vehement striving after the ineffable. Athelny was not displeased to find someone to whom he could read the translations with which for some time he had amused his leisure; and in his fine, vibrating voice he recited the canticle of the Soul and Christ her lover, the lovely poem which begins with the words en una noche oscura, and the noche serena of Fray Luis de Leon. He had translated them quite simply, not without skill, and he had found words which at all events suggested the rough-hewn grandeur of the original. The pictures of El Greco explained them, and they explained the pictures. Philip had cultivated a certain disdain for idealism. He had always had a passion for life, and the idealism he had come across seemed to him for the most part a cowardly shrinking from it. The idealist withdrew himself, because he could not suffer the jostling of the human crowd; he had not the strength to fight and so called the battle vulgar; he was vain, and since his fellows would not take him at his own estimate, consoled himself with despising his fellows. For Philip his type was Hayward, fair, languid, too fat now and rather bald, still cherishing the remains of his good looks and still delicately proposing to do exquisite things in the uncertain future; and at the back of this were whiskey and vulgar amours of the street. It was in reaction from what Hayward represented that Philip clamoured for life as it stood; sordidness, vice, deformity, did not offend him; he declared that he wanted man in his nakedness; and he rubbed his hands when an instance came before him of meanness, cruelty, selfishness, or lust: that was the real thing. In Paris he had learned that there was neither ugliness nor beauty, but only truth: the search after beauty was sentimental. Had he not painted an advertisement of chocolat Menier in a landscape in order to escape from the tyranny of prettiness? But here he seemed to divine something new. He had been coming to it, all hesitating, for some time, but only now was conscious of the fact; he felt himself on the brink of a discovery. He felt vaguely that here was something better than the realism which he had adored; but certainly it was not the bloodless idealism which stepped aside from life in weakness; it was too strong; it was virile; it accepted life in all its vivacity, ugliness and beauty, squalor and heroism; it was realism still; but it was realism carried to some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen. He seemed to see things more profoundly through the grave eyes of those dead noblemen of Castile; and the gestures of the saints, which at first had seemed wild and distorted, appeared to have some mysterious significance. But he could not tell what that significance was. It was like a message which it was very important for him to receive, but it was given him in an unknown tongue, and he could not understand. He was always seeking for a meaning in life, and here it seemed to him that a meaning was offered; but it was obscure and vague. He was profoundly troubled. He saw what looked like the truth as by flashes of lightning on a dark, stormy night you might see a mountain range. He seemed to see that a man need not leave his life to chance, but that his will was powerful; he seemed to see that self-control might be as passionate and as active as the surrender to passion; he seemed to see that the inward life might be as manifold, as varied, as rich with experience, as the life of one who conquered realms and explored unknown lands. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> LXXXIX The conversation between Philip and Athelny was broken into by a clatter up the stairs. Athelny opened the door for the children coming back from Sunday school, and with laughter and shouting they came in. Gaily he asked them what they had learned. Sally appeared for a moment, with instructions from her mother that father was to amuse the children while she got tea ready; and Athelny began to tell them one of Hans Andersen's stories. They were not shy children, and they quickly came to the conclusion that Philip was not formidable. Jane came and stood by him and presently settled herself on his knees. It was the first time that Philip in his lonely life had been present in a family circle: his eyes smiled as they rested on the fair children engrossed in the fairy tale. The life of his new friend, eccentric as it appeared at first glance, seemed now to have the beauty of perfect naturalness. Sally came in once more. "Now then, children, tea's ready," she said. Jane slipped off Philip's knees, and they all went back to the kitchen. Sally began to lay the cloth on the long Spanish table. "Mother says, shall she come and have tea with you?" she asked. "I can give the children their tea." "Tell your mother that we shall be proud and honoured if she will favour us with her company," said Athelny. It seemed to Philip that he could never say anything without an oratorical flourish. "Then I'll lay for her," said Sally. She came back again in a moment with a tray on which were a cottage loaf, a slab of butter, and a jar of strawberry jam. While she placed the things on the table her father chaffed her. He said it was quite time she was walking out; he told Philip that she was very proud, and would have nothing to do with aspirants to that honour who lined up at the door, two by two, outside the Sunday school and craved the honour of escorting her home. "You do talk, father," said Sally, with her slow, good-natured smile. "You wouldn't think to look at her that a tailor's assistant has enlisted in the army because she would not say how d'you do to him and an electrical engineer, an electrical engineer, mind you, has taken to drink because she refused to share her hymn-book with him in church. I shudder to think what will happen when she puts her hair up." "Mother'll bring the tea along herself," said Sally. "Sally never pays any attention to me," laughed Athelny, looking at her with fond, proud eyes. "She goes about her business indifferent to wars, revolutions, and cataclysms. What a wife she'll make to an honest man!" Mrs. Athelny brought in the tea. She sat down and proceeded to cut bread and butter. It amused Philip to see that she treated her husband as though he were a child. She spread jam for him and cut up the bread and butter into convenient slices for him to eat. She had taken off her hat; and in her Sunday dress, which seemed a little tight for her, she looked like one of the farmers' wives whom Philip used to call on sometimes with his uncle when he was a small boy. Then he knew why the sound of her voice was familiar to him. She spoke just like the people round Blackstable. "What part of the country d'you come from?" he asked her. "I'm a Kentish woman. I come from Ferne." "I thought as much. My uncle's Vicar of Blackstable." "That's a funny thing now," she said. "I was wondering in Church just now whether you was any connection of Mr. Carey. Many's the time I've seen 'im. A cousin of mine married Mr. Barker of Roxley Farm, over by Blackstable Church, and I used to go and stay there often when I was a girl. Isn't that a funny thing now?" She looked at him with a new interest, and a brightness came into her faded eyes. She asked him whether he knew Ferne. It was a pretty village about ten miles across country from Blackstable, and the Vicar had come over sometimes to Blackstable for the harvest thanksgiving. She mentioned names of various farmers in the neighbourhood. She was delighted to talk again of the country in which her youth was spent, and it was a pleasure to her to recall scenes and people that had remained in her memory with the tenacity peculiar to her class. It gave Philip a queer sensation too. A breath of the country-side seemed to be wafted into that panelled room in the middle of London. He seemed to see the fat Kentish fields with their stately elms; and his nostrils dilated with the scent of the air; it is laden with the salt of the North Sea, and that makes it keen and sharp. Philip did not leave the Athelnys' till ten o'clock. The children came in to say good-night at eight and quite naturally put up their faces for Philip to kiss. His heart went out to them. Sally only held out her hand. "Sally never kisses gentlemen till she's seen them twice," said her father. "You must ask me again then," said Philip. "You mustn't take any notice of what father says," remarked Sally, with a smile. "She's a most self-possessed young woman," added her parent. They had supper of bread and cheese and beer, while Mrs. Athelny was putting the children to bed; and when Philip went into the kitchen to bid her good-night (she had been sitting there, resting herself and reading The Weekly Despatch) she invited him cordially to come again. "There's always a good dinner on Sundays so long as Athelny's in work," she said, "and it's a charity to come and talk to him." On the following Saturday Philip received a postcard from Athelny saying that they were expecting him to dinner next day; but fearing their means were not such that Mr. Athelny would desire him to accept, Philip wrote back that he would only come to tea. He bought a large plum cake so that his entertainment should cost nothing. He found the whole family glad to see him, and the cake completed his conquest of the children. He insisted that they should all have tea together in the kitchen, and the meal was noisy and hilarious. Soon Philip got into the habit of going to Athelny's every Sunday. He became a great favourite with the children, because he was simple and unaffected and because it was so plain that he was fond of them. As soon as they heard his ring at the door one of them popped a head out of window to make sure it was he, and then they all rushed downstairs tumultuously to let him in. They flung themselves into his arms. At tea they fought for the privilege of sitting next to him. Soon they began to call him Uncle Philip. Athelny was very communicative, and little by little Philip learned the various stages of his life. He had followed many occupations, and it occurred to Philip that he managed to make a mess of everything he attempted. He had been on a tea plantation in Ceylon and a traveller in America for Italian wines; his secretaryship of the water company in Toledo had lasted longer than any of his employments; he had been a journalist and for some time had worked as police-court reporter for an evening paper; he had been sub-editor of a paper in the Midlands and editor of another on the Riviera. From all his occupations he had gathered amusing anecdotes, which he told with a keen pleasure in his own powers of entertainment. He had read a great deal, chiefly delighting in books which were unusual; and he poured forth his stores of abstruse knowledge with child-like enjoyment of the amazement of his hearers. Three or four years before abject poverty had driven him to take the job of press-representative to a large firm of drapers; and though he felt the work unworthy his abilities, which he rated highly, the firmness of his wife and the needs of his family had made him stick to it. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 87-89

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter87-89

Philip goes to the house of Athelny, the ex-patient, in a slum area that was once grand. Athelny is 5'5" and speaks eloquently on everything from Spanish literature to the seventeenth century ceiling of the slum house, built by the famous Inigo Jones. Philip meets the nine children of Athelny by his common law wife, Betty, a former servant in his upper class wife's house with whom he ran away. Now he is poor but happy, doing odd jobs to keep his family. . The family takes him in, and he goes there every Sunday for dinner to play with the children and have philosophical discussions with the father. Athelny reminds him of Cronshaw with his independent thought and bohemian lifestyle. Most of all, he feels some spiritual awakening when Athelny introduces him to Spanish art, especially El Greco, the painter of soul whom he had heard about in Paris. He likes the virile idealism of El Greco, but he doesn't quite know how to respond to its message. This is the first real family circle Philip has been part of, and it is natural and charming.

Commentary on Chapters LXXXVII-LXXXIX . This idyllic family life in the middle of a London slum is a surprise in the story, which so far seems to have centered on Philip's ideals getting smashed one by one. He has learned a modern cynical view of life, and even the artist's ideas of freedom have seemed contradicted by experience. Here he meets the charming Athelny family, hidden in a London slum, fuelled by a fantastic father with wild and mystic ideas. He discourses on old architecture and manners, while raising a brood of beautiful but bastard children. He gives Philip a glance into Spanish mysticism and some force of life he has not yet met: "he felt strangely that he was on the threshold of some new discovery in life" and longs to go to Toledo . El Greco seems to "have the power to touch the incorporeal and see the invisible" . . So far Philip has disdained idealism because it seemed the weak philosophy of Hayward. He had rejected that early love for beauty for what was gritty and real: "he wanted man in his nakedness" . Then in Paris he wanted truth. But here was something better than realism or idealism. It was "some higher pitch, in which facts were transformed by the more vivid light in which they were seen" . In his journey through this story, Philip is searching for the meaning of life. So far, he has had many teachers and philosophies offered. Athelny shows him another alternative that is full of light but not sentimental. He doesn't know what it is but is attracted. Philip sees a man that should be cast down and overwhelmed by his poverty and large family; instead, he is full of life and love and energy and learning. He gives Philip an example and a lot of advice. . One of the more important pieces of advice he gives Philip is about the choice of wife. Athelny's legal wife was concerned with convention and appearances. Betty is real. He tells the story of the halcyon, the female bird who carries her mate on her own wings when the male bird is tired. Betty is a true partner and help-meet. She is strong and motherly. This interlude with the Athelnys comes between two episodes with Mildred, forming a strong contrast with her, as well as an example for Philip of an unusual family group, out of ordinary convention. Athelny has praised lower class women as being better for partners than upper class women. Philip is about to find his own unconventional family bond.

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all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_98_to_102.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_17_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 98-102

chapters 98-102

{"name": "Chapters 98-102", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter98-102", "summary": "of Chapters XCVIII-CII . Philip has won a moral victory over his life, but he still has much testing ahead of him. He has not yet tasted the bitterness of poverty. He, like the rest of the country, is affected by events out of his control. The Boer War in South Africa drags on, costing Britain troops and money; meanwhile the stock market fails, and Philip, like many, loses all his money. He has no money to finish school or even to live on. . Hayward of all people, joins the military and leaves for South Africa. Philip questions Hayward about why he is going, since he doesn't really believe in patriotism. He hardly feels himself English. War is a mysterious draw for men. Philip would go too, except for his lameness. Philip writes to his uncle of his situation and asks to borrow money. His uncle writes back, refusing. In panic, he writes again saying he is desperate. His uncle gloats over his own prediction that Philip is a spendthrift. Philip should be supporting himself. . Philip pawns his clothes and all his belongings. He falls short on the rent. He had never thought he would not have enough to eat. At least on Sundays he can get a meal at the Athelnys. He applies for medical posts, but he is not yet qualified. He looks for translation jobs in the papers and any other kind of work. He thinks of suicide if things get worse. He is ashamed of his poverty and tells no one. His landlady sees he is hungry and offers him dinner, but he refuses. . When he can't pay his rent, he decides to sleep in the open. It is June, and he sleeps on benches for a few days. He is hungry, and he cannot believe someone from his class could starve. He has no idea what to do. He borrows a little money from Lawson for food but doesn't tell him what is the matter. He starts joining lines of men who apply for every job, but he has no experience. He sees the same men each day. He wishes he could go to war with the others. Pride prevents him from going to the Athelnys for Sunday dinner. . Finally, in a state of starvation, he drags himself to the Athelnys the next Sunday. They are not fooled. Sally remarks, \"He's just skin and bones\" . The Athelnys understand poverty and take him in. He knows they live hand to mouth and that he must get a job. Athelny says he can get him a place where he works, at Lynn and Sedley, linen-drapers, or a large department store. Philip is hired as a shop-walker in a frock coat, directing shoppers to the right department in the store.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters XCVIII-CII . Though Philip has become flexible about class and class issues over the years, he still has been part of the privileged upper classes. He has treated the poor in his hospital work with sympathy, but he has never been subject to their problems. Now, he becomes just one of the masses, struggling for survival. All his thoughts, learning, refinement, mean nothing. He finds what Monsieur Foinet had predicted was true, that poverty is not romantic. It makes people stupid and stunted and desperate. Philip loses hope and contemplates suicide, perhaps understanding Fanny Price's fate. Like Fanny, he is too proud to ask for charity and only goes to the Athelnys for dinner. He doesn't think they will guess his real state. It is significant that Sally notices his thinness, for she will play a larger role in the story later on. . Philip has Thorpe Athelny for an example, for he is a learned aristocrat, reduced to working as a copywriter in a department store to keep his lower-class family, and yet he has adapted and remained cheerful. Athelny understands Philip's position as Lawson could not. Lawson is a sort of social friend who might give him a handout, but Athelny knows how to give the kindness that can solve a problem and lift Philip up to become self-sufficient."}

<CHAPTER> XCVIII And now it happened that the fortunes of Philip Carey, of no consequence to any but himself, were affected by the events through which his country was passing. History was being made, and the process was so significant that it seemed absurd it should touch the life of an obscure medical student. Battle after battle, Magersfontein, Colenso, Spion Kop, lost on the playing fields of Eton, had humiliated the nation and dealt the death-blow to the prestige of the aristocracy and gentry who till then had found no one seriously to oppose their assertion that they possessed a natural instinct of government. The old order was being swept away: history was being made indeed. Then the colossus put forth his strength, and, blundering again, at last blundered into the semblance of victory. Cronje surrendered at Paardeberg, Ladysmith was relieved, and at the beginning of March Lord Roberts marched into Bloemfontein. It was two or three days after the news of this reached London that Macalister came into the tavern in Beak Street and announced joyfully that things were looking brighter on the Stock Exchange. Peace was in sight, Roberts would march into Pretoria within a few weeks, and shares were going up already. There was bound to be a boom. "Now's the time to come in," he told Philip. "It's no good waiting till the public gets on to it. It's now or never." He had inside information. The manager of a mine in South Africa had cabled to the senior partner of his firm that the plant was uninjured. They would start working again as soon as possible. It wasn't a speculation, it was an investment. To show how good a thing the senior partner thought it Macalister told Philip that he had bought five hundred shares for both his sisters: he never put them into anything that wasn't as safe as the Bank of England. "I'm going to put my shirt on it myself," he said. The shares were two and an eighth to a quarter. He advised Philip not to be greedy, but to be satisfied with a ten-shilling rise. He was buying three hundred for himself and suggested that Philip should do the same. He would hold them and sell when he thought fit. Philip had great faith in him, partly because he was a Scotsman and therefore by nature cautious, and partly because he had been right before. He jumped at the suggestion. "I daresay we shall be able to sell before the account," said Macalister, "but if not, I'll arrange to carry them over for you." It seemed a capital system to Philip. You held on till you got your profit, and you never even had to put your hand in your pocket. He began to watch the Stock Exchange columns of the paper with new interest. Next day everything was up a little, and Macalister wrote to say that he had had to pay two and a quarter for the shares. He said that the market was firm. But in a day or two there was a set-back. The news that came from South Africa was less reassuring, and Philip with anxiety saw that his shares had fallen to two; but Macalister was optimistic, the Boers couldn't hold out much longer, and he was willing to bet a top-hat that Roberts would march into Johannesburg before the middle of April. At the account Philip had to pay out nearly forty pounds. It worried him considerably, but he felt that the only course was to hold on: in his circumstances the loss was too great for him to pocket. For two or three weeks nothing happened; the Boers would not understand that they were beaten and nothing remained for them but to surrender: in fact they had one or two small successes, and Philip's shares fell half a crown more. It became evident that the war was not finished. There was a lot of selling. When Macalister saw Philip he was pessimistic. "I'm not sure if the best thing wouldn't be to cut the loss. I've been paying out about as much as I want to in differences." Philip was sick with anxiety. He could not sleep at night; he bolted his breakfast, reduced now to tea and bread and butter, in order to get over to the club reading-room and see the paper; sometimes the news was bad, and sometimes there was no news at all, but when the shares moved it was to go down. He did not know what to do. If he sold now he would lose altogether hard on three hundred and fifty pounds; and that would leave him only eighty pounds to go on with. He wished with all his heart that he had never been such a fool as to dabble on the Stock Exchange, but the only thing was to hold on; something decisive might happen any day and the shares would go up; he did not hope now for a profit, but he wanted to make good his loss. It was his only chance of finishing his course at the hospital. The Summer session was beginning in May, and at the end of it he meant to take the examination in midwifery. Then he would only have a year more; he reckoned it out carefully and came to the conclusion that he could manage it, fees and all, on a hundred and fifty pounds; but that was the least it could possibly be done on. Early in April he went to the tavern in Beak Street anxious to see Macalister. It eased him a little to discuss the situation with him; and to realise that numerous people beside himself were suffering from loss of money made his own trouble a little less intolerable. But when Philip arrived no one was there but Hayward, and no sooner had Philip seated himself than he said: "I'm sailing for the Cape on Sunday." "Are you!" exclaimed Philip. Hayward was the last person he would have expected to do anything of the kind. At the hospital men were going out now in numbers; the Government was glad to get anyone who was qualified; and others, going out as troopers, wrote home that they had been put on hospital work as soon as it was learned that they were medical students. A wave of patriotic feeling had swept over the country, and volunteers were coming from all ranks of society. "What are you going as?" asked Philip. "Oh, in the Dorset Yeomanry. I'm going as a trooper." Philip had known Hayward for eight years. The youthful intimacy which had come from Philip's enthusiastic admiration for the man who could tell him of art and literature had long since vanished; but habit had taken its place; and when Hayward was in London they saw one another once or twice a week. He still talked about books with a delicate appreciation. Philip was not yet tolerant, and sometimes Hayward's conversation irritated him. He no longer believed implicitly that nothing in the world was of consequence but art. He resented Hayward's contempt for action and success. Philip, stirring his punch, thought of his early friendship and his ardent expectation that Hayward would do great things; it was long since he had lost all such illusions, and he knew now that Hayward would never do anything but talk. He found his three hundred a year more difficult to live on now that he was thirty-five than he had when he was a young man; and his clothes, though still made by a good tailor, were worn a good deal longer than at one time he would have thought possible. He was too stout and no artful arrangement of his fair hair could conceal the fact that he was bald. His blue eyes were dull and pale. It was not hard to guess that he drank too much. "What on earth made you think of going out to the Cape?" asked Philip. "Oh, I don't know, I thought I ought to." Philip was silent. He felt rather silly. He understood that Hayward was being driven by an uneasiness in his soul which he could not account for. Some power within him made it seem necessary to go and fight for his country. It was strange, since he considered patriotism no more than a prejudice, and, flattering himself on his cosmopolitanism, he had looked upon England as a place of exile. His countrymen in the mass wounded his susceptibilities. Philip wondered what it was that made people do things which were so contrary to all their theories of life. It would have been reasonable for Hayward to stand aside and watch with a smile while the barbarians slaughtered one another. It looked as though men were puppets in the hands of an unknown force, which drove them to do this and that; and sometimes they used their reason to justify their actions; and when this was impossible they did the actions in despite of reason. "People are very extraordinary," said Philip. "I should never have expected you to go out as a trooper." Hayward smiled, slightly embarrassed, and said nothing. "I was examined yesterday," he remarked at last. "It was worth while undergoing the gene of it to know that one was perfectly fit." Philip noticed that he still used a French word in an affected way when an English one would have served. But just then Macalister came in. "I wanted to see you, Carey," he said. "My people don't feel inclined to hold those shares any more, the market's in such an awful state, and they want you to take them up." Philip's heart sank. He knew that was impossible. It meant that he must accept the loss. His pride made him answer calmly. "I don't know that I think that's worth while. You'd better sell them." "It's all very fine to say that, I'm not sure if I can. The market's stagnant, there are no buyers." "But they're marked down at one and an eighth." "Oh yes, but that doesn't mean anything. You can't get that for them." Philip did not say anything for a moment. He was trying to collect himself. "D'you mean to say they're worth nothing at all?" "Oh, I don't say that. Of course they're worth something, but you see, nobody's buying them now." "Then you must just sell them for what you can get." Macalister looked at Philip narrowly. He wondered whether he was very hard hit. "I'm awfully sorry, old man, but we're all in the same boat. No one thought the war was going to hang on this way. I put you into them, but I was in myself too." "It doesn't matter at all," said Philip. "One has to take one's chance." He moved back to the table from which he had got up to talk to Macalister. He was dumfounded; his head suddenly began to ache furiously; but he did not want them to think him unmanly. He sat on for an hour. He laughed feverishly at everything they said. At last he got up to go. "You take it pretty coolly," said Macalister, shaking hands with him. "I don't suppose anyone likes losing between three and four hundred pounds." When Philip got back to his shabby little room he flung himself on his bed, and gave himself over to his despair. He kept on regretting his folly bitterly; and though he told himself that it was absurd to regret for what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened, he could not help himself. He was utterly miserable. He could not sleep. He remembered all the ways he had wasted money during the last few years. His head ached dreadfully. The following evening there came by the last post the statement of his account. He examined his pass-book. He found that when he had paid everything he would have seven pounds left. Seven pounds! He was thankful he had been able to pay. It would have been horrible to be obliged to confess to Macalister that he had not the money. He was dressing in the eye-department during the summer session, and he had bought an ophthalmoscope off a student who had one to sell. He had not paid for this, but he lacked the courage to tell the student that he wanted to go back on his bargain. Also he had to buy certain books. He had about five pounds to go on with. It lasted him six weeks; then he wrote to his uncle a letter which he thought very business-like; he said that owing to the war he had had grave losses and could not go on with his studies unless his uncle came to his help. He suggested that the Vicar should lend him a hundred and fifty pounds paid over the next eighteen months in monthly instalments; he would pay interest on this and promised to refund the capital by degrees when he began to earn money. He would be qualified in a year and a half at the latest, and he could be pretty sure then of getting an assistantship at three pounds a week. His uncle wrote back that he could do nothing. It was not fair to ask him to sell out when everything was at its worst, and the little he had he felt that his duty to himself made it necessary for him to keep in case of illness. He ended the letter with a little homily. He had warned Philip time after time, and Philip had never paid any attention to him; he could not honestly say he was surprised; he had long expected that this would be the end of Philip's extravagance and want of balance. Philip grew hot and cold when he read this. It had never occurred to him that his uncle would refuse, and he burst into furious anger; but this was succeeded by utter blankness: if his uncle would not help him he could not go on at the hospital. Panic seized him and, putting aside his pride, he wrote again to the Vicar of Blackstable, placing the case before him more urgently; but perhaps he did not explain himself properly and his uncle did not realise in what desperate straits he was, for he answered that he could not change his mind; Philip was twenty-five and really ought to be earning his living. When he died Philip would come into a little, but till then he refused to give him a penny. Philip felt in the letter the satisfaction of a man who for many years had disapproved of his courses and now saw himself justified. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> XCIX Philip began to pawn his clothes. He reduced his expenses by eating only one meal a day beside his breakfast; and he ate it, bread and butter and cocoa, at four so that it should last him till next morning. He was so hungry by nine o'clock that he had to go to bed. He thought of borrowing money from Lawson, but the fear of a refusal held him back; at last he asked him for five pounds. Lawson lent it with pleasure, but, as he did so, said: "You'll let me have it back in a week or so, won't you? I've got to pay my framer, and I'm awfully broke just now." Philip knew he would not be able to return it, and the thought of what Lawson would think made him so ashamed that in a couple of days he took the money back untouched. Lawson was just going out to luncheon and asked Philip to come too. Philip could hardly eat, he was so glad to get some solid food. On Sunday he was sure of a good dinner from Athelny. He hesitated to tell the Athelnys what had happened to him: they had always looked upon him as comparatively well-to-do, and he had a dread that they would think less well of him if they knew he was penniless. Though he had always been poor, the possibility of not having enough to eat had never occurred to him; it was not the sort of thing that happened to the people among whom he lived; and he was as ashamed as if he had some disgraceful disease. The situation in which he found himself was quite outside the range of his experience. He was so taken aback that he did not know what else to do than to go on at the hospital; he had a vague hope that something would turn up; he could not quite believe that what was happening to him was true; and he remembered how during his first term at school he had often thought his life was a dream from which he would awake to find himself once more at home. But very soon he foresaw that in a week or so he would have no money at all. He must set about trying to earn something at once. If he had been qualified, even with a club-foot, he could have gone out to the Cape, since the demand for medical men was now great. Except for his deformity he might have enlisted in one of the yeomanry regiments which were constantly being sent out. He went to the secretary of the Medical School and asked if he could give him the coaching of some backward student; but the secretary held out no hope of getting him anything of the sort. Philip read the advertisement columns of the medical papers, and he applied for the post of unqualified assistant to a man who had a dispensary in the Fulham Road. When he went to see him, he saw the doctor glance at his club-foot; and on hearing that Philip was only in his fourth year at the hospital he said at once that his experience was insufficient: Philip understood that this was only an excuse; the man would not have an assistant who might not be as active as he wanted. Philip turned his attention to other means of earning money. He knew French and German and thought there might be some chance of finding a job as correspondence clerk; it made his heart sink, but he set his teeth; there was nothing else to do. Though too shy to answer the advertisements which demanded a personal application, he replied to those which asked for letters; but he had no experience to state and no recommendations: he was conscious that neither his German nor his French was commercial; he was ignorant of the terms used in business; he knew neither shorthand nor typewriting. He could not help recognising that his case was hopeless. He thought of writing to the solicitor who had been his father's executor, but he could not bring himself to, for it was contrary to his express advice that he had sold the mortgages in which his money had been invested. He knew from his uncle that Mr. Nixon thoroughly disapproved of him. He had gathered from Philip's year in the accountant's office that he was idle and incompetent. "I'd sooner starve," Philip muttered to himself. Once or twice the possibility of suicide presented itself to him; it would be easy to get something from the hospital dispensary, and it was a comfort to think that if the worst came to the worst he had at hand means of making a painless end of himself; but it was not a course that he considered seriously. When Mildred had left him to go with Griffiths his anguish had been so great that he wanted to die in order to get rid of the pain. He did not feel like that now. He remembered that the Casualty Sister had told him how people oftener did away with themselves for want of money than for want of love; and he chuckled when he thought that he was an exception. He wished only that he could talk his worries over with somebody, but he could not bring himself to confess them. He was ashamed. He went on looking for work. He left his rent unpaid for three weeks, explaining to his landlady that he would get money at the end of the month; she did not say anything, but pursed her lips and looked grim. When the end of the month came and she asked if it would be convenient for him to pay something on account, it made him feel very sick to say that he could not; he told her he would write to his uncle and was sure to be able to settle his bill on the following Saturday. "Well, I 'ope you will, Mr. Carey, because I 'ave my rent to pay, and I can't afford to let accounts run on." She did not speak with anger, but with determination that was rather frightening. She paused for a moment and then said: "If you don't pay next Saturday, I shall 'ave to complain to the secretary of the 'ospital." "Oh yes, that'll be all right." She looked at him for a little and glanced round the bare room. When she spoke it was without any emphasis, as though it were quite a natural thing to say. "I've got a nice 'ot joint downstairs, and if you like to come down to the kitchen you're welcome to a bit of dinner." Philip felt himself redden to the soles of his feet, and a sob caught at his throat. "Thank you very much, Mrs. Higgins, but I'm not at all hungry." "Very good, sir." When she left the room Philip threw himself on his bed. He had to clench his fists in order to prevent himself from crying. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> C Saturday. It was the day on which he had promised to pay his landlady. He had been expecting something to turn up all through the week. He had found no work. He had never been driven to extremities before, and he was so dazed that he did not know what to do. He had at the back of his mind a feeling that the whole thing was a preposterous joke. He had no more than a few coppers left, he had sold all the clothes he could do without; he had some books and one or two odds and ends upon which he might have got a shilling or two, but the landlady was keeping an eye on his comings and goings: he was afraid she would stop him if he took anything more from his room. The only thing was to tell her that he could not pay his bill. He had not the courage. It was the middle of June. The night was fine and warm. He made up his mind to stay out. He walked slowly along the Chelsea Embankment, because the river was restful and quiet, till he was tired, and then sat on a bench and dozed. He did not know how long he slept; he awoke with a start, dreaming that he was being shaken by a policeman and told to move on; but when he opened his eyes he found himself alone. He walked on, he did not know why, and at last came to Chiswick, where he slept again. Presently the hardness of the bench roused him. The night seemed very long. He shivered. He was seized with a sense of his misery; and he did not know what on earth to do: he was ashamed at having slept on the Embankment; it seemed peculiarly humiliating, and he felt his cheeks flush in the darkness. He remembered stories he had heard of those who did and how among them were officers, clergymen, and men who had been to universities: he wondered if he would become one of them, standing in a line to get soup from a charitable institution. It would be much better to commit suicide. He could not go on like that: Lawson would help him when he knew what straits he was in; it was absurd to let his pride prevent him from asking for assistance. He wondered why he had come such a cropper. He had always tried to do what he thought best, and everything had gone wrong. He had helped people when he could, he did not think he had been more selfish than anyone else, it seemed horribly unjust that he should be reduced to such a pass. But it was no good thinking about it. He walked on. It was now light: the river was beautiful in the silence, and there was something mysterious in the early day; it was going to be very fine, and the sky, pale in the dawn, was cloudless. He felt very tired, and hunger was gnawing at his entrails, but he could not sit still; he was constantly afraid of being spoken to by a policeman. He dreaded the mortification of that. He felt dirty and wished he could have a wash. At last he found himself at Hampton Court. He felt that if he did not have something to eat he would cry. He chose a cheap eating-house and went in; there was a smell of hot things, and it made him feel slightly sick: he meant to eat something nourishing enough to keep up for the rest of the day, but his stomach revolted at the sight of food. He had a cup of tea and some bread and butter. He remembered then that it was Sunday and he could go to the Athelnys; he thought of the roast beef and the Yorkshire pudding they would eat; but he was fearfully tired and could not face the happy, noisy family. He was feeling morose and wretched. He wanted to be left alone. He made up his mind that he would go into the gardens of the palace and lie down. His bones ached. Perhaps he would find a pump so that he could wash his hands and face and drink something; he was very thirsty; and now that he was no longer hungry he thought with pleasure of the flowers and the lawns and the great leafy trees. He felt that there he could think out better what he must do. He lay on the grass, in the shade, and lit his pipe. For economy's sake he had for a long time confined himself to two pipes a day; he was thankful now that his pouch was full. He did not know what people did when they had no money. Presently he fell asleep. When he awoke it was nearly mid-day, and he thought that soon he must be setting out for London so as to be there in the early morning and answer any advertisements which seemed to promise. He thought of his uncle, who had told him that he would leave him at his death the little he had; Philip did not in the least know how much this was: it could not be more than a few hundred pounds. He wondered whether he could raise money on the reversion. Not without the old man's consent, and that he would never give. "The only thing I can do is to hang on somehow till he dies." Philip reckoned his age. The Vicar of Blackstable was well over seventy. He had chronic bronchitis, but many old men had that and lived on indefinitely. Meanwhile something must turn up; Philip could not get away from the feeling that his position was altogether abnormal; people in his particular station did not starve. It was because he could not bring himself to believe in the reality of his experience that he did not give way to utter despair. He made up his mind to borrow half a sovereign from Lawson. He stayed in the garden all day and smoked when he felt very hungry; he did not mean to eat anything until he was setting out again for London: it was a long way and he must keep up his strength for that. He started when the day began to grow cooler, and slept on benches when he was tired. No one disturbed him. He had a wash and brush up, and a shave at Victoria, some tea and bread and butter, and while he was eating this read the advertisement columns of the morning paper. As he looked down them his eye fell upon an announcement asking for a salesman in the 'furnishing drapery' department of some well-known stores. He had a curious little sinking of the heart, for with his middle-class prejudices it seemed dreadful to go into a shop; but he shrugged his shoulders, after all what did it matter? and he made up his mind to have a shot at it. He had a queer feeling that by accepting every humiliation, by going out to meet it even, he was forcing the hand of fate. When he presented himself, feeling horribly shy, in the department at nine o'clock he found that many others were there before him. They were of all ages, from boys of sixteen to men of forty; some were talking to one another in undertones, but most were silent; and when he took up his place those around him gave him a look of hostility. He heard one man say: "The only thing I look forward to is getting my refusal soon enough to give me time to look elsewhere." The man, standing next him, glanced at Philip and asked: "Had any experience?" "No," said Philip. He paused a moment and then made a remark: "Even the smaller houses won't see you without appointment after lunch." Philip looked at the assistants. Some were draping chintzes and cretonnes, and others, his neighbour told him were preparing country orders that had come in by post. At about a quarter past nine the buyer arrived. He heard one of the men who were waiting say to another that it was Mr. Gibbons. He was middle-aged, short and corpulent, with a black beard and dark, greasy hair. He had brisk movements and a clever face. He wore a silk hat and a frock coat, the lapel of which was adorned with a white geranium surrounded by leaves. He went into his office, leaving the door open; it was very small and contained only an American roll-desk in the corner, a bookcase, and a cupboard. The men standing outside watched him mechanically take the geranium out of his coat and put it in an ink-pot filled with water. It was against the rules to wear flowers in business. During the day the department men who wanted to keep in with the governor admired the flower. "I've never seen better," they said, "you didn't grow it yourself?" "Yes I did," he smiled, and a gleam of pride filled his intelligent eyes. He took off his hat and changed his coat, glanced at the letters and then at the men who were waiting to see him. He made a slight sign with one finger, and the first in the queue stepped into the office. They filed past him one by one and answered his questions. He put them very briefly, keeping his eyes fixed on the applicant's face. "Age? Experience? Why did you leave your job?" He listened to the replies without expression. When it came to Philip's turn he fancied that Mr. Gibbons stared at him curiously. Philip's clothes were neat and tolerably cut. He looked a little different from the others. "Experience?" "I'm afraid I haven't any," said Philip. "No good." Philip walked out of the office. The ordeal had been so much less painful than he expected that he felt no particular disappointment. He could hardly hope to succeed in getting a place the first time he tried. He had kept the newspaper and now looked at the advertisements again: a shop in Holborn needed a salesman too, and he went there; but when he arrived he found that someone had already been engaged. If he wanted to get anything to eat that day he must go to Lawson's studio before he went out to luncheon, so he made his way along the Brompton Road to Yeoman's Row. "I say, I'm rather broke till the end of the month," he said as soon as he found an opportunity. "I wish you'd lend me half a sovereign, will you?" It was incredible the difficulty he found in asking for money; and he remembered the casual way, as though almost they were conferring a favour, men at the hospital had extracted small sums out of him which they had no intention of repaying. "Like a shot," said Lawson. But when he put his hand in his pocket he found that he had only eight shillings. Philip's heart sank. "Oh well, lend me five bob, will you?" he said lightly. "Here you are." Philip went to the public baths in Westminster and spent sixpence on a bath. Then he got himself something to eat. He did not know what to do with himself in the afternoon. He would not go back to the hospital in case anyone should ask him questions, and besides, he had nothing to do there now; they would wonder in the two or three departments he had worked in why he did not come, but they must think what they chose, it did not matter: he would not be the first student who had dropped out without warning. He went to the free library, and looked at the papers till they wearied him, then he took out Stevenson's New Arabian Nights; but he found he could not read: the words meant nothing to him, and he continued to brood over his helplessness. He kept on thinking the same things all the time, and the fixity of his thoughts made his head ache. At last, craving for fresh air, he went into the Green Park and lay down on the grass. He thought miserably of his deformity, which made it impossible for him to go to the war. He went to sleep and dreamt that he was suddenly sound of foot and out at the Cape in a regiment of Yeomanry; the pictures he had looked at in the illustrated papers gave materials for his fancy; and he saw himself on the Veldt, in khaki, sitting with other men round a fire at night. When he awoke he found that it was still quite light, and presently he heard Big Ben strike seven. He had twelve hours to get through with nothing to do. He dreaded the interminable night. The sky was overcast and he feared it would rain; he would have to go to a lodging-house where he could get a bed; he had seen them advertised on lamps outside houses in Lambeth: Good Beds sixpence; he had never been inside one, and dreaded the foul smell and the vermin. He made up his mind to stay in the open air if he possibly could. He remained in the park till it was closed and then began to walk about. He was very tired. The thought came to him that an accident would be a piece of luck, so that he could be taken to a hospital and lie there, in a clean bed, for weeks. At midnight he was so hungry that he could not go without food any more, so he went to a coffee stall at Hyde Park Corner and ate a couple of potatoes and had a cup of coffee. Then he walked again. He felt too restless to sleep, and he had a horrible dread of being moved on by the police. He noted that he was beginning to look upon the constable from quite a new angle. This was the third night he had spent out. Now and then he sat on the benches in Piccadilly and towards morning he strolled down to The Embankment. He listened to the striking of Big Ben, marking every quarter of an hour, and reckoned out how long it left till the city woke again. In the morning he spent a few coppers on making himself neat and clean, bought a paper to read the advertisements, and set out once more on the search for work. He went on in this way for several days. He had very little food and began to feel weak and ill, so that he had hardly enough energy to go on looking for the work which seemed so desperately hard to find. He was growing used now to the long waiting at the back of a shop on the chance that he would be taken on, and the curt dismissal. He walked to all parts of London in answer to the advertisements, and he came to know by sight men who applied as fruitlessly as himself. One or two tried to make friends with him, but he was too tired and too wretched to accept their advances. He did not go any more to Lawson, because he owed him five shillings. He began to be too dazed to think clearly and ceased very much to care what would happen to him. He cried a good deal. At first he was very angry with himself for this and ashamed, but he found it relieved him, and somehow made him feel less hungry. In the very early morning he suffered a good deal from cold. One night he went into his room to change his linen; he slipped in about three, when he was quite sure everyone would be asleep, and out again at five; he lay on the bed and its softness was enchanting; all his bones ached, and as he lay he revelled in the pleasure of it; it was so delicious that he did not want to go to sleep. He was growing used to want of food and did not feel very hungry, but only weak. Constantly now at the back of his mind was the thought of doing away with himself, but he used all the strength he had not to dwell on it, because he was afraid the temptation would get hold of him so that he would not be able to help himself. He kept on saying to himself that it would be absurd to commit suicide, since something must happen soon; he could not get over the impression that his situation was too preposterous to be taken quite seriously; it was like an illness which must be endured but from which he was bound to recover. Every night he swore that nothing would induce him to put up with such another and determined next morning to write to his uncle, or to Mr. Nixon, the solicitor, or to Lawson; but when the time came he could not bring himself to make the humiliating confession of his utter failure. He did not know how Lawson would take it. In their friendship Lawson had been scatter-brained and he had prided himself on his common sense. He would have to tell the whole history of his folly. He had an uneasy feeling that Lawson, after helping him, would turn the cold shoulder on him. His uncle and the solicitor would of course do something for him, but he dreaded their reproaches. He did not want anyone to reproach him: he clenched his teeth and repeated that what had happened was inevitable just because it had happened. Regret was absurd. The days were unending, and the five shillings Lawson had lent him would not last much longer. Philip longed for Sunday to come so that he could go to Athelny's. He did not know what prevented him from going there sooner, except perhaps that he wanted so badly to get through on his own; for Athelny, who had been in straits as desperate, was the only person who could do anything for him. Perhaps after dinner he could bring himself to tell Athelny that he was in difficulties. Philip repeated to himself over and over again what he should say to him. He was dreadfully afraid that Athelny would put him off with airy phrases: that would be so horrible that he wanted to delay as long as possible the putting of him to the test. Philip had lost all confidence in his fellows. Saturday night was cold and raw. Philip suffered horribly. From midday on Saturday till he dragged himself wearily to Athelny's house he ate nothing. He spent his last twopence on Sunday morning on a wash and a brush up in the lavatory at Charing Cross. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CI When Philip rang a head was put out of the window, and in a minute he heard a noisy clatter on the stairs as the children ran down to let him in. It was a pale, anxious, thin face that he bent down for them to kiss. He was so moved by their exuberant affection that, to give himself time to recover, he made excuses to linger on the stairs. He was in a hysterical state and almost anything was enough to make him cry. They asked him why he had not come on the previous Sunday, and he told them he had been ill; they wanted to know what was the matter with him; and Philip, to amuse them, suggested a mysterious ailment, the name of which, double-barrelled and barbarous with its mixture of Greek and Latin (medical nomenclature bristled with such), made them shriek with delight. They dragged Philip into the parlour and made him repeat it for their father's edification. Athelny got up and shook hands with him. He stared at Philip, but with his round, bulging eyes he always seemed to stare, Philip did not know why on this occasion it made him self-conscious. "We missed you last Sunday," he said. Philip could never tell lies without embarrassment, and he was scarlet when he finished his explanation for not coming. Then Mrs. Athelny entered and shook hands with him. "I hope you're better, Mr. Carey," she said. He did not know why she imagined that anything had been the matter with him, for the kitchen door was closed when he came up with the children, and they had not left him. "Dinner won't be ready for another ten minutes," she said, in her slow drawl. "Won't you have an egg beaten up in a glass of milk while you're waiting?" There was a look of concern on her face which made Philip uncomfortable. He forced a laugh and answered that he was not at all hungry. Sally came in to lay the table, and Philip began to chaff her. It was the family joke that she would be as fat as an aunt of Mrs. Athelny, called Aunt Elizabeth, whom the children had never seen but regarded as the type of obscene corpulence. "I say, what HAS happened since I saw you last, Sally?" Philip began. "Nothing that I know of." "I believe you've been putting on weight." "I'm sure you haven't," she retorted. "You're a perfect skeleton." Philip reddened. "That's a tu quoque, Sally," cried her father. "You will be fined one golden hair of your head. Jane, fetch the shears." "Well, he is thin, father," remonstrated Sally. "He's just skin and bone." "That's not the question, child. He is at perfect liberty to be thin, but your obesity is contrary to decorum." As he spoke he put his arm proudly round her waist and looked at her with admiring eyes. "Let me get on with the table, father. If I am comfortable there are some who don't seem to mind it." "The hussy!" cried Athelny, with a dramatic wave of the hand. "She taunts me with the notorious fact that Joseph, a son of Levi who sells jewels in Holborn, has made her an offer of marriage." "Have you accepted him, Sally?" asked Philip. "Don't you know father better than that by this time? There's not a word of truth in it." "Well, if he hasn't made you an offer of marriage," cried Athelny, "by Saint George and Merry England, I will seize him by the nose and demand of him immediately what are his intentions." "Sit down, father, dinner's ready. Now then, you children, get along with you and wash your hands all of you, and don't shirk it, because I mean to look at them before you have a scrap of dinner, so there." Philip thought he was ravenous till he began to eat, but then discovered that his stomach turned against food, and he could eat hardly at all. His brain was weary; and he did not notice that Athelny, contrary to his habit, spoke very little. Philip was relieved to be sitting in a comfortable house, but every now and then he could not prevent himself from glancing out of the window. The day was tempestuous. The fine weather had broken; and it was cold, and there was a bitter wind; now and again gusts of rain drove against the window. Philip wondered what he should do that night. The Athelnys went to bed early, and he could not stay where he was after ten o'clock. His heart sank at the thought of going out into the bleak darkness. It seemed more terrible now that he was with his friends than when he was outside and alone. He kept on saying to himself that there were plenty more who would be spending the night out of doors. He strove to distract his mind by talking, but in the middle of his words a spatter of rain against the window would make him start. "It's like March weather," said Athelny. "Not the sort of day one would like to be crossing the Channel." Presently they finished, and Sally came in and cleared away. "Would you like a twopenny stinker?" said Athelny, handing him a cigar. Philip took it and inhaled the smoke with delight. It soothed him extraordinarily. When Sally had finished Athelny told her to shut the door after her. "Now we shan't be disturbed," he said, turning to Philip. "I've arranged with Betty not to let the children come in till I call them." Philip gave him a startled look, but before he could take in the meaning of his words, Athelny, fixing his glasses on his nose with the gesture habitual to him, went on. "I wrote to you last Sunday to ask if anything was the matter with you, and as you didn't answer I went to your rooms on Wednesday." Philip turned his head away and did not answer. His heart began to beat violently. Athelny did not speak, and presently the silence seemed intolerable to Philip. He could not think of a single word to say. "Your landlady told me you hadn't been in since Saturday night, and she said you owed her for the last month. Where have you been sleeping all this week?" It made Philip sick to answer. He stared out of the window. "Nowhere." "I tried to find you." "Why?" asked Philip. "Betty and I have been just as broke in our day, only we had babies to look after. Why didn't you come here?" "I couldn't." Philip was afraid he was going to cry. He felt very weak. He shut his eyes and frowned, trying to control himself. He felt a sudden flash of anger with Athelny because he would not leave him alone; but he was broken; and presently, his eyes still closed, slowly in order to keep his voice steady, he told him the story of his adventures during the last few weeks. As he spoke it seemed to him that he had behaved inanely, and it made it still harder to tell. He felt that Athelny would think him an utter fool. "Now you're coming to live with us till you find something to do," said Athelny, when he had finished. Philip flushed, he knew not why. "Oh, it's awfully kind of you, but I don't think I'll do that." "Why not?" Philip did not answer. He had refused instinctively from fear that he would be a bother, and he had a natural bashfulness of accepting favours. He knew besides that the Athelnys lived from hand to mouth, and with their large family had neither space nor money to entertain a stranger. "Of course you must come here," said Athelny. "Thorpe will tuck in with one of his brothers and you can sleep in his bed. You don't suppose your food's going to make any difference to us." Philip was afraid to speak, and Athelny, going to the door, called his wife. "Betty," he said, when she came in, "Mr. Carey's coming to live with us." "Oh, that is nice," she said. "I'll go and get the bed ready." She spoke in such a hearty, friendly tone, taking everything for granted, that Philip was deeply touched. He never expected people to be kind to him, and when they were it surprised and moved him. Now he could not prevent two large tears from rolling down his cheeks. The Athelnys discussed the arrangements and pretended not to notice to what a state his weakness had brought him. When Mrs. Athelny left them Philip leaned back in his chair, and looking out of the window laughed a little. "It's not a very nice night to be out, is it?" </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CII Athelny told Philip that he could easily get him something to do in the large firm of linendrapers in which himself worked. Several of the assistants had gone to the war, and Lynn and Sedley with patriotic zeal had promised to keep their places open for them. They put the work of the heroes on those who remained, and since they did not increase the wages of these were able at once to exhibit public spirit and effect an economy; but the war continued and trade was less depressed; the holidays were coming, when numbers of the staff went away for a fortnight at a time: they were bound to engage more assistants. Philip's experience had made him doubtful whether even then they would engage him; but Athelny, representing himself as a person of consequence in the firm, insisted that the manager could refuse him nothing. Philip, with his training in Paris, would be very useful; it was only a matter of waiting a little and he was bound to get a well-paid job to design costumes and draw posters. Philip made a poster for the summer sale and Athelny took it away. Two days later he brought it back, saying that the manager admired it very much and regretted with all his heart that there was no vacancy just then in that department. Philip asked whether there was nothing else he could do. "I'm afraid not." "Are you quite sure?" "Well, the fact is they're advertising for a shop-walker tomorrow," said Athelny, looking at him doubtfully through his glasses. "D'you think I stand any chance of getting it?" Athelny was a little confused; he had led Philip to expect something much more splendid; on the other hand he was too poor to go on providing him indefinitely with board and lodging. "You might take it while you wait for something better. You always stand a better chance if you're engaged by the firm already." "I'm not proud, you know," smiled Philip. "If you decide on that you must be there at a quarter to nine tomorrow morning." Notwithstanding the war there was evidently much difficulty in finding work, for when Philip went to the shop many men were waiting already. He recognised some whom he had seen in his own searching, and there was one whom he had noticed lying about the park in the afternoon. To Philip now that suggested that he was as homeless as himself and passed the night out of doors. The men were of all sorts, old and young, tall and short; but every one had tried to make himself smart for the interview with the manager: they had carefully brushed hair and scrupulously clean hands. They waited in a passage which Philip learnt afterwards led up to the dining-hall and the work rooms; it was broken every few yards by five or six steps. Though there was electric light in the shop here was only gas, with wire cages over it for protection, and it flared noisily. Philip arrived punctually, but it was nearly ten o'clock when he was admitted into the office. It was three-cornered, like a cut of cheese lying on its side: on the walls were pictures of women in corsets, and two poster-proofs, one of a man in pyjamas, green and white in large stripes, and the other of a ship in full sail ploughing an azure sea: on the sail was printed in large letters 'great white sale.' The widest side of the office was the back of one of the shop-windows, which was being dressed at the time, and an assistant went to and fro during the interview. The manager was reading a letter. He was a florid man, with sandy hair and a large sandy moustache; from the middle of his watch-chain hung a bunch of football medals. He sat in his shirt sleeves at a large desk with a telephone by his side; before him were the day's advertisements, Athelny's work, and cuttings from newspapers pasted on a card. He gave Philip a glance but did not speak to him; he dictated a letter to the typist, a girl who sat at a small table in one corner; then he asked Philip his name, age, and what experience he had had. He spoke with a cockney twang in a high, metallic voice which he seemed not able always to control; Philip noticed that his upper teeth were large and protruding; they gave you the impression that they were loose and would come out if you gave them a sharp tug. "I think Mr. Athelny has spoken to you about me," said Philip. "Oh, you are the young feller who did that poster?" "Yes, sir." "No good to us, you know, not a bit of good." He looked Philip up and down. He seemed to notice that Philip was in some way different from the men who had preceded him. "You'd 'ave to get a frock coat, you know. I suppose you 'aven't got one. You seem a respectable young feller. I suppose you found art didn't pay." Philip could not tell whether he meant to engage him or not. He threw remarks at him in a hostile way. "Where's your home?" "My father and mother died when I was a child." "I like to give young fellers a chance. Many's the one I've given their chance to and they're managers of departments now. And they're grateful to me, I'll say that for them. They know what I done for them. Start at the bottom of the ladder, that's the only way to learn the business, and then if you stick to it there's no knowing what it can lead to. If you suit, one of these days you may find yourself in a position like what mine is. Bear that in mind, young feller." "I'm very anxious to do my best, sir," said Philip. He knew that he must put in the sir whenever he could, but it sounded odd to him, and he was afraid of overdoing it. The manager liked talking. It gave him a happy consciousness of his own importance, and he did not give Philip his decision till he had used a great many words. "Well, I daresay you'll do," he said at last, in a pompous way. "Anyhow I don't mind giving you a trial." "Thank you very much, sir." "You can start at once. I'll give you six shillings a week and your keep. Everything found, you know; the six shillings is only pocket money, to do what you like with, paid monthly. Start on Monday. I suppose you've got no cause of complaint with that." "No, sir." "Harrington Street, d'you know where that is, Shaftesbury Avenue. That's where you sleep. Number ten, it is. You can sleep there on Sunday night, if you like; that's just as you please, or you can send your box there on Monday." The manager nodded: "Good-morning." </CHAPTER>

Chapters 98-102

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter98-102

of Chapters XCVIII-CII . Philip has won a moral victory over his life, but he still has much testing ahead of him. He has not yet tasted the bitterness of poverty. He, like the rest of the country, is affected by events out of his control. The Boer War in South Africa drags on, costing Britain troops and money; meanwhile the stock market fails, and Philip, like many, loses all his money. He has no money to finish school or even to live on. . Hayward of all people, joins the military and leaves for South Africa. Philip questions Hayward about why he is going, since he doesn't really believe in patriotism. He hardly feels himself English. War is a mysterious draw for men. Philip would go too, except for his lameness. Philip writes to his uncle of his situation and asks to borrow money. His uncle writes back, refusing. In panic, he writes again saying he is desperate. His uncle gloats over his own prediction that Philip is a spendthrift. Philip should be supporting himself. . Philip pawns his clothes and all his belongings. He falls short on the rent. He had never thought he would not have enough to eat. At least on Sundays he can get a meal at the Athelnys. He applies for medical posts, but he is not yet qualified. He looks for translation jobs in the papers and any other kind of work. He thinks of suicide if things get worse. He is ashamed of his poverty and tells no one. His landlady sees he is hungry and offers him dinner, but he refuses. . When he can't pay his rent, he decides to sleep in the open. It is June, and he sleeps on benches for a few days. He is hungry, and he cannot believe someone from his class could starve. He has no idea what to do. He borrows a little money from Lawson for food but doesn't tell him what is the matter. He starts joining lines of men who apply for every job, but he has no experience. He sees the same men each day. He wishes he could go to war with the others. Pride prevents him from going to the Athelnys for Sunday dinner. . Finally, in a state of starvation, he drags himself to the Athelnys the next Sunday. They are not fooled. Sally remarks, "He's just skin and bones" . The Athelnys understand poverty and take him in. He knows they live hand to mouth and that he must get a job. Athelny says he can get him a place where he works, at Lynn and Sedley, linen-drapers, or a large department store. Philip is hired as a shop-walker in a frock coat, directing shoppers to the right department in the store.

Commentary on Chapters XCVIII-CII . Though Philip has become flexible about class and class issues over the years, he still has been part of the privileged upper classes. He has treated the poor in his hospital work with sympathy, but he has never been subject to their problems. Now, he becomes just one of the masses, struggling for survival. All his thoughts, learning, refinement, mean nothing. He finds what Monsieur Foinet had predicted was true, that poverty is not romantic. It makes people stupid and stunted and desperate. Philip loses hope and contemplates suicide, perhaps understanding Fanny Price's fate. Like Fanny, he is too proud to ask for charity and only goes to the Athelnys for dinner. He doesn't think they will guess his real state. It is significant that Sally notices his thinness, for she will play a larger role in the story later on. . Philip has Thorpe Athelny for an example, for he is a learned aristocrat, reduced to working as a copywriter in a department store to keep his lower-class family, and yet he has adapted and remained cheerful. Athelny understands Philip's position as Lawson could not. Lawson is a sort of social friend who might give him a handout, but Athelny knows how to give the kindness that can solve a problem and lift Philip up to become self-sufficient.

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all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_103_to_109.txt

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Of Human Bondage.chapters 103-109

chapters 103-109

{"name": "Chapters 103-109", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter103-109", "summary": "of Chapters CIII-CIX . Philip is given a company room in a dumpy boardinghouse with the other workers. It is a degrading life, and he is never alone for a moment. The work is tiring, and the food is bad. He drags himself to the social evenings with the other workers so he will not seem a snob. It is quite a Dickensian scene of good-natured lower-class people enjoying themselves. Philip has to turn off his mind and not think of the life he is leading, though the other workers are kind to him and accept him. His one consolation is to go once a week to the Athelnys. . He tries to keep up with his medical books, but he is too tired to focus. He begins to fixate on the death of his uncle, the only thing that will free him. He might inherit enough to finish medical school. He is humiliated when he is asked to be the window dresser of the store, afraid some acquaintance will see him, but he does so well, with his artist's eye that they make him continue. . One day he runs into Lawson and explains his disappearance and new job. Lawson sees his embarrassment and does not know what to say. He asks Philip to come to his studio for a chat, but Philip refuses, realizing it would make it worse for him to discuss what he is going through. Lawson mentions that Hayward died in the war of typhoid fever, and Philip is shocked, for he has not lost friends his age before. . On days off he goes to the British Museum and looks at the Greek sculpture. He tries to get over his nerves at being bombarded all day with the masses of people who look ugly and mean to him. They do not look evil, only petty. The marble statues tend to quiet him, though they remind him of human mortality. The statue of two men holding hands reminds him of his friendship with Hayward. He is struck by the futility of life when death is waiting. . Pondering once again the meaning of life, he thinks of Cronshaw's Persian rug, and suddenly he solves the riddle: \"Life had no meaning\" . He feels suddenly free: \"his insignificance was turned to power\" . Life is just life and needs no justification. Success and failure are equal. . Mr. Sampson, the buyer, gives Philip a chance to become a designer since he can draw. He begins to design clothes after the Paris fashions. He enjoys the work. Occasionally he goes to the hospital for his mail, and there is a letter from his uncle, asking if he will spend his vacation at Blackstable. Philip realizes his uncle is lonely, and decides to go. His uncle has aged significantly, and Philip begins to obsess about his dying. The doctor does not say how much longer he will live. Philip senses his uncle is afraid of dying. . Philip gets a letter from Mildred asking for help. At first he ignores it, but he knows he will get no peace until he answers. She is back to being a prostitute and very ill. She is terrified, for she understands she could die. It is implied that she has syphilis, and he gives her a prescription and tells her she must quit this work. She says the baby died, and he says he is glad. She understands that he means the baby is spared this suffering and degradation. He cares for her till she is better, but he spies on her and sees she is continuing her work as a prostitute. He is angry that she exposes others, but she does not care; she is lost. He realizes he has done all for her he can. \" He did not see her again\" .", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters CIII-CIX . Maugham paints the portraits of Philip's vulgar co-workers at the store with no comments. It is obvious to the reader that he would be feeling out of his own sphere, but he tries to bear his hardship with the thought that one day he will go back to medical school. He talks with Athelny of trips to Spain and dreams of going there someday. This is how Athelny keeps himself going as well. He talks about his travels and philosophy with Philip. . Lawson is hurt that Philip refuses his friendship, for he is trying to reach out. Philip curses his own pride but thinks it would be too hard on him to go backwards and grasp at what is lost to him. He has to keep on going with fortitude. He lets Lawson go, along with his past. Hayward is gone. His uncle is dying, and finally, he sees Mildred for the last time. She ends as a tragic figure, unable to alter, not only dying from syphilis herself, , but Mildred is so hardened, she doesn't mind passing the disease on to others. He feels only pity, but finally, washes his hands of her. . Philip, as usual, contemplates the meaning of life and this time solves the riddle of Cronshaw's Persian carpet, which, he had said, held the meaning of life. Philip has the aha! notion that life is meaningless, and this frees him. He reaches a sort of existential understanding that life is not good or bad; it just is. What defeats us is our expectations that it must be one way or another. He had been thinking that Hayward's death was as useless as his life, and feeling sick at all the lost years. His work at the store had also filled him with the sordidness of life as he watches all the people: \"their features were distorted with paltry desires\" . If life is actually meaningless, then \"the world was robbed of its cruelty\" . At the same time, he feels a great energy to make something of life, for it \"would be a work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence\" . . There is an elegiac note in his considering the loss of Hayward's and Lawson's friendships, and even his passion for Mildred. One does not know in the beginning enthusiasm that disillusionment and then indifference will set in, and that finally, a relationship, which once meant everything, means nothing, and life just goes on as if it had never happened. Things come and go."}

<CHAPTER> CIII Mrs. Athelny lent Philip money to pay his landlady enough of her bill to let him take his things away. For five shillings and the pawn-ticket on a suit he was able to get from a pawnbroker a frock coat which fitted him fairly well. He redeemed the rest of his clothes. He sent his box to Harrington Street by Carter Patterson and on Monday morning went with Athelny to the shop. Athelny introduced him to the buyer of the costumes and left him. The buyer was a pleasant, fussy little man of thirty, named Sampson; he shook hands with Philip, and, in order to show his own accomplishment of which he was very proud, asked him if he spoke French. He was surprised when Philip told him he did. "Any other language?" "I speak German." "Oh! I go over to Paris myself occasionally. Parlez-vous francais? Ever been to Maxim's?" Philip was stationed at the top of the stairs in the 'costumes.' His work consisted in directing people to the various departments. There seemed a great many of them as Mr. Sampson tripped them off his tongue. Suddenly he noticed that Philip limped. "What's the matter with your leg?" he asked. "I've got a club-foot," said Philip. "But it doesn't prevent my walking or anything like that." The buyer looked at it for a moment doubtfully, and Philip surmised that he was wondering why the manager had engaged him. Philip knew that he had not noticed there was anything the matter with him. "I don't expect you to get them all correct the first day. If you're in any doubt all you've got to do is to ask one of the young ladies." Mr. Sampson turned away; and Philip, trying to remember where this or the other department was, watched anxiously for the customer in search of information. At one o'clock he went up to dinner. The dining-room, on the top floor of the vast building, was large, long, and well lit; but all the windows were shut to keep out the dust, and there was a horrid smell of cooking. There were long tables covered with cloths, with big glass bottles of water at intervals, and down the centre salt cellars and bottles of vinegar. The assistants crowded in noisily, and sat down on forms still warm from those who had dined at twelve-thirty. "No pickles," remarked the man next to Philip. He was a tall thin young man, with a hooked nose and a pasty face; he had a long head, unevenly shaped as though the skull had been pushed in here and there oddly, and on his forehead and neck were large acne spots red and inflamed. His name was Harris. Philip discovered that on some days there were large soup-plates down the table full of mixed pickles. They were very popular. There were no knives and forks, but in a minute a large fat boy in a white coat came in with a couple of handfuls of them and threw them loudly on the middle of the table. Each man took what he wanted; they were warm and greasy from recent washing in dirty water. Plates of meat swimming in gravy were handed round by boys in white jackets, and as they flung each plate down with the quick gesture of a prestidigitator the gravy slopped over on to the table-cloth. Then they brought large dishes of cabbages and potatoes; the sight of them turned Philip's stomach; he noticed that everyone poured quantities of vinegar over them. The noise was awful. They talked and laughed and shouted, and there was the clatter of knives and forks, and strange sounds of eating. Philip was glad to get back into the department. He was beginning to remember where each one was, and had less often to ask one of the assistants, when somebody wanted to know the way. "First to the right. Second on the left, madam." One or two of the girls spoke to him, just a word when things were slack, and he felt they were taking his measure. At five he was sent up again to the dining-room for tea. He was glad to sit down. There were large slices of bread heavily spread with butter; and many had pots of jam, which were kept in the 'store' and had their names written on. Philip was exhausted when work stopped at half past six. Harris, the man he had sat next to at dinner, offered to take him over to Harrington Street to show him where he was to sleep. He told Philip there was a spare bed in his room, and, as the other rooms were full, he expected Philip would be put there. The house in Harrington Street had been a bootmaker's; and the shop was used as a bed-room; but it was very dark, since the window had been boarded three parts up, and as this did not open the only ventilation came from a small skylight at the far end. There was a musty smell, and Philip was thankful that he would not have to sleep there. Harris took him up to the sitting-room, which was on the first floor; it had an old piano in it with a keyboard that looked like a row of decayed teeth; and on the table in a cigar-box without a lid was a set of dominoes; old numbers of The Strand Magazine and of The Graphic were lying about. The other rooms were used as bed-rooms. That in which Philip was to sleep was at the top of the house. There were six beds in it, and a trunk or a box stood by the side of each. The only furniture was a chest of drawers: it had four large drawers and two small ones, and Philip as the new-comer had one of these; there were keys to them, but as they were all alike they were not of much use, and Harris advised him to keep his valuables in his trunk. There was a looking-glass on the chimney-piece. Harris showed Philip the lavatory, which was a fairly large room with eight basins in a row, and here all the inmates did their washing. It led into another room in which were two baths, discoloured, the woodwork stained with soap; and in them were dark rings at various intervals which indicated the water marks of different baths. When Harris and Philip went back to their bed-room they found a tall man changing his clothes and a boy of sixteen whistling as loud as he could while he brushed his hair. In a minute or two without saying a word to anybody the tall man went out. Harris winked at the boy, and the boy, whistling still, winked back. Harris told Philip that the man was called Prior; he had been in the army and now served in the silks; he kept pretty much to himself, and he went off every night, just like that, without so much as a good-evening, to see his girl. Harris went out too, and only the boy remained to watch Philip curiously while he unpacked his things. His name was Bell and he was serving his time for nothing in the haberdashery. He was much interested in Philip's evening clothes. He told him about the other men in the room and asked him every sort of question about himself. He was a cheerful youth, and in the intervals of conversation sang in a half-broken voice snatches of music-hall songs. When Philip had finished he went out to walk about the streets and look at the crowd; occasionally he stopped outside the doors of restaurants and watched the people going in; he felt hungry, so he bought a bath bun and ate it while he strolled along. He had been given a latch-key by the prefect, the man who turned out the gas at a quarter past eleven, but afraid of being locked out he returned in good time; he had learned already the system of fines: you had to pay a shilling if you came in after eleven, and half a crown after a quarter past, and you were reported besides: if it happened three times you were dismissed. All but the soldier were in when Philip arrived and two were already in bed. Philip was greeted with cries. "Oh, Clarence! Naughty boy!" He discovered that Bell had dressed up the bolster in his evening clothes. The boy was delighted with his joke. "You must wear them at the social evening, Clarence." "He'll catch the belle of Lynn's, if he's not careful." Philip had already heard of the social evenings, for the money stopped from the wages to pay for them was one of the grievances of the staff. It was only two shillings a month, and it covered medical attendance and the use of a library of worn novels; but as four shillings a month besides was stopped for washing, Philip discovered that a quarter of his six shillings a week would never be paid to him. Most of the men were eating thick slices of fat bacon between a roll of bread cut in two. These sandwiches, the assistants' usual supper, were supplied by a small shop a few doors off at twopence each. The soldier rolled in; silently, rapidly, took off his clothes and threw himself into bed. At ten minutes past eleven the gas gave a big jump and five minutes later went out. The soldier went to sleep, but the others crowded round the big window in their pyjamas and night-shirts and, throwing remains of their sandwiches at the women who passed in the street below, shouted to them facetious remarks. The house opposite, six storeys high, was a workshop for Jewish tailors who left off work at eleven; the rooms were brightly lit and there were no blinds to the windows. The sweater's daughter--the family consisted of father, mother, two small boys, and a girl of twenty--went round the house to put out the lights when work was over, and sometimes she allowed herself to be made love to by one of the tailors. The shop assistants in Philip's room got a lot of amusement out of watching the manoeuvres of one man or another to stay behind, and they made small bets on which would succeed. At midnight the people were turned out of the Harrington Arms at the end of the street, and soon after they all went to bed: Bell, who slept nearest the door, made his way across the room by jumping from bed to bed, and even when he got to his own would not stop talking. At last everything was silent but for the steady snoring of the soldier, and Philip went to sleep. He was awaked at seven by the loud ringing of a bell, and by a quarter to eight they were all dressed and hurrying downstairs in their stockinged feet to pick out their boots. They laced them as they ran along to the shop in Oxford Street for breakfast. If they were a minute later than eight they got none, nor, once in, were they allowed out to get themselves anything to eat. Sometimes, if they knew they could not get into the building in time, they stopped at the little shop near their quarters and bought a couple of buns; but this cost money, and most went without food till dinner. Philip ate some bread and butter, drank a cup of tea, and at half past eight began his day's work again. "First to the right. Second on the left, madam." Soon he began to answer the questions quite mechanically. The work was monotonous and very tiring. After a few days his feet hurt him so that he could hardly stand: the thick soft carpets made them burn, and at night his socks were painful to remove. It was a common complaint, and his fellow 'floormen' told him that socks and boots just rotted away from the continual sweating. All the men in his room suffered in the same fashion, and they relieved the pain by sleeping with their feet outside the bed-clothes. At first Philip could not walk at all and was obliged to spend a good many of his evenings in the sitting-room at Harrington Street with his feet in a pail of cold water. His companion on these occasions was Bell, the lad in the haberdashery, who stayed in often to arrange the stamps he collected. As he fastened them with little pieces of stamp-paper he whistled monotonously. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CIV The social evenings took place on alternate Mondays. There was one at the beginning of Philip's second week at Lynn's. He arranged to go with one of the women in his department. "Meet 'em 'alf-way," she said, "same as I do." This was Mrs. Hodges, a little woman of five-and-forty, with badly dyed hair; she had a yellow face with a network of small red veins all over it, and yellow whites to her pale blue eyes. She took a fancy to Philip and called him by his Christian name before he had been in the shop a week. "We've both known what it is to come down," she said. She told Philip that her real name was not Hodges, but she always referred to "me 'usband Misterodges;" he was a barrister and he treated her simply shocking, so she left him as she preferred to be independent like; but she had known what it was to drive in her own carriage, dear--she called everyone dear--and they always had late dinner at home. She used to pick her teeth with the pin of an enormous silver brooch. It was in the form of a whip and a hunting-crop crossed, with two spurs in the middle. Philip was ill at ease in his new surroundings, and the girls in the shop called him 'sidey.' One addressed him as Phil, and he did not answer because he had not the least idea that she was speaking to him; so she tossed her head, saying he was a 'stuck-up thing,' and next time with ironical emphasis called him Mister Carey. She was a Miss Jewell, and she was going to marry a doctor. The other girls had never seen him, but they said he must be a gentleman as he gave her such lovely presents. "Never you mind what they say, dear," said Mrs. Hodges. "I've 'ad to go through it same as you 'ave. They don't know any better, poor things. You take my word for it, they'll like you all right if you 'old your own same as I 'ave." The social evening was held in the restaurant in the basement. The tables were put on one side so that there might be room for dancing, and smaller ones were set out for progressive whist. "The 'eads 'ave to get there early," said Mrs. Hodges. She introduced him to Miss Bennett, who was the belle of Lynn's. She was the buyer in the 'Petticoats,' and when Philip entered was engaged in conversation with the buyer in the 'Gentlemen's Hosiery;' Miss Bennett was a woman of massive proportions, with a very large red face heavily powdered and a bust of imposing dimensions; her flaxen hair was arranged with elaboration. She was overdressed, but not badly dressed, in black with a high collar, and she wore black glace gloves, in which she played cards; she had several heavy gold chains round her neck, bangles on her wrists, and circular photograph pendants, one being of Queen Alexandra; she carried a black satin bag and chewed Sen-sens. "Please to meet you, Mr. Carey," she said. "This is your first visit to our social evenings, ain't it? I expect you feel a bit shy, but there's no cause to, I promise you that." She did her best to make people feel at home. She slapped them on the shoulders and laughed a great deal. "Ain't I a pickle?" she cried, turning to Philip. "What must you think of me? But I can't 'elp meself." Those who were going to take part in the social evening came in, the younger members of the staff mostly, boys who had not girls of their own, and girls who had not yet found anyone to walk with. Several of the young gentlemen wore lounge suits with white evening ties and red silk handkerchiefs; they were going to perform, and they had a busy, abstracted air; some were self-confident, but others were nervous, and they watched their public with an anxious eye. Presently a girl with a great deal of hair sat at the piano and ran her hands noisily across the keyboard. When the audience had settled itself she looked round and gave the name of her piece. "A Drive in Russia." There was a round of clapping during which she deftly fixed bells to her wrists. She smiled a little and immediately burst into energetic melody. There was a great deal more clapping when she finished, and when this was over, as an encore, she gave a piece which imitated the sea; there were little trills to represent the lapping waves and thundering chords, with the loud pedal down, to suggest a storm. After this a gentleman sang a song called Bid me Good-bye, and as an encore obliged with Sing me to Sleep. The audience measured their enthusiasm with a nice discrimination. Everyone was applauded till he gave an encore, and so that there might be no jealousy no one was applauded more than anyone else. Miss Bennett sailed up to Philip. "I'm sure you play or sing, Mr. Carey," she said archly. "I can see it in your face." "I'm afraid I don't." "Don't you even recite?" "I have no parlour tricks." The buyer in the 'gentleman's hosiery' was a well-known reciter, and he was called upon loudly to perform by all the assistants in his department. Needing no pressing, he gave a long poem of tragic character, in which he rolled his eyes, put his hand on his chest, and acted as though he were in great agony. The point, that he had eaten cucumber for supper, was divulged in the last line and was greeted with laughter, a little forced because everyone knew the poem well, but loud and long. Miss Bennett did not sing, play, or recite. "Oh no, she 'as a little game of her own," said Mrs. Hodges. "Now, don't you begin chaffing me. The fact is I know quite a lot about palmistry and second sight." "Oh, do tell my 'and, Miss Bennett," cried the girls in her department, eager to please her. "I don't like telling 'ands, I don't really. I've told people such terrible things and they've all come true, it makes one superstitious like." "Oh, Miss Bennett, just for once." A little crowd collected round her, and, amid screams of embarrassment, giggles, blushings, and cries of dismay or admiration, she talked mysteriously of fair and dark men, of money in a letter, and of journeys, till the sweat stood in heavy beads on her painted face. "Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration." Supper was at nine. There were cakes, buns, sandwiches, tea and coffee, all free; but if you wanted mineral water you had to pay for it. Gallantry often led young men to offer the ladies ginger beer, but common decency made them refuse. Miss Bennett was very fond of ginger beer, and she drank two and sometimes three bottles during the evening; but she insisted on paying for them herself. The men liked her for that. "She's a rum old bird," they said, "but mind you, she's not a bad sort, she's not like what some are." After supper progressive whist was played. This was very noisy, and there was a great deal of laughing and shouting, as people moved from table to table. Miss Bennett grew hotter and hotter. "Look at me," she said. "I'm all of a perspiration." In due course one of the more dashing of the young men remarked that if they wanted to dance they'd better begin. The girl who had played the accompaniments sat at the piano and placed a decided foot on the loud pedal. She played a dreamy waltz, marking the time with the bass, while with the right hand she 'tiddled' in alternate octaves. By way of a change she crossed her hands and played the air in the bass. "She does play well, doesn't she?" Mrs. Hodges remarked to Philip. "And what's more she's never 'ad a lesson in 'er life; it's all ear." Miss Bennett liked dancing and poetry better than anything in the world. She danced well, but very, very slowly, and an expression came into her eyes as though her thoughts were far, far away. She talked breathlessly of the floor and the heat and the supper. She said that the Portman Rooms had the best floor in London and she always liked the dances there; they were very select, and she couldn't bear dancing with all sorts of men you didn't know anything about; why, you might be exposing yourself to you didn't know what all. Nearly all the people danced very well, and they enjoyed themselves. Sweat poured down their faces, and the very high collars of the young men grew limp. Philip looked on, and a greater depression seized him than he remembered to have felt for a long time. He felt intolerably alone. He did not go, because he was afraid to seem supercilious, and he talked with the girls and laughed, but in his heart was unhappiness. Miss Bennett asked him if he had a girl. "No," he smiled. "Oh, well, there's plenty to choose from here. And they're very nice respectable girls, some of them. I expect you'll have a girl before you've been here long." She looked at him very archly. "Meet 'em 'alf-way," said Mrs. Hodges. "That's what I tell him." It was nearly eleven o'clock, and the party broke up. Philip could not get to sleep. Like the others he kept his aching feet outside the bed-clothes. He tried with all his might not to think of the life he was leading. The soldier was snoring quietly. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CV The wages were paid once a month by the secretary. On pay-day each batch of assistants, coming down from tea, went into the passage and joined the long line of people waiting orderly like the audience in a queue outside a gallery door. One by one they entered the office. The secretary sat at a desk with wooden bowls of money in front of him, and he asked the employe's name; he referred to a book, quickly, after a suspicious glance at the assistant, said aloud the sum due, and taking money out of the bowl counted it into his hand. "Thank you," he said. "Next." "Thank you," was the reply. The assistant passed on to the second secretary and before leaving the room paid him four shillings for washing money, two shillings for the club, and any fines that he might have incurred. With what he had left he went back into his department and there waited till it was time to go. Most of the men in Philip's house were in debt with the woman who sold the sandwiches they generally ate for supper. She was a funny old thing, very fat, with a broad, red face, and black hair plastered neatly on each side of the forehead in the fashion shown in early pictures of Queen Victoria. She always wore a little black bonnet and a white apron; her sleeves were tucked up to the elbow; she cut the sandwiches with large, dirty, greasy hands; and there was grease on her bodice, grease on her apron, grease on her skirt. She was called Mrs. Fletcher, but everyone addressed her as 'Ma'; she was really fond of the shop assistants, whom she called her boys; she never minded giving credit towards the end of the month, and it was known that now and then she had lent someone or other a few shillings when he was in straits. She was a good woman. When they were leaving or when they came back from the holidays, the boys kissed her fat red cheek; and more than one, dismissed and unable to find another job, had got for nothing food to keep body and soul together. The boys were sensible of her large heart and repaid her with genuine affection. There was a story they liked to tell of a man who had done well for himself at Bradford, and had five shops of his own, and had come back after fifteen years and visited Ma Fletcher and given her a gold watch. Philip found himself with eighteen shillings left out of his month's pay. It was the first money he had ever earned in his life. It gave him none of the pride which might have been expected, but merely a feeling of dismay. The smallness of the sum emphasised the hopelessness of his position. He took fifteen shillings to Mrs. Athelny to pay back part of what he owed her, but she would not take more than half a sovereign. "D'you know, at that rate it'll take me eight months to settle up with you." "As long as Athelny's in work I can afford to wait, and who knows, p'raps they'll give you a rise." Athelny kept on saying that he would speak to the manager about Philip, it was absurd that no use should be made of his talents; but he did nothing, and Philip soon came to the conclusion that the press-agent was not a person of so much importance in the manager's eyes as in his own. Occasionally he saw Athelny in the shop. His flamboyance was extinguished; and in neat, commonplace, shabby clothes he hurried, a subdued, unassuming little man, through the departments as though anxious to escape notice. "When I think of how I'm wasted there," he said at home, "I'm almost tempted to give in my notice. There's no scope for a man like me. I'm stunted, I'm starved." Mrs. Athelny, quietly sewing, took no notice of his complaints. Her mouth tightened a little. "It's very hard to get jobs in these times. It's regular and it's safe; I expect you'll stay there as long as you give satisfaction." It was evident that Athelny would. It was interesting to see the ascendency which the uneducated woman, bound to him by no legal tie, had acquired over the brilliant, unstable man. Mrs. Athelny treated Philip with motherly kindness now that he was in a different position, and he was touched by her anxiety that he should make a good meal. It was the solace of his life (and when he grew used to it, the monotony of it was what chiefly appalled him) that he could go every Sunday to that friendly house. It was a joy to sit in the stately Spanish chairs and discuss all manner of things with Athelny. Though his condition seemed so desperate he never left him to go back to Harrington Street without a feeling of exultation. At first Philip, in order not to forget what he had learned, tried to go on reading his medical books, but he found it useless; he could not fix his attention on them after the exhausting work of the day; and it seemed hopeless to continue working when he did not know in how long he would be able to go back to the hospital. He dreamed constantly that he was in the wards. The awakening was painful. The sensation of other people sleeping in the room was inexpressibly irksome to him; he had been used to solitude, and to be with others always, never to be by himself for an instant was at these moments horrible to him. It was then that he found it most difficult to combat his despair. He saw himself going on with that life, first to the right, second on the left, madam, indefinitely; and having to be thankful if he was not sent away: the men who had gone to the war would be coming home soon, the firm had guaranteed to take them back, and this must mean that others would be sacked; he would have to stir himself even to keep the wretched post he had. There was only one thing to free him and that was the death of his uncle. He would get a few hundred pounds then, and on this he could finish his course at the hospital. Philip began to wish with all his might for the old man's death. He reckoned out how long he could possibly live: he was well over seventy, Philip did not know his exact age, but he must be at least seventy-five; he suffered from chronic bronchitis and every winter had a bad cough. Though he knew them by heart Philip read over and over again the details in his text-book of medicine of chronic bronchitis in the old. A severe winter might be too much for the old man. With all his heart Philip longed for cold and rain. He thought of it constantly, so that it became a monomania. Uncle William was affected by the great heat too, and in August they had three weeks of sweltering weather. Philip imagined to himself that one day perhaps a telegram would come saying that the Vicar had died suddenly, and he pictured to himself his unutterable relief. As he stood at the top of the stairs and directed people to the departments they wanted, he occupied his mind with thinking incessantly what he would do with the money. He did not know how much it would be, perhaps no more than five hundred pounds, but even that would be enough. He would leave the shop at once, he would not bother to give notice, he would pack his box and go without saying a word to anybody; and then he would return to the hospital. That was the first thing. Would he have forgotten much? In six months he could get it all back, and then he would take his three examinations as soon as he could, midwifery first, then medicine and surgery. The awful fear seized him that his uncle, notwithstanding his promises, might leave everything he had to the parish or the church. The thought made Philip sick. He could not be so cruel. But if that happened Philip was quite determined what to do, he would not go on in that way indefinitely; his life was only tolerable because he could look forward to something better. If he had no hope he would have no fear. The only brave thing to do then would be to commit suicide, and, thinking this over too, Philip decided minutely what painless drug he would take and how he would get hold of it. It encouraged him to think that, if things became unendurable, he had at all events a way out. "Second to the right, madam, and down the stairs. First on the left and straight through. Mr. Philips, forward please." Once a month, for a week, Philip was 'on duty.' He had to go to the department at seven in the morning and keep an eye on the sweepers. When they finished he had to take the sheets off the cases and the models. Then, in the evening when the assistants left, he had to put back the sheets on the models and the cases and 'gang' the sweepers again. It was a dusty, dirty job. He was not allowed to read or write or smoke, but just had to walk about, and the time hung heavily on his hands. When he went off at half past nine he had supper given him, and this was the only consolation; for tea at five o'clock had left him with a healthy appetite, and the bread and cheese, the abundant cocoa which the firm provided, were welcome. One day when Philip had been at Lynn's for three months, Mr. Sampson, the buyer, came into the department, fuming with anger. The manager, happening to notice the costume window as he came in, had sent for the buyer and made satirical remarks upon the colour scheme. Forced to submit in silence to his superior's sarcasm, Mr. Sampson took it out of the assistants; and he rated the wretched fellow whose duty it was to dress the window. "If you want a thing well done you must do it yourself," Mr. Sampson stormed. "I've always said it and I always shall. One can't leave anything to you chaps. Intelligent you call yourselves, do you? Intelligent!" He threw the word at the assistants as though it were the bitterest term of reproach. "Don't you know that if you put an electric blue in the window it'll kill all the other blues?" He looked round the department ferociously, and his eye fell upon Philip. "You'll dress the window next Friday, Carey. Let's see what you can make of it." He went into his office, muttering angrily. Philip's heart sank. When Friday morning came he went into the window with a sickening sense of shame. His cheeks were burning. It was horrible to display himself to the passers-by, and though he told himself it was foolish to give way to such a feeling he turned his back to the street. There was not much chance that any of the students at the hospital would pass along Oxford Street at that hour, and he knew hardly anyone else in London; but as Philip worked, with a huge lump in his throat, he fancied that on turning round he would catch the eye of some man he knew. He made all the haste he could. By the simple observation that all reds went together, and by spacing the costumes more than was usual, Philip got a very good effect; and when the buyer went into the street to look at the result he was obviously pleased. "I knew I shouldn't go far wrong in putting you on the window. The fact is, you and me are gentlemen, mind you I wouldn't say this in the department, but you and me are gentlemen, and that always tells. It's no good your telling me it doesn't tell, because I know it does tell." Philip was put on the job regularly, but he could not accustom himself to the publicity; and he dreaded Friday morning, on which the window was dressed, with a terror that made him awake at five o'clock and lie sleepless with sickness in his heart. The girls in the department noticed his shamefaced way, and they very soon discovered his trick of standing with his back to the street. They laughed at him and called him 'sidey.' "I suppose you're afraid your aunt'll come along and cut you out of her will." On the whole he got on well enough with the girls. They thought him a little queer; but his club-foot seemed to excuse his not being like the rest, and they found in due course that he was good-natured. He never minded helping anyone, and he was polite and even tempered. "You can see he's a gentleman," they said. "Very reserved, isn't he?" said one young woman, to whose passionate enthusiasm for the theatre he had listened unmoved. Most of them had 'fellers,' and those who hadn't said they had rather than have it supposed that no one had an inclination for them. One or two showed signs of being willing to start a flirtation with Philip, and he watched their manoeuvres with grave amusement. He had had enough of love-making for some time; and he was nearly always tired and often hungry. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CVI Philip avoided the places he had known in happier times. The little gatherings at the tavern in Beak Street were broken up: Macalister, having let down his friends, no longer went there, and Hayward was at the Cape. Only Lawson remained; and Philip, feeling that now the painter and he had nothing in common, did not wish to see him; but one Saturday afternoon, after dinner, having changed his clothes he walked down Regent Street to go to the free library in St. Martin's Lane, meaning to spend the afternoon there, and suddenly found himself face to face with him. His first instinct was to pass on without a word, but Lawson did not give him the opportunity. "Where on earth have you been all this time?" he cried. "I?" said Philip. "I wrote you and asked you to come to the studio for a beano and you never even answered." "I didn't get your letter." "No, I know. I went to the hospital to ask for you, and I saw my letter in the rack. Have you chucked the Medical?" Philip hesitated for a moment. He was ashamed to tell the truth, but the shame he felt angered him, and he forced himself to speak. He could not help reddening. "Yes, I lost the little money I had. I couldn't afford to go on with it." "I say, I'm awfully sorry. What are you doing?" "I'm a shop-walker." The words choked Philip, but he was determined not to shirk the truth. He kept his eyes on Lawson and saw his embarrassment. Philip smiled savagely. "If you went into Lynn and Sedley, and made your way into the 'made robes' department, you would see me in a frock coat, walking about with a degage air and directing ladies who want to buy petticoats or stockings. First to the right, madam, and second on the left." Lawson, seeing that Philip was making a jest of it, laughed awkwardly. He did not know what to say. The picture that Philip called up horrified him, but he was afraid to show his sympathy. "That's a bit of a change for you," he said. His words seemed absurd to him, and immediately he wished he had not said them. Philip flushed darkly. "A bit," he said. "By the way, I owe you five bob." He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out some silver. "Oh, it doesn't matter. I'd forgotten all about it." "Go on, take it." Lawson received the money silently. They stood in the middle of the pavement, and people jostled them as they passed. There was a sardonic twinkle in Philip's eyes, which made the painter intensely uncomfortable, and he could not tell that Philip's heart was heavy with despair. Lawson wanted dreadfully to do something, but he did not know what to do. "I say, won't you come to the studio and have a talk?" "No," said Philip. "Why not?" "There's nothing to talk about." He saw the pain come into Lawson's eyes, he could not help it, he was sorry, but he had to think of himself; he could not bear the thought of discussing his situation, he could endure it only by determining resolutely not to think about it. He was afraid of his weakness if once he began to open his heart. Moreover, he took irresistible dislikes to the places where he had been miserable: he remembered the humiliation he had endured when he had waited in that studio, ravenous with hunger, for Lawson to offer him a meal, and the last occasion when he had taken the five shillings off him. He hated the sight of Lawson, because he recalled those days of utter abasement. "Then look here, come and dine with me one night. Choose your own evening." Philip was touched with the painter's kindness. All sorts of people were strangely kind to him, he thought. "It's awfully good of you, old man, but I'd rather not." He held out his hand. "Good-bye." Lawson, troubled by a behaviour which seemed inexplicable, took his hand, and Philip quickly limped away. His heart was heavy; and, as was usual with him, he began to reproach himself for what he had done: he did not know what madness of pride had made him refuse the offered friendship. But he heard someone running behind him and presently Lawson's voice calling him; he stopped and suddenly the feeling of hostility got the better of him; he presented to Lawson a cold, set face. "What is it?" "I suppose you heard about Hayward, didn't you?" "I know he went to the Cape." "He died, you know, soon after landing." For a moment Philip did not answer. He could hardly believe his ears. "How?" he asked. "Oh, enteric. Hard luck, wasn't it? I thought you mightn't know. Gave me a bit of a turn when I heard it." Lawson nodded quickly and walked away. Philip felt a shiver pass through his heart. He had never before lost a friend of his own age, for the death of Cronshaw, a man so much older than himself, had seemed to come in the normal course of things. The news gave him a peculiar shock. It reminded him of his own mortality, for like everyone else Philip, knowing perfectly that all men must die, had no intimate feeling that the same must apply to himself; and Hayward's death, though he had long ceased to have any warm feeling for him, affected him deeply. He remembered on a sudden all the good talks they had had, and it pained him to think that they would never talk with one another again; he remembered their first meeting and the pleasant months they had spent together in Heidelberg. Philip's heart sank as he thought of the lost years. He walked on mechanically, not noticing where he went, and realised suddenly, with a movement of irritation, that instead of turning down the Haymarket he had sauntered along Shaftesbury Avenue. It bored him to retrace his steps; and besides, with that news, he did not want to read, he wanted to sit alone and think. He made up his mind to go to the British Museum. Solitude was now his only luxury. Since he had been at Lynn's he had often gone there and sat in front of the groups from the Parthenon; and, not deliberately thinking, had allowed their divine masses to rest his troubled soul. But this afternoon they had nothing to say to him, and after a few minutes, impatiently, he wandered out of the room. There were too many people, provincials with foolish faces, foreigners poring over guide-books; their hideousness besmirched the everlasting masterpieces, their restlessness troubled the god's immortal repose. He went into another room and here there was hardly anyone. Philip sat down wearily. His nerves were on edge. He could not get the people out of his mind. Sometimes at Lynn's they affected him in the same way, and he looked at them file past him with horror; they were so ugly and there was such meanness in their faces, it was terrifying; their features were distorted with paltry desires, and you felt they were strange to any ideas of beauty. They had furtive eyes and weak chins. There was no wickedness in them, but only pettiness and vulgarity. Their humour was a low facetiousness. Sometimes he found himself looking at them to see what animal they resembled (he tried not to, for it quickly became an obsession,) and he saw in them all the sheep or the horse or the fox or the goat. Human beings filled him with disgust. But presently the influence of the place descended upon him. He felt quieter. He began to look absently at the tombstones with which the room was lined. They were the work of Athenian stone masons of the fourth and fifth centuries before Christ, and they were very simple, work of no great talent but with the exquisite spirit of Athens upon them; time had mellowed the marble to the colour of honey, so that unconsciously one thought of the bees of Hymettus, and softened their outlines. Some represented a nude figure, seated on a bench, some the departure of the dead from those who loved him, and some the dead clasping hands with one who remained behind. On all was the tragic word farewell; that and nothing more. Their simplicity was infinitely touching. Friend parted from friend, the son from his mother, and the restraint made the survivor's grief more poignant. It was so long, long ago, and century upon century had passed over that unhappiness; for two thousand years those who wept had been dust as those they wept for. Yet the woe was alive still, and it filled Philip's heart so that he felt compassion spring up in it, and he said: "Poor things, poor things." And it came to him that the gaping sight-seers and the fat strangers with their guide-books, and all those mean, common people who thronged the shop, with their trivial desires and vulgar cares, were mortal and must die. They too loved and must part from those they loved, the son from his mother, the wife from her husband; and perhaps it was more tragic because their lives were ugly and sordid, and they knew nothing that gave beauty to the world. There was one stone which was very beautiful, a bas relief of two young men holding each other's hand; and the reticence of line, the simplicity, made one like to think that the sculptor here had been touched with a genuine emotion. It was an exquisite memorial to that than which the world offers but one thing more precious, to a friendship; and as Philip looked at it, he felt the tears come to his eyes. He thought of Hayward and his eager admiration for him when first they met, and how disillusion had come and then indifference, till nothing held them together but habit and old memories. It was one of the queer things of life that you saw a person every day for months and were so intimate with him that you could not imagine existence without him; then separation came, and everything went on in the same way, and the companion who had seemed essential proved unnecessary. Your life proceeded and you did not even miss him. Philip thought of those early days in Heidelberg when Hayward, capable of great things, had been full of enthusiasm for the future, and how, little by little, achieving nothing, he had resigned himself to failure. Now he was dead. His death had been as futile as his life. He died ingloriously, of a stupid disease, failing once more, even at the end, to accomplish anything. It was just the same now as if he had never lived. Philip asked himself desperately what was the use of living at all. It all seemed inane. It was the same with Cronshaw: it was quite unimportant that he had lived; he was dead and forgotten, his book of poems sold in remainder by second-hand booksellers; his life seemed to have served nothing except to give a pushing journalist occasion to write an article in a review. And Philip cried out in his soul: "What is the use of it?" The effort was so incommensurate with the result. The bright hopes of youth had to be paid for at such a bitter price of disillusionment. Pain and disease and unhappiness weighed down the scale so heavily. What did it all mean? He thought of his own life, the high hopes with which he had entered upon it, the limitations which his body forced upon him, his friendlessness, and the lack of affection which had surrounded his youth. He did not know that he had ever done anything but what seemed best to do, and what a cropper he had come! Other men, with no more advantages than he, succeeded, and others again, with many more, failed. It seemed pure chance. The rain fell alike upon the just and upon the unjust, and for nothing was there a why and a wherefore. Thinking of Cronshaw, Philip remembered the Persian rug which he had given him, telling him that it offered an answer to his question upon the meaning of life; and suddenly the answer occurred to him: he chuckled: now that he had it, it was like one of the puzzles which you worry over till you are shown the solution and then cannot imagine how it could ever have escaped you. The answer was obvious. Life had no meaning. On the earth, satellite of a star speeding through space, living things had arisen under the influence of conditions which were part of the planet's history; and as there had been a beginning of life upon it so, under the influence of other conditions, there would be an end: man, no more significant than other forms of life, had come not as the climax of creation but as a physical reaction to the environment. Philip remembered the story of the Eastern King who, desiring to know the history of man, was brought by a sage five hundred volumes; busy with affairs of state, he bade him go and condense it; in twenty years the sage returned and his history now was in no more than fifty volumes, but the King, too old then to read so many ponderous tomes, bade him go and shorten it once more; twenty years passed again and the sage, old and gray, brought a single book in which was the knowledge the King had sought; but the King lay on his death-bed, and he had no time to read even that; and then the sage gave him the history of man in a single line; it was this: he was born, he suffered, and he died. There was no meaning in life, and man by living served no end. It was immaterial whether he was born or not born, whether he lived or ceased to live. Life was insignificant and death without consequence. Philip exulted, as he had exulted in his boyhood when the weight of a belief in God was lifted from his shoulders: it seemed to him that the last burden of responsibility was taken from him; and for the first time he was utterly free. His insignificance was turned to power, and he felt himself suddenly equal with the cruel fate which had seemed to persecute him; for, if life was meaningless, the world was robbed of its cruelty. What he did or left undone did not matter. Failure was unimportant and success amounted to nothing. He was the most inconsiderate creature in that swarming mass of mankind which for a brief space occupied the surface of the earth; and he was almighty because he had wrenched from chaos the secret of its nothingness. Thoughts came tumbling over one another in Philip's eager fancy, and he took long breaths of joyous satisfaction. He felt inclined to leap and sing. He had not been so happy for months. "Oh, life," he cried in his heart, "Oh life, where is thy sting?" For the same uprush of fancy which had shown him with all the force of mathematical demonstration that life had no meaning, brought with it another idea; and that was why Cronshaw, he imagined, had given him the Persian rug. As the weaver elaborated his pattern for no end but the pleasure of his aesthetic sense, so might a man live his life, or if one was forced to believe that his actions were outside his choosing, so might a man look at his life, that it made a pattern. There was as little need to do this as there was use. It was merely something he did for his own pleasure. Out of the manifold events of his life, his deeds, his feelings, his thoughts, he might make a design, regular, elaborate, complicated, or beautiful; and though it might be no more than an illusion that he had the power of selection, though it might be no more than a fantastic legerdemain in which appearances were interwoven with moonbeams, that did not matter: it seemed, and so to him it was. In the vast warp of life (a river arising from no spring and flowing endlessly to no sea), with the background to his fancies that there was no meaning and that nothing was important, a man might get a personal satisfaction in selecting the various strands that worked out the pattern. There was one pattern, the most obvious, perfect, and beautiful, in which a man was born, grew to manhood, married, produced children, toiled for his bread, and died; but there were others, intricate and wonderful, in which happiness did not enter and in which success was not attempted; and in them might be discovered a more troubling grace. Some lives, and Hayward's was among them, the blind indifference of chance cut off while the design was still imperfect; and then the solace was comfortable that it did not matter; other lives, such as Cronshaw's, offered a pattern which was difficult to follow, the point of view had to be shifted and old standards had to be altered before one could understand that such a life was its own justification. Philip thought that in throwing over the desire for happiness he was casting aside the last of his illusions. His life had seemed horrible when it was measured by its happiness, but now he seemed to gather strength as he realised that it might be measured by something else. Happiness mattered as little as pain. They came in, both of them, as all the other details of his life came in, to the elaboration of the design. He seemed for an instant to stand above the accidents of his existence, and he felt that they could not affect him again as they had done before. Whatever happened to him now would be one more motive to add to the complexity of the pattern, and when the end approached he would rejoice in its completion. It would be a work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence, and with his death it would at once cease to be. Philip was happy. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CVII Mr. Sampson, the buyer, took a fancy to Philip. Mr. Sampson was very dashing, and the girls in his department said they would not be surprised if he married one of the rich customers. He lived out of town and often impressed the assistants by putting on his evening clothes in the office. Sometimes he would be seen by those on sweeping duty coming in next morning still dressed, and they would wink gravely to one another while he went into his office and changed into a frock coat. On these occasions, having slipped out for a hurried breakfast, he also would wink at Philip as he walked up the stairs on his way back and rub his hands. "What a night! What a night!" he said. "My word!" He told Philip that he was the only gentleman there, and he and Philip were the only fellows who knew what life was. Having said this, he changed his manner suddenly, called Philip Mr. Carey instead of old boy, assumed the importance due to his position as buyer, and put Philip back into his place of shop-walker. Lynn and Sedley received fashion papers from Paris once a week and adapted the costumes illustrated in them to the needs of their customers. Their clientele was peculiar. The most substantial part consisted of women from the smaller manufacturing towns, who were too elegant to have their frocks made locally and not sufficiently acquainted with London to discover good dressmakers within their means. Beside these, incongruously, was a large number of music-hall artistes. This was a connection that Mr. Sampson had worked up for himself and took great pride in. They had begun by getting their stage-costumes at Lynn's, and he had induced many of them to get their other clothes there as well. "As good as Paquin and half the price," he said. He had a persuasive, hail-fellow well-met air with him which appealed to customers of this sort, and they said to one another: "What's the good of throwing money away when you can get a coat and skirt at Lynn's that nobody knows don't come from Paris?" Mr. Sampson was very proud of his friendship with the popular favourites whose frocks he made, and when he went out to dinner at two o'clock on Sunday with Miss Victoria Virgo--"she was wearing that powder blue we made her and I lay she didn't let on it come from us, I 'ad to tell her meself that if I 'adn't designed it with my own 'ands I'd have said it must come from Paquin"--at her beautiful house in Tulse Hill, he regaled the department next day with abundant details. Philip had never paid much attention to women's clothes, but in course of time he began, a little amused at himself, to take a technical interest in them. He had an eye for colour which was more highly trained than that of anyone in the department, and he had kept from his student days in Paris some knowledge of line. Mr. Sampson, an ignorant man conscious of his incompetence, but with a shrewdness that enabled him to combine other people's suggestions, constantly asked the opinion of the assistants in his department in making up new designs; and he had the quickness to see that Philip's criticisms were valuable. But he was very jealous, and would never allow that he took anyone's advice. When he had altered some drawing in accordance with Philip's suggestion, he always finished up by saying: "Well, it comes round to my own idea in the end." One day, when Philip had been at the shop for five months, Miss Alice Antonia, the well-known serio-comic, came in and asked to see Mr. Sampson. She was a large woman, with flaxen hair, and a boldly painted face, a metallic voice, and the breezy manner of a comedienne accustomed to be on friendly terms with the gallery boys of provincial music-halls. She had a new song and wished Mr. Sampson to design a costume for her. "I want something striking," she said. "I don't want any old thing you know. I want something different from what anybody else has." Mr. Sampson, bland and familiar, said he was quite certain they could get her the very thing she required. He showed her sketches. "I know there's nothing here that would do, but I just want to show you the kind of thing I would suggest." "Oh no, that's not the sort of thing at all," she said, as she glanced at them impatiently. "What I want is something that'll just hit 'em in the jaw and make their front teeth rattle." "Yes, I quite understand, Miss Antonia," said the buyer, with a bland smile, but his eyes grew blank and stupid. "I expect I shall 'ave to pop over to Paris for it in the end." "Oh, I think we can give you satisfaction, Miss Antonia. What you can get in Paris you can get here." When she had swept out of the department Mr. Sampson, a little worried, discussed the matter with Mrs. Hodges. "She's a caution and no mistake," said Mrs. Hodges. "Alice, where art thou?" remarked the buyer, irritably, and thought he had scored a point against her. His ideas of music-hall costumes had never gone beyond short skirts, a swirl of lace, and glittering sequins; but Miss Antonia had expressed herself on that subject in no uncertain terms. "Oh, my aunt!" she said. And the invocation was uttered in such a tone as to indicate a rooted antipathy to anything so commonplace, even if she had not added that sequins gave her the sick. Mr. Sampson 'got out' one or two ideas, but Mrs. Hodges told him frankly she did not think they would do. It was she who gave Philip the suggestion: "Can you draw, Phil? Why don't you try your 'and and see what you can do?" Philip bought a cheap box of water colours, and in the evening while Bell, the noisy lad of sixteen, whistling three notes, busied himself with his stamps, he made one or two sketches. He remembered some of the costumes he had seen in Paris, and he adapted one of them, getting his effect from a combination of violent, unusual colours. The result amused him and next morning he showed it to Mrs. Hodges. She was somewhat astonished, but took it at once to the buyer. "It's unusual," he said, "there's no denying that." It puzzled him, and at the same time his trained eye saw that it would make up admirably. To save his face he began making suggestions for altering it, but Mrs. Hodges, with more sense, advised him to show it to Miss Antonia as it was. "It's neck or nothing with her, and she may take a fancy to it." "It's a good deal more nothing than neck," said Mr. Sampson, looking at the decolletage. "He can draw, can't he? Fancy 'im keeping it dark all this time." When Miss Antonia was announced, the buyer placed the design on the table in such a position that it must catch her eye the moment she was shown into his office. She pounced on it at once. "What's that?" she said. "Why can't I 'ave that?" "That's just an idea we got out for you," said Mr. Sampson casually. "D'you like it?" "Do I like it!" she said. "Give me 'alf a pint with a little drop of gin in it." "Ah, you see, you don't have to go to Paris. You've only got to say what you want and there you are." The work was put in hand at once, and Philip felt quite a thrill of satisfaction when he saw the costume completed. The buyer and Mrs. Hodges took all the credit of it; but he did not care, and when he went with them to the Tivoli to see Miss Antonia wear it for the first time he was filled with elation. In answer to her questions he at last told Mrs. Hodges how he had learnt to draw--fearing that the people he lived with would think he wanted to put on airs, he had always taken the greatest care to say nothing about his past occupations--and she repeated the information to Mr. Sampson. The buyer said nothing to him on the subject, but began to treat him a little more deferentially and presently gave him designs to do for two of the country customers. They met with satisfaction. Then he began to speak to his clients of a "clever young feller, Paris art-student, you know," who worked for him; and soon Philip, ensconced behind a screen, in his shirt sleeves, was drawing from morning till night. Sometimes he was so busy that he had to dine at three with the 'stragglers.' He liked it, because there were few of them and they were all too tired to talk; the food also was better, for it consisted of what was left over from the buyers' table. Philip's rise from shop-walker to designer of costumes had a great effect on the department. He realised that he was an object of envy. Harris, the assistant with the queer-shaped head, who was the first person he had known at the shop and had attached himself to Philip, could not conceal his bitterness. "Some people 'ave all the luck," he said. "You'll be a buyer yourself one of these days, and we shall all be calling you sir." He told Philip that he should demand higher wages, for notwithstanding the difficult work he was now engaged in, he received no more than the six shillings a week with which he started. But it was a ticklish matter to ask for a rise. The manager had a sardonic way of dealing with such applicants. "Think you're worth more, do you? How much d'you think you're worth, eh?" The assistant, with his heart in his mouth, would suggest that he thought he ought to have another two shillings a week. "Oh, very well, if you think you're worth it. You can 'ave it." Then he paused and sometimes, with a steely eye, added: "And you can 'ave your notice too." It was no use then to withdraw your request, you had to go. The manager's idea was that assistants who were dissatisfied did not work properly, and if they were not worth a rise it was better to sack them at once. The result was that they never asked for one unless they were prepared to leave. Philip hesitated. He was a little suspicious of the men in his room who told him that the buyer could not do without him. They were decent fellows, but their sense of humour was primitive, and it would have seemed funny to them if they had persuaded Philip to ask for more wages and he were sacked. He could not forget the mortification he had suffered in looking for work, he did not wish to expose himself to that again, and he knew there was small chance of his getting elsewhere a post as designer: there were hundreds of people about who could draw as well as he. But he wanted money very badly; his clothes were worn out, and the heavy carpets rotted his socks and boots; he had almost persuaded himself to take the venturesome step when one morning, passing up from breakfast in the basement through the passage that led to the manager's office, he saw a queue of men waiting in answer to an advertisement. There were about a hundred of them, and whichever was engaged would be offered his keep and the same six shillings a week that Philip had. He saw some of them cast envious glances at him because he had employment. It made him shudder. He dared not risk it. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CVIII The winter passed. Now and then Philip went to the hospital, slinking in when it was late and there was little chance of meeting anyone he knew, to see whether there were letters for him. At Easter he received one from his uncle. He was surprised to hear from him, for the Vicar of Blackstable had never written him more than half a dozen letters in his whole life, and they were on business matters. Dear Philip, If you are thinking of taking a holiday soon and care to come down here I shall be pleased to see you. I was very ill with my bronchitis in the winter and Doctor Wigram never expected me to pull through. I have a wonderful constitution and I made, thank God, a marvellous recovery. Yours affectionately, William Carey. The letter made Philip angry. How did his uncle think he was living? He did not even trouble to inquire. He might have starved for all the old man cared. But as he walked home something struck him; he stopped under a lamp-post and read the letter again; the handwriting had no longer the business-like firmness which had characterised it; it was larger and wavering: perhaps the illness had shaken him more than he was willing to confess, and he sought in that formal note to express a yearning to see the only relation he had in the world. Philip wrote back that he could come down to Blackstable for a fortnight in July. The invitation was convenient, for he had not known what to do, with his brief holiday. The Athelnys went hopping in September, but he could not then be spared, since during that month the autumn models were prepared. The rule of Lynn's was that everyone must take a fortnight whether he wanted it or not; and during that time, if he had nowhere to go, the assistant might sleep in his room, but he was not allowed food. A number had no friends within reasonable distance of London, and to these the holiday was an awkward interval when they had to provide food out of their small wages and, with the whole day on their hands, had nothing to spend. Philip had not been out of London since his visit to Brighton with Mildred, now two years before, and he longed for fresh air and the silence of the sea. He thought of it with such a passionate desire, all through May and June, that, when at length the time came for him to go, he was listless. On his last evening, when he talked with the buyer of one or two jobs he had to leave over, Mr. Sampson suddenly said to him: "What wages have you been getting?" "Six shillings." "I don't think it's enough. I'll see that you're put up to twelve when you come back." "Thank you very much," smiled Philip. "I'm beginning to want some new clothes badly." "If you stick to your work and don't go larking about with the girls like what some of them do, I'll look after you, Carey. Mind you, you've got a lot to learn, but you're promising, I'll say that for you, you're promising, and I'll see that you get a pound a week as soon as you deserve it." Philip wondered how long he would have to wait for that. Two years? He was startled at the change in his uncle. When last he had seen him he was a stout man, who held himself upright, clean-shaven, with a round, sensual face; but he had fallen in strangely, his skin was yellow; there were great bags under the eyes, and he was bent and old. He had grown a beard during his last illness, and he walked very slowly. "I'm not at my best today," he said when Philip, having just arrived, was sitting with him in the dining-room. "The heat upsets me." Philip, asking after the affairs of the parish, looked at him and wondered how much longer he could last. A hot summer would finish him; Philip noticed how thin his hands were; they trembled. It meant so much to Philip. If he died that summer he could go back to the hospital at the beginning of the winter session; his heart leaped at the thought of returning no more to Lynn's. At dinner the Vicar sat humped up on his chair, and the housekeeper who had been with him since his wife's death said: "Shall Mr. Philip carve, sir?" The old man, who had been about to do so from disinclination to confess his weakness, seemed glad at the first suggestion to relinquish the attempt. "You've got a very good appetite," said Philip. "Oh yes, I always eat well. But I'm thinner than when you were here last. I'm glad to be thinner, I didn't like being so fat. Dr. Wigram thinks I'm all the better for being thinner than I was." When dinner was over the housekeeper brought him some medicine. "Show the prescription to Master Philip," he said. "He's a doctor too. I'd like him to see that he thinks it's all right. I told Dr. Wigram that now you're studying to be a doctor he ought to make a reduction in his charges. It's dreadful the bills I've had to pay. He came every day for two months, and he charges five shillings a visit. It's a lot of money, isn't it? He comes twice a week still. I'm going to tell him he needn't come any more. I'll send for him if I want him." He looked at Philip eagerly while he read the prescriptions. They were narcotics. There were two of them, and one was a medicine which the Vicar explained he was to use only if his neuritis grew unendurable. "I'm very careful," he said. "I don't want to get into the opium habit." He did not mention his nephew's affairs. Philip fancied that it was by way of precaution, in case he asked for money, that his uncle kept dwelling on the financial calls upon him. He had spent so much on the doctor and so much more on the chemist, while he was ill they had had to have a fire every day in his bed-room, and now on Sunday he needed a carriage to go to church in the evening as well as in the morning. Philip felt angrily inclined to say he need not be afraid, he was not going to borrow from him, but he held his tongue. It seemed to him that everything had left the old man now but two things, pleasure in his food and a grasping desire for money. It was a hideous old age. In the afternoon Dr. Wigram came, and after the visit Philip walked with him to the garden gate. "How d'you think he is?" said Philip. Dr. Wigram was more anxious not to do wrong than to do right, and he never hazarded a definite opinion if he could help it. He had practised at Blackstable for five-and-thirty years. He had the reputation of being very safe, and many of his patients thought it much better that a doctor should be safe than clever. There was a new man at Blackstable--he had been settled there for ten years, but they still looked upon him as an interloper--and he was said to be very clever; but he had not much practice among the better people, because no one really knew anything about him. "Oh, he's as well as can be expected," said Dr. Wigram in answer to Philip's inquiry. "Has he got anything seriously the matter with him?" "Well, Philip, your uncle is no longer a young man," said the doctor with a cautious little smile, which suggested that after all the Vicar of Blackstable was not an old man either. "He seems to think his heart's in a bad way." "I'm not satisfied with his heart," hazarded the doctor, "I think he should be careful, very careful." On the tip of Philip's tongue was the question: how much longer can he live? He was afraid it would shock. In these matters a periphrase was demanded by the decorum of life, but, as he asked another question instead, it flashed through him that the doctor must be accustomed to the impatience of a sick man's relatives. He must see through their sympathetic expressions. Philip, with a faint smile at his own hypocrisy, cast down his eyes. "I suppose he's in no immediate danger?" This was the kind of question the doctor hated. If you said a patient couldn't live another month the family prepared itself for a bereavement, and if then the patient lived on they visited the medical attendant with the resentment they felt at having tormented themselves before it was necessary. On the other hand, if you said the patient might live a year and he died in a week the family said you did not know your business. They thought of all the affection they would have lavished on the defunct if they had known the end was so near. Dr. Wigram made the gesture of washing his hands. "I don't think there's any grave risk so long as he--remains as he is," he ventured at last. "But on the other hand, we mustn't forget that he's no longer a young man, and well, the machine is wearing out. If he gets over the hot weather I don't see why he shouldn't get on very comfortably till the winter, and then if the winter does not bother him too much, well, I don't see why anything should happen." Philip went back to the dining-room where his uncle was sitting. With his skull-cap and a crochet shawl over his shoulders he looked grotesque. His eyes had been fixed on the door, and they rested on Philip's face as he entered. Philip saw that his uncle had been waiting anxiously for his return. "Well, what did he say about me?" Philip understood suddenly that the old man was frightened of dying. It made Philip a little ashamed, so that he looked away involuntarily. He was always embarrassed by the weakness of human nature. "He says he thinks you're much better," said Philip. A gleam of delight came into his uncle's eyes. "I've got a wonderful constitution," he said. "What else did he say?" he added suspiciously. Philip smiled. "He said that if you take care of yourself there's no reason why you shouldn't live to be a hundred." "I don't know that I can expect to do that, but I don't see why I shouldn't see eighty. My mother lived till she was eighty-four." There was a little table by the side of Mr. Carey's chair, and on it were a Bible and the large volume of the Common Prayer from which for so many years he had been accustomed to read to his household. He stretched out now his shaking hand and took his Bible. "Those old patriarchs lived to a jolly good old age, didn't they?" he said, with a queer little laugh in which Philip read a sort of timid appeal. The old man clung to life. Yet he believed implicitly all that his religion taught him. He had no doubt in the immortality of the soul, and he felt that he had conducted himself well enough, according to his capacities, to make it very likely that he would go to heaven. In his long career to how many dying persons must he have administered the consolations of religion! Perhaps he was like the doctor who could get no benefit from his own prescriptions. Philip was puzzled and shocked by that eager cleaving to the earth. He wondered what nameless horror was at the back of the old man's mind. He would have liked to probe into his soul so that he might see in its nakedness the dreadful dismay of the unknown which he suspected. The fortnight passed quickly and Philip returned to London. He passed a sweltering August behind his screen in the costumes department, drawing in his shirt sleeves. The assistants in relays went for their holidays. In the evening Philip generally went into Hyde Park and listened to the band. Growing more accustomed to his work it tired him less, and his mind, recovering from its long stagnation, sought for fresh activity. His whole desire now was set on his uncle's death. He kept on dreaming the same dream: a telegram was handed to him one morning, early, which announced the Vicar's sudden demise, and freedom was in his grasp. When he awoke and found it was nothing but a dream he was filled with sombre rage. He occupied himself, now that the event seemed likely to happen at any time, with elaborate plans for the future. In these he passed rapidly over the year which he must spend before it was possible for him to be qualified and dwelt on the journey to Spain on which his heart was set. He read books about that country, which he borrowed from the free library, and already he knew from photographs exactly what each city looked like. He saw himself lingering in Cordova on the bridge that spanned the Gaudalquivir; he wandered through tortuous streets in Toledo and sat in churches where he wrung from El Greco the secret which he felt the mysterious painter held for him. Athelny entered into his humour, and on Sunday afternoons they made out elaborate itineraries so that Philip should miss nothing that was noteworthy. To cheat his impatience Philip began to teach himself Spanish, and in the deserted sitting-room in Harrington Street he spent an hour every evening doing Spanish exercises and puzzling out with an English translation by his side the magnificent phrases of Don Quixote. Athelny gave him a lesson once a week, and Philip learned a few sentences to help him on his journey. Mrs. Athelny laughed at them. "You two and your Spanish!" she said. "Why don't you do something useful?" But Sally, who was growing up and was to put up her hair at Christmas, stood by sometimes and listened in her grave way while her father and Philip exchanged remarks in a language she did not understand. She thought her father the most wonderful man who had ever existed, and she expressed her opinion of Philip only through her father's commendations. "Father thinks a rare lot of your Uncle Philip," she remarked to her brothers and sisters. Thorpe, the eldest boy, was old enough to go on the Arethusa, and Athelny regaled his family with magnificent descriptions of the appearance the lad would make when he came back in uniform for his holidays. As soon as Sally was seventeen she was to be apprenticed to a dressmaker. Athelny in his rhetorical way talked of the birds, strong enough to fly now, who were leaving the parental nest, and with tears in his eyes told them that the nest would be there still if ever they wished to return to it. A shakedown and a dinner would always be theirs, and the heart of a father would never be closed to the troubles of his children. "You do talk, Athelny," said his wife. "I don't know what trouble they're likely to get into so long as they're steady. So long as you're honest and not afraid of work you'll never be out of a job, that's what I think, and I can tell you I shan't be sorry when I see the last of them earning their own living." Child-bearing, hard work, and constant anxiety were beginning to tell on Mrs. Athelny; and sometimes her back ached in the evening so that she had to sit down and rest herself. Her ideal of happiness was to have a girl to do the rough work so that she need not herself get up before seven. Athelny waved his beautiful white hand. "Ah, my Betty, we've deserved well of the state, you and I. We've reared nine healthy children, and the boys shall serve their king; the girls shall cook and sew and in their turn breed healthy children." He turned to Sally, and to comfort her for the anti-climax of the contrast added grandiloquently: "They also serve who only stand and wait." Athelny had lately added socialism to the other contradictory theories he vehemently believed in, and he stated now: "In a socialist state we should be richly pensioned, you and I, Betty." "Oh, don't talk to me about your socialists, I've got no patience with them," she cried. "It only means that another lot of lazy loafers will make a good thing out of the working classes. My motto is, leave me alone; I don't want anyone interfering with me; I'll make the best of a bad job, and the devil take the hindmost." "D'you call life a bad job?" said Athelny. "Never! We've had our ups and downs, we've had our struggles, we've always been poor, but it's been worth it, ay, worth it a hundred times I say when I look round at my children." "You do talk, Athelny," she said, looking at him, not with anger but with scornful calm. "You've had the pleasant part of the children, I've had the bearing of them, and the bearing with them. I don't say that I'm not fond of them, now they're there, but if I had my time over again I'd remain single. Why, if I'd remained single I might have a little shop by now, and four or five hundred pounds in the bank, and a girl to do the rough work. Oh, I wouldn't go over my life again, not for something." Philip thought of the countless millions to whom life is no more than unending labour, neither beautiful nor ugly, but just to be accepted in the same spirit as one accepts the changes of the seasons. Fury seized him because it all seemed useless. He could not reconcile himself to the belief that life had no meaning and yet everything he saw, all his thoughts, added to the force of his conviction. But though fury seized him it was a joyful fury. Life was not so horrible if it was meaningless, and he faced it with a strange sense of power. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CIX The autumn passed into winter. Philip had left his address with Mrs. Foster, his uncle's housekeeper, so that she might communicate with him, but still went once a week to the hospital on the chance of there being a letter. One evening he saw his name on an envelope in a handwriting he had hoped never to see again. It gave him a queer feeling. For a little while he could not bring himself to take it. It brought back a host of hateful memories. But at length, impatient with himself, he ripped open the envelope. 7 William Street, Fitzroy Square. Dear Phil, Can I see you for a minute or two as soon as possible. I am in awful trouble and don't know what to do. It's not money. Yours truly, Mildred. He tore the letter into little bits and going out into the street scattered them in the darkness. "I'll see her damned," he muttered. A feeling of disgust surged up in him at the thought of seeing her again. He did not care if she was in distress, it served her right whatever it was, he thought of her with hatred, and the love he had had for her aroused his loathing. His recollections filled him with nausea, and as he walked across the Thames he drew himself aside in an instinctive withdrawal from his thought of her. He went to bed, but he could not sleep; he wondered what was the matter with her, and he could not get out of his head the fear that she was ill and hungry; she would not have written to him unless she were desperate. He was angry with himself for his weakness, but he knew that he would have no peace unless he saw her. Next morning he wrote a letter-card and posted it on his way to the shop. He made it as stiff as he could and said merely that he was sorry she was in difficulties and would come to the address she had given at seven o'clock that evening. It was that of a shabby lodging-house in a sordid street; and when, sick at the thought of seeing her, he asked whether she was in, a wild hope seized him that she had left. It looked the sort of place people moved in and out of frequently. He had not thought of looking at the postmark on her letter and did not know how many days it had lain in the rack. The woman who answered the bell did not reply to his inquiry, but silently preceded him along the passage and knocked on a door at the back. "Mrs. Miller, a gentleman to see you," she called. The door was slightly opened, and Mildred looked out suspiciously. "Oh, it's you," she said. "Come in." He walked in and she closed the door. It was a very small bed-room, untidy as was every place she lived in; there was a pair of shoes on the floor, lying apart from one another and uncleaned; a hat was on the chest of drawers, with false curls beside it; and there was a blouse on the table. Philip looked for somewhere to put his hat. The hooks behind the door were laden with skirts, and he noticed that they were muddy at the hem. "Sit down, won't you?" she said. Then she gave a little awkward laugh. "I suppose you were surprised to hear from me again." "You're awfully hoarse," he answered. "Have you got a sore throat?" "Yes, I have had for some time." He did not say anything. He waited for her to explain why she wanted to see him. The look of the room told him clearly enough that she had gone back to the life from which he had taken her. He wondered what had happened to the baby; there was a photograph of it on the chimney-piece, but no sign in the room that a child was ever there. Mildred was holding her handkerchief. She made it into a little ball, and passed it from hand to hand. He saw that she was very nervous. She was staring at the fire, and he could look at her without meeting her eyes. She was much thinner than when she had left him; and the skin, yellow and dryish, was drawn more tightly over her cheekbones. She had dyed her hair and it was now flaxen: it altered her a good deal, and made her look more vulgar. "I was relieved to get your letter, I can tell you," she said at last. "I thought p'raps you weren't at the 'ospital any more." Philip did not speak. "I suppose you're qualified by now, aren't you?" "No." "How's that?" "I'm no longer at the hospital. I had to give it up eighteen months ago." "You are changeable. You don't seem as if you could stick to anything." Philip was silent for another moment, and when he went on it was with coldness. "I lost the little money I had in an unlucky speculation and I couldn't afford to go on with the medical. I had to earn my living as best I could." "What are you doing then?" "I'm in a shop." "Oh!" She gave him a quick glance and turned her eyes away at once. He thought that she reddened. She dabbed her palms nervously with the handkerchief. "You've not forgotten all your doctoring, have you?" She jerked the words out quite oddly. "Not entirely." "Because that's why I wanted to see you." Her voice sank to a hoarse whisper. "I don't know what's the matter with me." "Why don't you go to a hospital?" "I don't like to do that, and have all the stoodents staring at me, and I'm afraid they'd want to keep me." "What are you complaining of?" asked Philip coldly, with the stereotyped phrase used in the out-patients' room. "Well, I've come out in a rash, and I can't get rid of it." Philip felt a twinge of horror in his heart. Sweat broke out on his forehead. "Let me look at your throat?" He took her over to the window and made such examination as he could. Suddenly he caught sight of her eyes. There was deadly fear in them. It was horrible to see. She was terrified. She wanted him to reassure her; she looked at him pleadingly, not daring to ask for words of comfort but with all her nerves astrung to receive them: he had none to offer her. "I'm afraid you're very ill indeed," he said. "What d'you think it is?" When he told her she grew deathly pale, and her lips even turned, yellow. she began to cry, hopelessly, quietly at first and then with choking sobs. "I'm awfully sorry," he said at last. "But I had to tell you." "I may just as well kill myself and have done with it." He took no notice of the threat. "Have you got any money?" he asked. "Six or seven pounds." "You must give up this life, you know. Don't you think you could find some work to do? I'm afraid I can't help you much. I only get twelve bob a week." "What is there I can do now?" she cried impatiently. "Damn it all, you MUST try to get something." He spoke to her very gravely, telling her of her own danger and the danger to which she exposed others, and she listened sullenly. He tried to console her. At last he brought her to a sulky acquiescence in which she promised to do all he advised. He wrote a prescription, which he said he would leave at the nearest chemist's, and he impressed upon her the necessity of taking her medicine with the utmost regularity. Getting up to go, he held out his hand. "Don't be downhearted, you'll soon get over your throat." But as he went her face became suddenly distorted, and she caught hold of his coat. "Oh, don't leave me," she cried hoarsely. "I'm so afraid, don't leave me alone yet. Phil, please. There's no one else I can go to, you're the only friend I've ever had." He felt the terror of her soul, and it was strangely like that terror he had seen in his uncle's eyes when he feared that he might die. Philip looked down. Twice that woman had come into his life and made him wretched; she had no claim upon him; and yet, he knew not why, deep in his heart was a strange aching; it was that which, when he received her letter, had left him no peace till he obeyed her summons. "I suppose I shall never really quite get over it," he said to himself. What perplexed him was that he felt a curious physical distaste, which made it uncomfortable for him to be near her. "What do you want me to do?" he asked. "Let's go out and dine together. I'll pay." He hesitated. He felt that she was creeping back again into his life when he thought she was gone out of it for ever. She watched him with sickening anxiety. "Oh, I know I've treated you shocking, but don't leave me alone now. You've had your revenge. If you leave me by myself now I don't know what I shall do." "All right, I don't mind," he said, "but we shall have to do it on the cheap, I haven't got money to throw away these days." She sat down and put her shoes on, then changed her skirt and put on a hat; and they walked out together till they found a restaurant in the Tottenham Court Road. Philip had got out of the habit of eating at those hours, and Mildred's throat was so sore that she could not swallow. They had a little cold ham and Philip drank a glass of beer. They sat opposite one another, as they had so often sat before; he wondered if she remembered; they had nothing to say to one another and would have sat in silence if Philip had not forced himself to talk. In the bright light of the restaurant, with its vulgar looking-glasses that reflected in an endless series, she looked old and haggard. Philip was anxious to know about the child, but he had not the courage to ask. At last she said: "You know baby died last summer." "Oh!" he said. "You might say you're sorry." "I'm not," he answered, "I'm very glad." She glanced at him and, understanding what he meant, looked away "You were rare stuck on it at one time, weren't you? I always thought it funny like how you could see so much in another man's child." When they had finished eating they called at the chemist's for the medicine Philip had ordered, and going back to the shabby room he made her take a dose. Then they sat together till it was time for Philip to go back to Harrington Street. He was hideously bored. Philip went to see her every day. She took the medicine he had prescribed and followed his directions, and soon the results were so apparent that she gained the greatest confidence in Philip's skill. As she grew better she grew less despondent. She talked more freely. "As soon as I can get a job I shall be all right," she said. "I've had my lesson now and I mean to profit by it. No more racketing about for yours truly." Each time he saw her, Philip asked whether she had found work. She told him not to worry, she would find something to do as soon as she wanted it; she had several strings to her bow; it was all the better not to do anything for a week or two. He could not deny this, but at the end of that time he became more insistent. She laughed at him, she was much more cheerful now, and said he was a fussy old thing. She told him long stories of the manageresses she interviewed, for her idea was to get work at some eating-house; what they said and what she answered. Nothing definite was fixed, but she was sure to settle something at the beginning of the following week: there was no use hurrying, and it would be a mistake to take something unsuitable. "It's absurd to talk like that," he said impatiently. "You must take anything you can get. I can't help you, and your money won't last for ever." "Oh, well, I've not come to the end of it yet and chance it." He looked at her sharply. It was three weeks since his first visit, and she had then less than seven pounds. Suspicion seized him. He remembered some of the things she had said. He put two and two together. He wondered whether she had made any attempt to find work. Perhaps she had been lying to him all the time. It was very strange that her money should have lasted so long. "What is your rent here?" "Oh, the landlady's very nice, different from what some of them are; she's quite willing to wait till it's convenient for me to pay." He was silent. What he suspected was so horrible that he hesitated. It was no use to ask her, she would deny everything; if he wanted to know he must find out for himself. He was in the habit of leaving her every evening at eight, and when the clock struck he got up; but instead of going back to Harrington Street he stationed himself at the corner of Fitzroy Square so that he could see anyone who came along William Street. It seemed to him that he waited an interminable time, and he was on the point of going away, thinking his surmise had been mistaken, when the door of No. 7 opened and Mildred came out. He fell back into the darkness and watched her walk towards him. She had on the hat with a quantity of feathers on it which he had seen in her room, and she wore a dress he recognized, too showy for the street and unsuitable to the time of year. He followed her slowly till she came into the Tottenham Court Road, where she slackened her pace; at the corner of Oxford Street she stopped, looked round, and crossed over to a music-hall. He went up to her and touched her on the arm. He saw that she had rouged her cheeks and painted her lips. "Where are you going, Mildred?" She started at the sound of his voice and reddened as she always did when she was caught in a lie; then the flash of anger which he knew so well came into her eyes as she instinctively sought to defend herself by abuse. But she did not say the words which were on the tip of her tongue. "Oh, I was only going to see the show. It gives me the hump sitting every night by myself." He did not pretend to believe her. "You mustn't. Good heavens, I've told you fifty times how dangerous it is. You must stop this sort of thing at once." "Oh, hold your jaw," she cried roughly. "How d'you suppose I'm going to live?" He took hold of her arm and without thinking what he was doing tried to drag her away. "For God's sake come along. Let me take you home. You don't know what you're doing. It's criminal." "What do I care? Let them take their chance. Men haven't been so good to me that I need bother my head about them." She pushed him away and walking up to the box-office put down her money. Philip had threepence in his pocket. He could not follow. He turned away and walked slowly down Oxford Street. "I can't do anything more," he said to himself. That was the end. He did not see her again. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 103-109

https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter103-109

of Chapters CIII-CIX . Philip is given a company room in a dumpy boardinghouse with the other workers. It is a degrading life, and he is never alone for a moment. The work is tiring, and the food is bad. He drags himself to the social evenings with the other workers so he will not seem a snob. It is quite a Dickensian scene of good-natured lower-class people enjoying themselves. Philip has to turn off his mind and not think of the life he is leading, though the other workers are kind to him and accept him. His one consolation is to go once a week to the Athelnys. . He tries to keep up with his medical books, but he is too tired to focus. He begins to fixate on the death of his uncle, the only thing that will free him. He might inherit enough to finish medical school. He is humiliated when he is asked to be the window dresser of the store, afraid some acquaintance will see him, but he does so well, with his artist's eye that they make him continue. . One day he runs into Lawson and explains his disappearance and new job. Lawson sees his embarrassment and does not know what to say. He asks Philip to come to his studio for a chat, but Philip refuses, realizing it would make it worse for him to discuss what he is going through. Lawson mentions that Hayward died in the war of typhoid fever, and Philip is shocked, for he has not lost friends his age before. . On days off he goes to the British Museum and looks at the Greek sculpture. He tries to get over his nerves at being bombarded all day with the masses of people who look ugly and mean to him. They do not look evil, only petty. The marble statues tend to quiet him, though they remind him of human mortality. The statue of two men holding hands reminds him of his friendship with Hayward. He is struck by the futility of life when death is waiting. . Pondering once again the meaning of life, he thinks of Cronshaw's Persian rug, and suddenly he solves the riddle: "Life had no meaning" . He feels suddenly free: "his insignificance was turned to power" . Life is just life and needs no justification. Success and failure are equal. . Mr. Sampson, the buyer, gives Philip a chance to become a designer since he can draw. He begins to design clothes after the Paris fashions. He enjoys the work. Occasionally he goes to the hospital for his mail, and there is a letter from his uncle, asking if he will spend his vacation at Blackstable. Philip realizes his uncle is lonely, and decides to go. His uncle has aged significantly, and Philip begins to obsess about his dying. The doctor does not say how much longer he will live. Philip senses his uncle is afraid of dying. . Philip gets a letter from Mildred asking for help. At first he ignores it, but he knows he will get no peace until he answers. She is back to being a prostitute and very ill. She is terrified, for she understands she could die. It is implied that she has syphilis, and he gives her a prescription and tells her she must quit this work. She says the baby died, and he says he is glad. She understands that he means the baby is spared this suffering and degradation. He cares for her till she is better, but he spies on her and sees she is continuing her work as a prostitute. He is angry that she exposes others, but she does not care; she is lost. He realizes he has done all for her he can. " He did not see her again" .

Commentary on Chapters CIII-CIX . Maugham paints the portraits of Philip's vulgar co-workers at the store with no comments. It is obvious to the reader that he would be feeling out of his own sphere, but he tries to bear his hardship with the thought that one day he will go back to medical school. He talks with Athelny of trips to Spain and dreams of going there someday. This is how Athelny keeps himself going as well. He talks about his travels and philosophy with Philip. . Lawson is hurt that Philip refuses his friendship, for he is trying to reach out. Philip curses his own pride but thinks it would be too hard on him to go backwards and grasp at what is lost to him. He has to keep on going with fortitude. He lets Lawson go, along with his past. Hayward is gone. His uncle is dying, and finally, he sees Mildred for the last time. She ends as a tragic figure, unable to alter, not only dying from syphilis herself, , but Mildred is so hardened, she doesn't mind passing the disease on to others. He feels only pity, but finally, washes his hands of her. . Philip, as usual, contemplates the meaning of life and this time solves the riddle of Cronshaw's Persian carpet, which, he had said, held the meaning of life. Philip has the aha! notion that life is meaningless, and this frees him. He reaches a sort of existential understanding that life is not good or bad; it just is. What defeats us is our expectations that it must be one way or another. He had been thinking that Hayward's death was as useless as his life, and feeling sick at all the lost years. His work at the store had also filled him with the sordidness of life as he watches all the people: "their features were distorted with paltry desires" . If life is actually meaningless, then "the world was robbed of its cruelty" . At the same time, he feels a great energy to make something of life, for it "would be a work of art, and it would be none the less beautiful because he alone knew of its existence" . . There is an elegiac note in his considering the loss of Hayward's and Lawson's friendships, and even his passion for Mildred. One does not know in the beginning enthusiasm that disillusionment and then indifference will set in, and that finally, a relationship, which once meant everything, means nothing, and life just goes on as if it had never happened. Things come and go.

novelguide

all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_110_to_111.txt

finished_summaries/novelguide/Of Human Bondage/section_19_part_0.txt

Of Human Bondage.chapters 110-111

chapters 110-111

{"name": "Chapters 110-111", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter110-111", "summary": "of Chapters CX and CXI . Philip spends the Christmas holidays with his uncle, who is dying. Philip has to keep pretending that his uncle looks good, but Mr. Carey is completely helpless and cared for by his housekeeper, Mrs. Foster. Philip thinks it strange that his uncle has been preaching eternal life for decades and yet is afraid to die. He looks around the house, gauging the worth of every item for sale. He thinks how easy it would be to kill the old man with an overdose of medicine and he is horrified that he had such an idea. His uncle, intuiting his thought, tells him he must not look forward to his death or it will not profit him. Philip hears that Miss Wilkinson has married, and he feels the loss of his own youth without the accomplishment he thought he would have by now. . In the summer he receives a letter that his uncle is actually dying, and he hurries to Blackstable. The doctor says he is keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. The housekeeper thinks that something is on his mind, and he won't let go until he has confessed. Finally, his uncle asks to have final communion. He holds Philip's hand in fear. Philip is overcome with compassion. The vicar, Mr. Simmonds, comes to give communion, and to hear a final confession. Philip is astonished, for afterwards, his uncle is serene and happy. It seems a miracle to him. His uncle dies in peace.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters CX and CXI Uncle Carey is the last of Philip's family, and though he did not feel close to him and wished for his death so he could resume his own life, he feels compassion watching him die. He cannot understand how the final sacraments eased his uncle's soul, but he is happy for him. This death pretty much closes out his past life. . Maugham is very honest with all of Philip's worst emotions, as well as reporting his more unselfish ones. His desire to kill his uncle is momentary and born of frustration. His conscience will not let him do such a deed. Perhaps Maugham includes it because he wishes to show that a human being contains the whole range of life, from noble to bestial. Even his sensitive hero can be guilty of gross passion, stupidity, and mistakes, although what makes him differ from others is restraint and conscience, and above all, the ability to grow. . For all the philosophical discussions about morality and the meaning of life, there are some fundamental values that the book, through Philip, seems to endorse: love, compassion, respect, non-violence, work, and charity. These are Christian values, but Philip finds them after he loses his religion on a personal level. With the inheritance, he is able to finish his schooling and take up his right work. Nevertheless, the two years working with the rest of the masses at the department store has been valuable in teaching Philip what is worthwhile in life. It has connected him on a more intimate level with other human beings. The chip he has carried on his shoulder since school is gone."}

<CHAPTER> CX Christmas that year falling on Thursday, the shop was to close for four days: Philip wrote to his uncle asking whether it would be convenient for him to spend the holidays at the vicarage. He received an answer from Mrs. Foster, saying that Mr. Carey was not well enough to write himself, but wished to see his nephew and would be glad if he came down. She met Philip at the door, and when she shook hands with him, said: "You'll find him changed since you was here last, sir; but you'll pretend you don't notice anything, won't you, sir? He's that nervous about himself." Philip nodded, and she led him into the dining-room. "Here's Mr. Philip, sir." The Vicar of Blackstable was a dying man. There was no mistaking that when you looked at the hollow cheeks and the shrunken body. He sat huddled in the arm-chair, with his head strangely thrown back, and a shawl over his shoulders. He could not walk now without the help of sticks, and his hands trembled so that he could only feed himself with difficulty. "He can't last long now," thought Philip, as he looked at him. "How d'you think I'm looking?" asked the Vicar. "D'you think I've changed since you were here last?" "I think you look stronger than you did last summer." "It was the heat. That always upsets me." Mr. Carey's history of the last few months consisted in the number of weeks he had spent in his bed-room and the number of weeks he had spent downstairs. He had a hand-bell by his side and while he talked he rang it for Mrs. Foster, who sat in the next room ready to attend to his wants, to ask on what day of the month he had first left his room. "On the seventh of November, sir." Mr. Carey looked at Philip to see how he took the information. "But I eat well still, don't I, Mrs. Foster?" "Yes, sir, you've got a wonderful appetite." "I don't seem to put on flesh though." Nothing interested him now but his health. He was set upon one thing indomitably and that was living, just living, notwithstanding the monotony of his life and the constant pain which allowed him to sleep only when he was under the influence of morphia. "It's terrible, the amount of money I have to spend on doctor's bills." He tinkled his bell again. "Mrs. Foster, show Master Philip the chemist's bill." Patiently she took it off the chimney-piece and handed it to Philip. "That's only one month. I was wondering if as you're doctoring yourself you couldn't get me the drugs cheaper. I thought of getting them down from the stores, but then there's the postage." Though apparently taking so little interest in him that he did not trouble to inquire what Phil was doing, he seemed glad to have him there. He asked how long he could stay, and when Philip told him he must leave on Tuesday morning, expressed a wish that the visit might have been longer. He told him minutely all his symptoms and repeated what the doctor had said of him. He broke off to ring his bell, and when Mrs. Foster came in, said: "Oh, I wasn't sure if you were there. I only rang to see if you were." When she had gone he explained to Philip that it made him uneasy if he was not certain that Mrs. Foster was within earshot; she knew exactly what to do with him if anything happened. Philip, seeing that she was tired and that her eyes were heavy from want of sleep, suggested that he was working her too hard. "Oh, nonsense," said the Vicar, "she's as strong as a horse." And when next she came in to give him his medicine he said to her: "Master Philip says you've got too much to do, Mrs. Foster. You like looking after me, don't you?" "Oh, I don't mind, sir. I want to do everything I can." Presently the medicine took effect and Mr. Carey fell asleep. Philip went into the kitchen and asked Mrs. Foster whether she could stand the work. He saw that for some months she had had little peace. "Well, sir, what can I do?" she answered. "The poor old gentleman's so dependent on me, and, although he is troublesome sometimes, you can't help liking him, can you? I've been here so many years now, I don't know what I shall do when he comes to go." Philip saw that she was really fond of the old man. She washed and dressed him, gave him his food, and was up half a dozen times in the night; for she slept in the next room to his and whenever he awoke he tinkled his little bell till she came in. He might die at any moment, but he might live for months. It was wonderful that she should look after a stranger with such patient tenderness, and it was tragic and pitiful that she should be alone in the world to care for him. It seemed to Philip that the religion which his uncle had preached all his life was now of no more than formal importance to him: every Sunday the curate came and administered to him Holy Communion, and he often read his Bible; but it was clear that he looked upon death with horror. He believed that it was the gateway to life everlasting, but he did not want to enter upon that life. In constant pain, chained to his chair and having given up the hope of ever getting out into the open again, like a child in the hands of a woman to whom he paid wages, he clung to the world he knew. In Philip's head was a question he could not ask, because he was aware that his uncle would never give any but a conventional answer: he wondered whether at the very end, now that the machine was painfully wearing itself out, the clergyman still believed in immortality; perhaps at the bottom of his soul, not allowed to shape itself into words in case it became urgent, was the conviction that there was no God and after this life nothing. On the evening of Boxing Day Philip sat in the dining-room with his uncle. He had to start very early next morning in order to get to the shop by nine, and he was to say good-night to Mr. Carey then. The Vicar of Blackstable was dozing and Philip, lying on the sofa by the window, let his book fall on his knees and looked idly round the room. He asked himself how much the furniture would fetch. He had walked round the house and looked at the things he had known from his childhood; there were a few pieces of china which might go for a decent price and Philip wondered if it would be worth while to take them up to London; but the furniture was of the Victorian order, of mahogany, solid and ugly; it would go for nothing at an auction. There were three or four thousand books, but everyone knew how badly they sold, and it was not probable that they would fetch more than a hundred pounds. Philip did not know how much his uncle would leave, and he reckoned out for the hundredth time what was the least sum upon which he could finish the curriculum at the hospital, take his degree, and live during the time he wished to spend on hospital appointments. He looked at the old man, sleeping restlessly: there was no humanity left in that shrivelled face; it was the face of some queer animal. Philip thought how easy it would be to finish that useless life. He had thought it each evening when Mrs. Foster prepared for his uncle the medicine which was to give him an easy night. There were two bottles: one contained a drug which he took regularly, and the other an opiate if the pain grew unendurable. This was poured out for him and left by his bed-side. He generally took it at three or four in the morning. It would be a simple thing to double the dose; he would die in the night, and no one would suspect anything; for that was how Doctor Wigram expected him to die. The end would be painless. Philip clenched his hands as he thought of the money he wanted so badly. A few more months of that wretched life could matter nothing to the old man, but the few more months meant everything to him: he was getting to the end of his endurance, and when he thought of going back to work in the morning he shuddered with horror. His heart beat quickly at the thought which obsessed him, and though he made an effort to put it out of his mind he could not. It would be so easy, so desperately easy. He had no feeling for the old man, he had never liked him; he had been selfish all his life, selfish to his wife who adored him, indifferent to the boy who had been put in his charge; he was not a cruel man, but a stupid, hard man, eaten up with a small sensuality. It would be easy, desperately easy. Philip did not dare. He was afraid of remorse; it would be no good having the money if he regretted all his life what he had done. Though he had told himself so often that regret was futile, there were certain things that came back to him occasionally and worried him. He wished they were not on his conscience. His uncle opened his eyes; Philip was glad, for he looked a little more human then. He was frankly horrified at the idea that had come to him, it was murder that he was meditating; and he wondered if other people had such thoughts or whether he was abnormal and depraved. He supposed he could not have done it when it came to the point, but there the thought was, constantly recurring: if he held his hand it was from fear. His uncle spoke. "You're not looking forward to my death, Philip?" Philip felt his heart beat against his chest. "Good heavens, no." "That's a good boy. I shouldn't like you to do that. You'll get a little bit of money when I pass away, but you mustn't look forward to it. It wouldn't profit you if you did." He spoke in a low voice, and there was a curious anxiety in his tone. It sent a pang into Philip's heart. He wondered what strange insight might have led the old man to surmise what strange desires were in Philip's mind. "I hope you'll live for another twenty years," he said. "Oh, well, I can't expect to do that, but if I take care of myself I don't see why I shouldn't last another three or four." He was silent for a while, and Philip found nothing to say. Then, as if he had been thinking it all over, the old man spoke again. "Everyone has the right to live as long as he can." Philip wanted to distract his mind. "By the way, I suppose you never hear from Miss Wilkinson now?" "Yes, I had a letter some time this year. She's married, you know." "Really?" "Yes, she married a widower. I believe they're quite comfortable." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXI Next day Philip began work again, but the end which he expected within a few weeks did not come. The weeks passed into months. The winter wore away, and in the parks the trees burst into bud and into leaf. A terrible lassitude settled upon Philip. Time was passing, though it went with such heavy feet, and he thought that his youth was going and soon he would have lost it and nothing would have been accomplished. His work seemed more aimless now that there was the certainty of his leaving it. He became skilful in the designing of costumes, and though he had no inventive faculty acquired quickness in the adaptation of French fashions to the English market. Sometimes he was not displeased with his drawings, but they always bungled them in the execution. He was amused to notice that he suffered from a lively irritation when his ideas were not adequately carried out. He had to walk warily. Whenever he suggested something original Mr. Sampson turned it down: their customers did not want anything outre, it was a very respectable class of business, and when you had a connection of that sort it wasn't worth while taking liberties with it. Once or twice he spoke sharply to Philip; he thought the young man was getting a bit above himself, because Philip's ideas did not always coincide with his own. "You jolly well take care, my fine young fellow, or one of these days you'll find yourself in the street." Philip longed to give him a punch on the nose, but he restrained himself. After all it could not possibly last much longer, and then he would be done with all these people for ever. Sometimes in comic desperation he cried out that his uncle must be made of iron. What a constitution! The ills he suffered from would have killed any decent person twelve months before. When at last the news came that the Vicar was dying Philip, who had been thinking of other things, was taken by surprise. It was in July, and in another fortnight he was to have gone for his holiday. He received a letter from Mrs. Foster to say the doctor did not give Mr. Carey many days to live, and if Philip wished to see him again he must come at once. Philip went to the buyer and told him he wanted to leave. Mr. Sampson was a decent fellow, and when he knew the circumstances made no difficulties. Philip said good-bye to the people in his department; the reason of his leaving had spread among them in an exaggerated form, and they thought he had come into a fortune. Mrs. Hodges had tears in her eyes when she shook hands with him. "I suppose we shan't often see you again," she said. "I'm glad to get away from Lynn's," he answered. It was strange, but he was actually sorry to leave these people whom he thought he had loathed, and when he drove away from the house in Harrington Street it was with no exultation. He had so anticipated the emotions he would experience on this occasion that now he felt nothing: he was as unconcerned as though he were going for a few days' holiday. "I've got a rotten nature," he said to himself. "I look forward to things awfully, and then when they come I'm always disappointed." He reached Blackstable early in the afternoon. Mrs. Foster met him at the door, and her face told him that his uncle was not yet dead. "He's a little better today," she said. "He's got a wonderful constitution." She led him into the bed-room where Mr. Carey lay on his back. He gave Philip a slight smile, in which was a trace of satisfied cunning at having circumvented his enemy once more. "I thought it was all up with me yesterday," he said, in an exhausted voice. "They'd all given me up, hadn't you, Mrs. Foster?" "You've got a wonderful constitution, there's no denying that." "There's life in the old dog yet." Mrs. Foster said that the Vicar must not talk, it would tire him; she treated him like a child, with kindly despotism; and there was something childish in the old man's satisfaction at having cheated all their expectations. It struck him at once that Philip had been sent for, and he was amused that he had been brought on a fool's errand. If he could only avoid another of his heart attacks he would get well enough in a week or two; and he had had the attacks several times before; he always felt as if he were going to die, but he never did. They all talked of his constitution, but they none of them knew how strong it was. "Are you going to stay a day or two?" He asked Philip, pretending to believe he had come down for a holiday. "I was thinking of it," Philip answered cheerfully. "A breath of sea-air will do you good." Presently Dr. Wigram came, and after he had seen the Vicar talked with Philip. He adopted an appropriate manner. "I'm afraid it is the end this time, Philip," he said. "It'll be a great loss to all of us. I've known him for five-and-thirty years." "He seems well enough now," said Philip. "I'm keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. It was dreadful these last two days, I thought he was dead half a dozen times." The doctor was silent for a minute or two, but at the gate he said suddenly to Philip: "Has Mrs. Foster said anything to you?" "What d'you mean?" "They're very superstitious, these people: she's got hold of an idea that he's got something on his mind, and he can't die till he gets rid of it; and he can't bring himself to confess it." Philip did not answer, and the doctor went on. "Of course it's nonsense. He's led a very good life, he's done his duty, he's been a good parish priest, and I'm sure we shall all miss him; he can't have anything to reproach himself with. I very much doubt whether the next vicar will suit us half so well." For several days Mr. Carey continued without change. His appetite which had been excellent left him, and he could eat little. Dr. Wigram did not hesitate now to still the pain of the neuritis which tormented him; and that, with the constant shaking of his palsied limbs, was gradually exhausting him. His mind remained clear. Philip and Mrs. Foster nursed him between them. She was so tired by the many months during which she had been attentive to all his wants that Philip insisted on sitting up with the patient so that she might have her night's rest. He passed the long hours in an arm-chair so that he should not sleep soundly, and read by the light of shaded candles The Thousand and One Nights. He had not read them since he was a little boy, and they brought back his childhood to him. Sometimes he sat and listened to the silence of the night. When the effects of the opiate wore off Mr. Carey grew restless and kept him constantly busy. At last, early one morning, when the birds were chattering noisily in the trees, he heard his name called. He went up to the bed. Mr. Carey was lying on his back, with his eyes looking at the ceiling; he did not turn them on Philip. Philip saw that sweat was on his forehead, and he took a towel and wiped it. "Is that you, Philip?" the old man asked. Philip was startled because the voice was suddenly changed. It was hoarse and low. So would a man speak if he was cold with fear. "Yes, d'you want anything?" There was a pause, and still the unseeing eyes stared at the ceiling. Then a twitch passed over the face. "I think I'm going to die," he said. "Oh, what nonsense!" cried Philip. "You're not going to die for years." Two tears were wrung from the old man's eyes. They moved Philip horribly. His uncle had never betrayed any particular emotion in the affairs of life; and it was dreadful to see them now, for they signified a terror that was unspeakable. "Send for Mr. Simmonds," he said. "I want to take the Communion." Mr. Simmonds was the curate. "Now?" asked Philip. "Soon, or else it'll be too late." Philip went to awake Mrs. Foster, but it was later than he thought and she was up already. He told her to send the gardener with a message, and he went back to his uncle's room. "Have you sent for Mr. Simmonds?" "Yes." There was a silence. Philip sat by the bed-side, and occasionally wiped the sweating forehead. "Let me hold your hand, Philip," the old man said at last. Philip gave him his hand and he clung to it as to life, for comfort in his extremity. Perhaps he had never really loved anyone in all his days, but now he turned instinctively to a human being. His hand was wet and cold. It grasped Philip's with feeble, despairing energy. The old man was fighting with the fear of death. And Philip thought that all must go through that. Oh, how monstrous it was, and they could believe in a God that allowed his creatures to suffer such a cruel torture! He had never cared for his uncle, and for two years he had longed every day for his death; but now he could not overcome the compassion that filled his heart. What a price it was to pay for being other than the beasts! They remained in silence broken only once by a low inquiry from Mr. Carey. "Hasn't he come yet?" At last the housekeeper came in softly to say that Mr. Simmonds was there. He carried a bag in which were his surplice and his hood. Mrs. Foster brought the communion plate. Mr. Simmonds shook hands silently with Philip, and then with professional gravity went to the sick man's side. Philip and the maid went out of the room. Philip walked round the garden all fresh and dewy in the morning. The birds were singing gaily. The sky was blue, but the air, salt-laden, was sweet and cool. The roses were in full bloom. The green of the trees, the green of the lawns, was eager and brilliant. Philip walked, and as he walked he thought of the mystery which was proceeding in that bedroom. It gave him a peculiar emotion. Presently Mrs. Foster came out to him and said that his uncle wished to see him. The curate was putting his things back into the black bag. The sick man turned his head a little and greeted him with a smile. Philip was astonished, for there was a change in him, an extraordinary change; his eyes had no longer the terror-stricken look, and the pinching of his face had gone: he looked happy and serene. "I'm quite prepared now," he said, and his voice had a different tone in it. "When the Lord sees fit to call me I am ready to give my soul into his hands." Philip did not speak. He could see that his uncle was sincere. It was almost a miracle. He had taken the body and blood of his Savior, and they had given him strength so that he no longer feared the inevitable passage into the night. He knew he was going to die: he was resigned. He only said one thing more: "I shall rejoin my dear wife." It startled Philip. He remembered with what a callous selfishness his uncle had treated her, how obtuse he had been to her humble, devoted love. The curate, deeply moved, went away and Mrs. Foster, weeping, accompanied him to the door. Mr. Carey, exhausted by his effort, fell into a light doze, and Philip sat down by the bed and waited for the end. The morning wore on, and the old man's breathing grew stertorous. The doctor came and said he was dying. He was unconscious and he pecked feebly at the sheets; he was restless and he cried out. Dr. Wigram gave him a hypodermic injection. "It can't do any good now, he may die at any moment." The doctor looked at his watch and then at the patient. Philip saw that it was one o'clock. Dr. Wigram was thinking of his dinner. "It's no use your waiting," he said. "There's nothing I can do," said the doctor. When he was gone Mrs. Foster asked Philip if he would go to the carpenter, who was also the undertaker, and tell him to send up a woman to lay out the body. "You want a little fresh air," she said, "it'll do you good." The undertaker lived half a mile away. When Philip gave him his message, he said: "When did the poor old gentleman die?" Philip hesitated. It occurred to him that it would seem brutal to fetch a woman to wash the body while his uncle still lived, and he wondered why Mrs. Foster had asked him to come. They would think he was in a great hurry to kill the old man off. He thought the undertaker looked at him oddly. He repeated the question. It irritated Philip. It was no business of his. "When did the Vicar pass away?" Philip's first impulse was to say that it had just happened, but then it would seem inexplicable if the sick man lingered for several hours. He reddened and answered awkwardly. "Oh, he isn't exactly dead yet." The undertaker looked at him in perplexity, and he hurried to explain. "Mrs. Foster is all alone and she wants a woman there. You understood, don't you? He may be dead by now." The undertaker nodded. "Oh, yes, I see. I'll send someone up at once." When Philip got back to the vicarage he went up to the bed-room. Mrs. Foster rose from her chair by the bed-side. "He's just as he was when you left," she said. She went down to get herself something to eat, and Philip watched curiously the process of death. There was nothing human now in the unconscious being that struggled feebly. Sometimes a muttered ejaculation issued from the loose mouth. The sun beat down hotly from a cloudless sky, but the trees in the garden were pleasant and cool. It was a lovely day. A bluebottle buzzed against the windowpane. Suddenly there was a loud rattle, it made Philip start, it was horribly frightening; a movement passed through the limbs and the old man was dead. The machine had run down. The bluebottle buzzed, buzzed noisily against the windowpane. </CHAPTER>

Chapters 110-111

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of Chapters CX and CXI . Philip spends the Christmas holidays with his uncle, who is dying. Philip has to keep pretending that his uncle looks good, but Mr. Carey is completely helpless and cared for by his housekeeper, Mrs. Foster. Philip thinks it strange that his uncle has been preaching eternal life for decades and yet is afraid to die. He looks around the house, gauging the worth of every item for sale. He thinks how easy it would be to kill the old man with an overdose of medicine and he is horrified that he had such an idea. His uncle, intuiting his thought, tells him he must not look forward to his death or it will not profit him. Philip hears that Miss Wilkinson has married, and he feels the loss of his own youth without the accomplishment he thought he would have by now. . In the summer he receives a letter that his uncle is actually dying, and he hurries to Blackstable. The doctor says he is keeping him alive on drugs, but it can't last. The housekeeper thinks that something is on his mind, and he won't let go until he has confessed. Finally, his uncle asks to have final communion. He holds Philip's hand in fear. Philip is overcome with compassion. The vicar, Mr. Simmonds, comes to give communion, and to hear a final confession. Philip is astonished, for afterwards, his uncle is serene and happy. It seems a miracle to him. His uncle dies in peace.

Commentary on Chapters CX and CXI Uncle Carey is the last of Philip's family, and though he did not feel close to him and wished for his death so he could resume his own life, he feels compassion watching him die. He cannot understand how the final sacraments eased his uncle's soul, but he is happy for him. This death pretty much closes out his past life. . Maugham is very honest with all of Philip's worst emotions, as well as reporting his more unselfish ones. His desire to kill his uncle is momentary and born of frustration. His conscience will not let him do such a deed. Perhaps Maugham includes it because he wishes to show that a human being contains the whole range of life, from noble to bestial. Even his sensitive hero can be guilty of gross passion, stupidity, and mistakes, although what makes him differ from others is restraint and conscience, and above all, the ability to grow. . For all the philosophical discussions about morality and the meaning of life, there are some fundamental values that the book, through Philip, seems to endorse: love, compassion, respect, non-violence, work, and charity. These are Christian values, but Philip finds them after he loses his religion on a personal level. With the inheritance, he is able to finish his schooling and take up his right work. Nevertheless, the two years working with the rest of the masses at the department store has been valuable in teaching Philip what is worthwhile in life. It has connected him on a more intimate level with other human beings. The chip he has carried on his shoulder since school is gone.

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all_chapterized_books/351-chapters/chapters_112_to_122.txt

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Of Human Bondage.chapters 112-122

chapters 112-122

{"name": "Chapters 112-122", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20201022042309/https://www.novelguide.com/of-human-bondage/summaries/chapter112-122", "summary": "of Chapters CXII-CXXII Philip's legacy is enough to continue his education. He feels that \"now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past\" . He reenters St. Luke's and begins the midwifery duties, averaging three births a day. He inspires the poor people he works among, for he has learned a lot in the last two years as a worker. He has a gentleness about him the people like, and he makes friends with his patients. Though he sees death, he learns that the greatest tragedy for the poor is not death but the loss of work. They are not sentimental or dramatic but accept their lots stoically. Philip gives a gold chain of his aunt's to Sally Athelny. She is now apprenticed to a dressmaker. She is beautiful and has many admirers, but she refuses them all. Philip has always been shy around her, because she is very quiet. When a suitor comes to tea, the family approves of him, but she rejects him for apparently no good reason. Philip is in his last year and works hard, contented with life. The Athelnys are his only friends. After he receives his diploma, he gets an assistantship with Dr. South at Farnley in Dorsetshire. He is very crusty and hard to get along with, but he takes to Philip. His patients also like Philip, and Dr. South offers him a partnership. It is not a lucrative practice, but it is near the sea among simple people. Philip refuses because he has his heart set on traveling the world. He spends a vacation with the Athelnys and their children where they go every summer to harvest the hops in Kent, Betty Athelny's home. They stay in a cabin in the fields and camp out, with outdoor cooking, swimming in the sea, dances, and hop collecting in the day. Hopping season is also local courting season, and Philip and Sally are attracted. She is sunburned and natural, with a peasant and earthy beauty. Philip swims with Sally and the children in the sea every day. He likes her natural and unaffected manners, and they walk together, though they are mostly silent. The smell of hops in the air makes lovemaking easy, and one night, Philip and Sally make love in the field. The next day she acts quite natural with him, making no demands or sign that anything has altered. Philip feels guilt about losing his head, but she does not seem to mind. They continue to meet, and her loving makes him happy. He calls it \"milk and honey\" . In London, he gets an appointment at St. Luke's, and Sally works at the dressmaker's. They meet regularly for walks, but no words of love pass between them. She does not insist on anything. They enjoy one another's company. He has affection for her, but he does not think he loves her. One day she tells him she is worried. He realizes she could be pregnant and thinks what a fool he is to have ruined his life just when he wanted to travel. His first thought is that he should not divert his plans. They both went into it with open eyes. But on the other hand, he owes so much to the Athelnys. He should marry her. As soon as he thinks of her as his wife and himself as a father, he becomes very happy. He wires Dr. South to accept the offered appointment, so he will have a home for her. Sally tells him it was a false alarm, and he is disappointed. He proposes to her, and she accepts. He sees that the simplest pattern of life is being born, working, getting married, having children, and dying. It is good enough for him.", "analysis": "Commentary on Chapters CXII-CXXII When Philip returns to the hospital, he is a different person. He now has \"a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many things\" . He has had to survive on his own in completely alien circumstances for two years. When he goes back to visit his old school, he sees young boys going through the same scenes he did. Life has a certain rhythm, and he forgives his old suffering. He sees tragedies, but he also sees \"the beauty of the world. Beside that nothing seemed to matter\" . When Philip sees Lawson in the street, he avoids him because he no longer has anything in common with him. He doesn't want to create art now; he wants to create beauty in his life: \"he was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of life\" . It is significant that the story ends in the rural hop fields where he falls in love with Sally, for most of the book takes place in buildings and cities, often in ugly scenes. In the open air, he sees Sally as \"a milkmaid in a fairy story\" . Her natural ways are contrasted to the possessiveness of Miss Wilkinson or Fanny Price or Mildred. She does not make any claim on Philip after they make love, though she has obviously been interested in him for years. Her beauty is not only a healthy physical beauty , but a beauty from within. She is maternal and kind, like all the \"good\" women in the book. He does not associate his feelings for Sally with love at first: \"He could not understand anything of what happened to him\" . Sally gives herself freely, but \"He was convinced of her purity\" . He decides she has \"the healthy instincts of the natural woman\" . When he thinks she is pregnant, he finally understands he is very happy, and that he wants to participate in the natural force of life with this woman as his partner. He feels her honesty and reliability. Maugham does take up the theme of women's issues in his writings, and here, he makes a case for Sally being a young woman with natural sexual desire, but still pure. A Victorian woman was not allowed to have sexual desire. Only prostitutes like Mildred were sexual. Sally not only has sex, she does not use it as a weapon or threat, even when she thinks she might be pregnant. Lucy Otter, Ruth Chalice, Norah Nesbit, Emily Wilkinson, and Sally are all women who go beyond conventional women's roles. Philip begins to understand the joy of \"self-sacrifice\" for the sake of a family. He had felt this toward Mildred and her child too, but Mildred spoiled it by taking advantage of him. Finally, this love is different because he begins for once to accept himself and his deformity. He realizes that his deformity has made him thoughtful and appreciative. He can forgive everyone now. He once thinks he sees Mildred on the street; it isn't her, but his heart skips a beat, and he knows that there is still a shadow of that passion that will remain in his heart. It is Sally and their future, however, that will justify life for him, not a philosophy or \"meaning.\" Sally can help him create a beautiful pattern out of life, as Thorpe Athelny did with Betty."}

<CHAPTER> CXII Josiah Graves in his masterful way made arrangements, becoming but economical, for the funeral; and when it was over came back to the vicarage with Philip. The will was in his charge, and with a due sense of the fitness of things he read it to Philip over an early cup of tea. It was written on half a sheet of paper and left everything Mr. Carey had to his nephew. There was the furniture, about eighty pounds at the bank, twenty shares in the A. B. C. company, a few in Allsop's brewery, some in the Oxford music-hall, and a few more in a London restaurant. They had been bought under Mr. Graves' direction, and he told Philip with satisfaction: "You see, people must eat, they will drink, and they want amusement. You're always safe if you put your money in what the public thinks necessities." His words showed a nice discrimination between the grossness of the vulgar, which he deplored but accepted, and the finer taste of the elect. Altogether in investments there was about five hundred pounds; and to that must be added the balance at the bank and what the furniture would fetch. It was riches to Philip. He was not happy but infinitely relieved. Mr. Graves left him, after they had discussed the auction which must be held as soon as possible, and Philip sat himself down to go through the papers of the deceased. The Rev. William Carey had prided himself on never destroying anything, and there were piles of correspondence dating back for fifty years and bundles upon bundles of neatly docketed bills. He had kept not only letters addressed to him, but letters which himself had written. There was a yellow packet of letters which he had written to his father in the forties, when as an Oxford undergraduate he had gone to Germany for the long vacation. Philip read them idly. It was a different William Carey from the William Carey he had known, and yet there were traces in the boy which might to an acute observer have suggested the man. The letters were formal and a little stilted. He showed himself strenuous to see all that was noteworthy, and he described with a fine enthusiasm the castles of the Rhine. The falls of Schaffhausen made him 'offer reverent thanks to the all-powerful Creator of the universe, whose works were wondrous and beautiful,' and he could not help thinking that they who lived in sight of 'this handiwork of their blessed Maker must be moved by the contemplation to lead pure and holy lives.' Among some bills Philip found a miniature which had been painted of William Carey soon after he was ordained. It represented a thin young curate, with long hair that fell over his head in natural curls, with dark eyes, large and dreamy, and a pale ascetic face. Philip remembered the chuckle with which his uncle used to tell of the dozens of slippers which were worked for him by adoring ladies. The rest of the afternoon and all the evening Philip toiled through the innumerable correspondence. He glanced at the address and at the signature, then tore the letter in two and threw it into the washing-basket by his side. Suddenly he came upon one signed Helen. He did not know the writing. It was thin, angular, and old-fashioned. It began: my dear William, and ended: your affectionate sister. Then it struck him that it was from his own mother. He had never seen a letter of hers before, and her handwriting was strange to him. It was about himself. My dear William, Stephen wrote to you to thank you for your congratulations on the birth of our son and your kind wishes to myself. Thank God we are both well and I am deeply thankful for the great mercy which has been shown me. Now that I can hold a pen I want to tell you and dear Louisa myself how truly grateful I am to you both for all your kindness to me now and always since my marriage. I am going to ask you to do me a great favour. Both Stephen and I wish you to be the boy's godfather, and we hope that you will consent. I know I am not asking a small thing, for I am sure you will take the responsibilities of the position very seriously, but I am especially anxious that you should undertake this office because you are a clergyman as well as the boy's uncle. I am very anxious for the boy's welfare and I pray God night and day that he may grow into a good, honest, and Christian man. With you to guide him I hope that he will become a soldier in Christ's Faith and be all the days of his life God-fearing, humble, and pious. Your affectionate sister, Helen. Philip pushed the letter away and, leaning forward, rested his face on his hands. It deeply touched and at the same time surprised him. He was astonished at its religious tone, which seemed to him neither mawkish nor sentimental. He knew nothing of his mother, dead now for nearly twenty years, but that she was beautiful, and it was strange to learn that she was simple and pious. He had never thought of that side of her. He read again what she said about him, what she expected and thought about him; he had turned out very differently; he looked at himself for a moment; perhaps it was better that she was dead. Then a sudden impulse caused him to tear up the letter; its tenderness and simplicity made it seem peculiarly private; he had a queer feeling that there was something indecent in his reading what exposed his mother's gentle soul. He went on with the Vicar's dreary correspondence. A few days later he went up to London, and for the first time for two years entered by day the hall of St. Luke's Hospital. He went to see the secretary of the Medical School; he was surprised to see him and asked Philip curiously what he had been doing. Philip's experiences had given him a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many things: such a question would have embarrassed him before; but now he answered coolly, with a deliberate vagueness which prevented further inquiry, that private affairs had obliged him to make a break in the curriculum; he was now anxious to qualify as soon as possible. The first examination he could take was in midwifery and the diseases of women, and he put his name down to be a clerk in the ward devoted to feminine ailments; since it was holiday time there happened to be no difficulty in getting a post as obstetric clerk; he arranged to undertake that duty during the last week of August and the first two of September. After this interview Philip walked through the Medical School, more or less deserted, for the examinations at the end of the summer session were all over; and he wandered along the terrace by the river-side. His heart was full. He thought that now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past. The flowing river suggested that everything passed, was passing always, and nothing mattered; the future was before him rich with possibilities. He went back to Blackstable and busied himself with the settling up of his uncle's estate. The auction was fixed for the middle of August, when the presence of visitors for the summer holidays would make it possible to get better prices. Catalogues were made out and sent to the various dealers in second-hand books at Tercanbury, Maidstone, and Ashford. One afternoon Philip took it into his head to go over to Tercanbury and see his old school. He had not been there since the day when, with relief in his heart, he had left it with the feeling that thenceforward he was his own master. It was strange to wander through the narrow streets of Tercanbury which he had known so well for so many years. He looked at the old shops, still there, still selling the same things; the booksellers with school-books, pious works, and the latest novels in one window and photographs of the Cathedral and of the city in the other; the games shop, with its cricket bats, fishing tackle, tennis rackets, and footballs; the tailor from whom he had got clothes all through his boyhood; and the fishmonger where his uncle whenever he came to Tercanbury bought fish. He wandered along the sordid street in which, behind a high wall, lay the red brick house which was the preparatory school. Further on was the gateway that led into King's School, and he stood in the quadrangle round which were the various buildings. It was just four and the boys were hurrying out of school. He saw the masters in their gowns and mortar-boards, and they were strange to him. It was more than ten years since he had left and many changes had taken place. He saw the headmaster; he walked slowly down from the schoolhouse to his own, talking to a big boy who Philip supposed was in the sixth; he was little changed, tall, cadaverous, romantic as Philip remembered him, with the same wild eyes; but the black beard was streaked with gray now and the dark, sallow face was more deeply lined. Philip had an impulse to go up and speak to him, but he was afraid he would have forgotten him, and he hated the thought of explaining who he was. Boys lingered talking to one another, and presently some who had hurried to change came out to play fives; others straggled out in twos and threes and went out of the gateway, Philip knew they were going up to the cricket ground; others again went into the precincts to bat at the nets. Philip stood among them a stranger; one or two gave him an indifferent glance; but visitors, attracted by the Norman staircase, were not rare and excited little attention. Philip looked at them curiously. He thought with melancholy of the distance that separated him from them, and he thought bitterly how much he had wanted to do and how little done. It seemed to him that all those years, vanished beyond recall, had been utterly wasted. The boys, fresh and buoyant, were doing the same things that he had done, it seemed that not a day had passed since he left the school, and yet in that place where at least by name he had known everybody now he knew not a soul. In a few years these too, others taking their place, would stand alien as he stood; but the reflection brought him no solace; it merely impressed upon him the futility of human existence. Each generation repeated the trivial round. He wondered what had become of the boys who were his companions: they were nearly thirty now; some would be dead, but others were married and had children; they were soldiers and parsons, doctors, lawyers; they were staid men who were beginning to put youth behind them. Had any of them made such a hash of life as he? He thought of the boy he had been devoted to; it was funny, he could not recall his name; he remembered exactly what he looked like, he had been his greatest friend; but his name would not come back to him. He looked back with amusement on the jealous emotions he had suffered on his account. It was irritating not to recollect his name. He longed to be a boy again, like those he saw sauntering through the quadrangle, so that, avoiding his mistakes, he might start fresh and make something more out of life. He felt an intolerable loneliness. He almost regretted the penury which he had suffered during the last two years, since the desperate struggle merely to keep body and soul together had deadened the pain of living. In the sweat of thy brow shalt thou earn thy daily bread: it was not a curse upon mankind, but the balm which reconciled it to existence. But Philip was impatient with himself; he called to mind his idea of the pattern of life: the unhappiness he had suffered was no more than part of a decoration which was elaborate and beautiful; he told himself strenuously that he must accept with gaiety everything, dreariness and excitement, pleasure and pain, because it added to the richness of the design. He sought for beauty consciously, and he remembered how even as a boy he had taken pleasure in the Gothic cathedral as one saw it from the precincts; he went there and looked at the massive pile, gray under the cloudy sky, with the central tower that rose like the praise of men to their God; but the boys were batting at the nets, and they were lissom and strong and active; he could not help hearing their shouts and laughter. The cry of youth was insistent, and he saw the beautiful thing before him only with his eyes. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXIII At the beginning of the last week in August Philip entered upon his duties in the 'district.' They were arduous, for he had to attend on an average three confinements a day. The patient had obtained a 'card' from the hospital some time before; and when her time came it was taken to the porter by a messenger, generally a little girl, who was then sent across the road to the house in which Philip lodged. At night the porter, who had a latch-key, himself came over and awoke Philip. It was mysterious then to get up in the darkness and walk through the deserted streets of the South Side. At those hours it was generally the husband who brought the card. If there had been a number of babies before he took it for the most part with surly indifference, but if newly married he was nervous and then sometimes strove to allay his anxiety by getting drunk. Often there was a mile or more to walk, during which Philip and the messenger discussed the conditions of labour and the cost of living; Philip learnt about the various trades which were practised on that side of the river. He inspired confidence in the people among whom he was thrown, and during the long hours that he waited in a stuffy room, the woman in labour lying on a large bed that took up half of it, her mother and the midwife talked to him as naturally as they talked to one another. The circumstances in which he had lived during the last two years had taught him several things about the life of the very poor, which it amused them to find he knew; and they were impressed because he was not deceived by their little subterfuges. He was kind, and he had gentle hands, and he did not lose his temper. They were pleased because he was not above drinking a cup of tea with them, and when the dawn came and they were still waiting they offered him a slice of bread and dripping; he was not squeamish and could eat most things now with a good appetite. Some of the houses he went to, in filthy courts off a dingy street, huddled against one another without light or air, were merely squalid; but others, unexpectedly, though dilapidated, with worm-eaten floors and leaking roofs, had the grand air: you found in them oak balusters exquisitely carved, and the walls had still their panelling. These were thickly inhabited. One family lived in each room, and in the daytime there was the incessant noise of children playing in the court. The old walls were the breeding-place of vermin; the air was so foul that often, feeling sick, Philip had to light his pipe. The people who dwelt here lived from hand to mouth. Babies were unwelcome, the man received them with surly anger, the mother with despair; it was one more mouth to feed, and there was little enough wherewith to feed those already there. Philip often discerned the wish that the child might be born dead or might die quickly. He delivered one woman of twins (a source of humour to the facetious) and when she was told she burst into a long, shrill wail of misery. Her mother said outright: "I don't know how they're going to feed 'em." "Maybe the Lord'll see fit to take 'em to 'imself," said the midwife. Philip caught sight of the husband's face as he looked at the tiny pair lying side by side, and there was a ferocious sullenness in it which startled him. He felt in the family assembled there a hideous resentment against those poor atoms who had come into the world unwished for; and he had a suspicion that if he did not speak firmly an 'accident' would occur. Accidents occurred often; mothers 'overlay' their babies, and perhaps errors of diet were not always the result of carelessness. "I shall come every day," he said. "I warn you that if anything happens to them there'll have to be an inquest." The father made no reply, but he gave Philip a scowl. There was murder in his soul. "Bless their little 'earts," said the grandmother, "what should 'appen to them?" The great difficulty was to keep the mothers in bed for ten days, which was the minimum upon which the hospital practice insisted. It was awkward to look after the family, no one would see to the children without payment, and the husband tumbled because his tea was not right when he came home tired from his work and hungry. Philip had heard that the poor helped one another, but woman after woman complained to him that she could not get anyone in to clean up and see to the children's dinner without paying for the service, and she could not afford to pay. By listening to the women as they talked and by chance remarks from which he could deduce much that was left unsaid, Philip learned how little there was in common between the poor and the classes above them. They did not envy their betters, for the life was too different, and they had an ideal of ease which made the existence of the middle-classes seem formal and stiff; moreover, they had a certain contempt for them because they were soft and did not work with their hands. The proud merely wished to be left alone, but the majority looked upon the well-to-do as people to be exploited; they knew what to say in order to get such advantages as the charitable put at their disposal, and they accepted benefits as a right which came to them from the folly of their superiors and their own astuteness. They bore the curate with contemptuous indifference, but the district visitor excited their bitter hatred. She came in and opened your windows without so much as a by your leave or with your leave, 'and me with my bronchitis, enough to give me my death of cold;' she poked her nose into corners, and if she didn't say the place was dirty you saw what she thought right enough, 'an' it's all very well for them as 'as servants, but I'd like to see what she'd make of 'er room if she 'ad four children, and 'ad to do the cookin', and mend their clothes, and wash them.' Philip discovered that the greatest tragedy of life to these people was not separation or death, that was natural and the grief of it could be assuaged with tears, but loss of work. He saw a man come home one afternoon, three days after his wife's confinement, and tell her he had been dismissed; he was a builder and at that time work was slack; he stated the fact, and sat down to his tea. "Oh, Jim," she said. The man ate stolidly some mess which had been stewing in a sauce-pan against his coming; he stared at his plate; his wife looked at him two or three times, with little startled glances, and then quite silently began to cry. The builder was an uncouth little fellow with a rough, weather-beaten face and a long white scar on his forehead; he had large, stubbly hands. Presently he pushed aside his plate as if he must give up the effort to force himself to eat, and turned a fixed gaze out of the window. The room was at the top of the house, at the back, and one saw nothing but sullen clouds. The silence seemed heavy with despair. Philip felt that there was nothing to be said, he could only go; and as he walked away wearily, for he had been up most of the night, his heart was filled with rage against the cruelty of the world. He knew the hopelessness of the search for work and the desolation which is harder to bear than hunger. He was thankful not to have to believe in God, for then such a condition of things would be intolerable; one could reconcile oneself to existence only because it was meaningless. It seemed to Philip that the people who spent their time in helping the poorer classes erred because they sought to remedy things which would harass them if themselves had to endure them without thinking that they did not in the least disturb those who were used to them. The poor did not want large airy rooms; they suffered from cold, for their food was not nourishing and their circulation bad; space gave them a feeling of chilliness, and they wanted to burn as little coal as need be; there was no hardship for several to sleep in one room, they preferred it; they were never alone for a moment, from the time they were born to the time they died, and loneliness oppressed them; they enjoyed the promiscuity in which they dwelt, and the constant noise of their surroundings pressed upon their ears unnoticed. They did not feel the need of taking a bath constantly, and Philip often heard them speak with indignation of the necessity to do so with which they were faced on entering the hospital: it was both an affront and a discomfort. They wanted chiefly to be left alone; then if the man was in regular work life went easily and was not without its pleasures: there was plenty of time for gossip, after the day's work a glass of beer was very good to drink, the streets were a constant source of entertainment, if you wanted to read there was Reynolds' or The News of the World; 'but there, you couldn't make out 'ow the time did fly, the truth was and that's a fact, you was a rare one for reading when you was a girl, but what with one thing and another you didn't get no time now not even to read the paper.' The usual practice was to pay three visits after a confinement, and one Sunday Philip went to see a patient at the dinner hour. She was up for the first time. "I couldn't stay in bed no longer, I really couldn't. I'm not one for idling, and it gives me the fidgets to be there and do nothing all day long, so I said to 'Erb, I'm just going to get up and cook your dinner for you." 'Erb was sitting at table with his knife and fork already in his hands. He was a young man, with an open face and blue eyes. He was earning good money, and as things went the couple were in easy circumstances. They had only been married a few months, and were both delighted with the rosy boy who lay in the cradle at the foot of the bed. There was a savoury smell of beefsteak in the room and Philip's eyes turned to the range. "I was just going to dish up this minute," said the woman. "Fire away," said Philip. "I'll just have a look at the son and heir and then I'll take myself off." Husband and wife laughed at Philip's expression, and 'Erb getting up went over with Philip to the cradle. He looked at his baby proudly. "There doesn't seem much wrong with him, does there?" said Philip. He took up his hat, and by this time 'Erb's wife had dished up the beefsteak and put on the table a plate of green peas. "You're going to have a nice dinner," smiled Philip. "He's only in of a Sunday and I like to 'ave something special for him, so as he shall miss his 'ome when he's out at work." "I suppose you'd be above sittin' down and 'avin' a bit of dinner with us?" said 'Erb. "Oh, 'Erb," said his wife, in a shocked tone. "Not if you ask me," answered Philip, with his attractive smile. "Well, that's what I call friendly, I knew 'e wouldn't take offence, Polly. Just get another plate, my girl." Polly was flustered, and she thought 'Erb a regular caution, you never knew what ideas 'e'd get in 'is 'ead next; but she got a plate and wiped it quickly with her apron, then took a new knife and fork from the chest of drawers, where her best cutlery rested among her best clothes. There was a jug of stout on the table, and 'Erb poured Philip out a glass. He wanted to give him the lion's share of the beefsteak, but Philip insisted that they should share alike. It was a sunny room with two windows that reached to the floor; it had been the parlour of a house which at one time was if not fashionable at least respectable: it might have been inhabited fifty years before by a well-to-do tradesman or an officer on half pay. 'Erb had been a football player before he married, and there were photographs on the wall of various teams in self-conscious attitudes, with neatly plastered hair, the captain seated proudly in the middle holding a cup. There were other signs of prosperity: photographs of the relations of 'Erb and his wife in Sunday clothes; on the chimney-piece an elaborate arrangement of shells stuck on a miniature rock; and on each side mugs, 'A present from Southend' in Gothic letters, with pictures of a pier and a parade on them. 'Erb was something of a character; he was a non-union man and expressed himself with indignation at the efforts of the union to force him to join. The union wasn't no good to him, he never found no difficulty in getting work, and there was good wages for anyone as 'ad a head on his shoulders and wasn't above puttin' 'is 'and to anything as come 'is way. Polly was timorous. If she was 'im she'd join the union, the last time there was a strike she was expectin' 'im to be brought back in an ambulance every time he went out. She turned to Philip. "He's that obstinate, there's no doing anything with 'im." "Well, what I say is, it's a free country, and I won't be dictated to." "It's no good saying it's a free country," said Polly, "that won't prevent 'em bashin' your 'ead in if they get the chanst." When they had finished Philip passed his pouch over to 'Erb and they lit their pipes; then he got up, for a 'call' might be waiting for him at his rooms, and shook hands. He saw that it had given them pleasure that he shared their meal, and they saw that he had thoroughly enjoyed it. "Well, good-bye, sir," said 'Erb, "and I 'ope we shall 'ave as nice a doctor next time the missus disgraces 'erself." "Go on with you, 'Erb," she retorted. "'Ow d'you know there's going to be a next time?" </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXIV The three weeks which the appointment lasted drew to an end. Philip had attended sixty-two cases, and he was tired out. When he came home about ten o'clock on his last night he hoped with all his heart that he would not be called out again. He had not had a whole night's rest for ten days. The case which he had just come from was horrible. He had been fetched by a huge, burly man, the worse for liquor, and taken to a room in an evil-smelling court, which was filthier than any he had seen: it was a tiny attic; most of the space was taken up by a wooden bed, with a canopy of dirty red hangings, and the ceiling was so low that Philip could touch it with the tips of his fingers; with the solitary candle that afforded what light there was he went over it, frizzling up the bugs that crawled upon it. The woman was a blowsy creature of middle age, who had had a long succession of still-born children. It was a story that Philip was not unaccustomed to: the husband had been a soldier in India; the legislation forced upon that country by the prudery of the English public had given a free run to the most distressing of all diseases; the innocent suffered. Yawning, Philip undressed and took a bath, then shook his clothes over the water and watched the animals that fell out wriggling. He was just going to get into bed when there was a knock at the door, and the hospital porter brought him a card. "Curse you," said Philip. "You're the last person I wanted to see tonight. Who's brought it?" "I think it's the 'usband, sir. Shall I tell him to wait?" Philip looked at the address, saw that the street was familiar to him, and told the porter that he would find his own way. He dressed himself and in five minutes, with his black bag in his hand, stepped into the street. A man, whom he could not see in the darkness, came up to him, and said he was the husband. "I thought I'd better wait, sir," he said. "It's a pretty rough neighbour'ood, and them not knowing who you was." Philip laughed. "Bless your heart, they all know the doctor, I've been in some damned sight rougher places than Waver Street." It was quite true. The black bag was a passport through wretched alleys and down foul-smelling courts into which a policeman was not ready to venture by himself. Once or twice a little group of men had looked at Philip curiously as he passed; he heard a mutter of observations and then one say: "It's the 'orspital doctor." As he went by one or two of them said: "Good-night, sir." "We shall 'ave to step out if you don't mind, sir," said the man who accompanied him now. "They told me there was no time to lose." "Why did you leave it so late?" asked Philip, as he quickened his pace. He glanced at the fellow as they passed a lamp-post. "You look awfully young," he said. "I'm turned eighteen, sir." He was fair, and he had not a hair on his face, he looked no more than a boy; he was short, but thick set. "You're young to be married," said Philip. "We 'ad to." "How much d'you earn?" "Sixteen, sir." Sixteen shillings a week was not much to keep a wife and child on. The room the couple lived in showed that their poverty was extreme. It was a fair size, but it looked quite large, since there was hardly any furniture in it; there was no carpet on the floor; there were no pictures on the walls; and most rooms had something, photographs or supplements in cheap frames from the Christmas numbers of the illustrated papers. The patient lay on a little iron bed of the cheapest sort. It startled Philip to see how young she was. "By Jove, she can't be more than sixteen," he said to the woman who had come in to 'see her through.' She had given her age as eighteen on the card, but when they were very young they often put on a year or two. Also she was pretty, which was rare in those classes in which the constitution has been undermined by bad food, bad air, and unhealthy occupations; she had delicate features and large blue eyes, and a mass of dark hair done in the elaborate fashion of the coster girl. She and her husband were very nervous. "You'd better wait outside, so as to be at hand if I want you," Philip said to him. Now that he saw him better Philip was surprised again at his boyish air: you felt that he should be larking in the street with the other lads instead of waiting anxiously for the birth of a child. The hours passed, and it was not till nearly two that the baby was born. Everything seemed to be going satisfactorily; the husband was called in, and it touched Philip to see the awkward, shy way in which he kissed his wife; Philip packed up his things. Before going he felt once more his patient's pulse. "Hulloa!" he said. He looked at her quickly: something had happened. In cases of emergency the S. O. C.--senior obstetric clerk--had to be sent for; he was a qualified man, and the 'district' was in his charge. Philip scribbled a note, and giving it to the husband, told him to run with it to the hospital; he bade him hurry, for his wife was in a dangerous state. The man set off. Philip waited anxiously; he knew the woman was bleeding to death; he was afraid she would die before his chief arrived; he took what steps he could. He hoped fervently that the S. O. C. would not have been called elsewhere. The minutes were interminable. He came at last, and, while he examined the patient, in a low voice asked Philip questions. Philip saw by his face that he thought the case very grave. His name was Chandler. He was a tall man of few words, with a long nose and a thin face much lined for his age. He shook his head. "It was hopeless from the beginning. Where's the husband?" "I told him to wait on the stairs," said Philip. "You'd better bring him in." Philip opened the door and called him. He was sitting in the dark on the first step of the flight that led to the next floor. He came up to the bed. "What's the matter?" he asked. "Why, there's internal bleeding. It's impossible to stop it." The S. O. C. hesitated a moment, and because it was a painful thing to say he forced his voice to become brusque. "She's dying." The man did not say a word; he stopped quite still, looking at his wife, who lay, pale and unconscious, on the bed. It was the midwife who spoke. "The gentlemen 'ave done all they could, 'Arry," she said. "I saw what was comin' from the first." "Shut up," said Chandler. There were no curtains on the windows, and gradually the night seemed to lighten; it was not yet the dawn, but the dawn was at hand. Chandler was keeping the woman alive by all the means in his power, but life was slipping away from her, and suddenly she died. The boy who was her husband stood at the end of the cheap iron bed with his hands resting on the rail; he did not speak; but he looked very pale and once or twice Chandler gave him an uneasy glance, thinking he was going to faint: his lips were gray. The midwife sobbed noisily, but he took no notice of her. His eyes were fixed upon his wife, and in them was an utter bewilderment. He reminded you of a dog whipped for something he did not know was wrong. When Chandler and Philip had gathered together their things Chandler turned to the husband. "You'd better lie down for a bit. I expect you're about done up." "There's nowhere for me to lie down, sir," he answered, and there was in his voice a humbleness which was very distressing. "Don't you know anyone in the house who'll give you a shakedown?" "No, sir." "They only moved in last week," said the midwife. "They don't know nobody yet." Chandler hesitated a moment awkwardly, then he went up to the man and said: "I'm very sorry this has happened." He held out his hand and the man, with an instinctive glance at his own to see if it was clean, shook it. "Thank you, sir." Philip shook hands with him too. Chandler told the midwife to come and fetch the certificate in the morning. They left the house and walked along together in silence. "It upsets one a bit at first, doesn't it?" said Chandler at last. "A bit," answered Philip. "If you like I'll tell the porter not to bring you any more calls tonight." "I'm off duty at eight in the morning in any case." "How many cases have you had?" "Sixty-three." "Good. You'll get your certificate then." They arrived at the hospital, and the S. O. C. went in to see if anyone wanted him. Philip walked on. It had been very hot all the day before, and even now in the early morning there was a balminess in the air. The street was very still. Philip did not feel inclined to go to bed. It was the end of his work and he need not hurry. He strolled along, glad of the fresh air and the silence; he thought that he would go on to the bridge and look at day break on the river. A policeman at the corner bade him good-morning. He knew who Philip was from his bag. "Out late tonight, sir," he said. Philip nodded and passed. He leaned against the parapet and looked towards the morning. At that hour the great city was like a city of the dead. The sky was cloudless, but the stars were dim at the approach of day; there was a light mist on the river, and the great buildings on the north side were like palaces in an enchanted island. A group of barges was moored in midstream. It was all of an unearthly violet, troubling somehow and awe-inspiring; but quickly everything grew pale, and cold, and gray. Then the sun rose, a ray of yellow gold stole across the sky, and the sky was iridescent. Philip could not get out of his eyes the dead girl lying on the bed, wan and white, and the boy who stood at the end of it like a stricken beast. The bareness of the squalid room made the pain of it more poignant. It was cruel that a stupid chance should have cut off her life when she was just entering upon it; but in the very moment of saying this to himself, Philip thought of the life which had been in store for her, the bearing of children, the dreary fight with poverty, the youth broken by toil and deprivation into a slatternly middle age--he saw the pretty face grow thin and white, the hair grow scanty, the pretty hands, worn down brutally by work, become like the claws of an old animal--then, when the man was past his prime, the difficulty of getting jobs, the small wages he had to take; and the inevitable, abject penury of the end: she might be energetic, thrifty, industrious, it would not have saved her; in the end was the workhouse or subsistence on the charity of her children. Who could pity her because she had died when life offered so little? But pity was inane. Philip felt it was not that which these people needed. They did not pity themselves. They accepted their fate. It was the natural order of things. Otherwise, good heavens! otherwise they would swarm over the river in their multitude to the side where those great buildings were, secure and stately, and they would pillage, burn, and sack. But the day, tender and pale, had broken now, and the mist was tenuous; it bathed everything in a soft radiance; and the Thames was gray, rosy, and green; gray like mother-of-pearl and green like the heart of a yellow rose. The wharfs and store-houses of the Surrey Side were massed in disorderly loveliness. The scene was so exquisite that Philip's heart beat passionately. He was overwhelmed by the beauty of the world. Beside that nothing seemed to matter. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXV Philip spent the few weeks that remained before the beginning of the winter session in the out-patients' department, and in October settled down to regular work. He had been away from the hospital for so long that he found himself very largely among new people; the men of different years had little to do with one another, and his contemporaries were now mostly qualified: some had left to take up assistantships or posts in country hospitals and infirmaries, and some held appointments at St. Luke's. The two years during which his mind had lain fallow had refreshed him, he fancied, and he was able now to work with energy. The Athelnys were delighted with his change of fortune. He had kept aside a few things from the sale of his uncle's effects and gave them all presents. He gave Sally a gold chain that had belonged to his aunt. She was now grown up. She was apprenticed to a dressmaker and set out every morning at eight to work all day in a shop in Regent Street. Sally had frank blue eyes, a broad brow, and plentiful shining hair; she was buxom, with broad hips and full breasts; and her father, who was fond of discussing her appearance, warned her constantly that she must not grow fat. She attracted because she was healthy, animal, and feminine. She had many admirers, but they left her unmoved; she gave one the impression that she looked upon love-making as nonsense; and it was easy to imagine that young men found her unapproachable. Sally was old for her years: she had been used to help her mother in the household work and in the care of the children, so that she had acquired a managing air, which made her mother say that Sally was a bit too fond of having things her own way. She did not speak very much, but as she grew older she seemed to be acquiring a quiet sense of humour, and sometimes uttered a remark which suggested that beneath her impassive exterior she was quietly bubbling with amusement at her fellow-creatures. Philip found that with her he never got on the terms of affectionate intimacy upon which he was with the rest of Athelny's huge family. Now and then her indifference slightly irritated him. There was something enigmatic in her. When Philip gave her the necklace Athelny in his boisterous way insisted that she must kiss him; but Sally reddened and drew back. "No, I'm not going to," she said. "Ungrateful hussy!" cried Athelny. "Why not?" "I don't like being kissed by men," she said. Philip saw her embarrassment, and, amused, turned Athelny's attention to something else. That was never a very difficult thing to do. But evidently her mother spoke of the matter later, for next time Philip came she took the opportunity when they were alone for a couple of minutes to refer to it. "You didn't think it disagreeable of me last week when I wouldn't kiss you?" "Not a bit," he laughed. "It's not because I wasn't grateful." She blushed a little as she uttered the formal phrase which she had prepared. "I shall always value the necklace, and it was very kind of you to give it me." Philip found it always a little difficult to talk to her. She did all that she had to do very competently, but seemed to feel no need of conversation; yet there was nothing unsociable in her. One Sunday afternoon when Athelny and his wife had gone out together, and Philip, treated as one of the family, sat reading in the parlour, Sally came in and sat by the window to sew. The girls' clothes were made at home and Sally could not afford to spend Sundays in idleness. Philip thought she wished to talk and put down his book. "Go on reading," she said. "I only thought as you were alone I'd come and sit with you." "You're the most silent person I've ever struck," said Philip. "We don't want another one who's talkative in this house," she said. There was no irony in her tone: she was merely stating a fact. But it suggested to Philip that she measured her father, alas, no longer the hero he was to her childhood, and in her mind joined together his entertaining conversation and the thriftlessness which often brought difficulties into their life; she compared his rhetoric with her mother's practical common sense; and though the liveliness of her father amused her she was perhaps sometimes a little impatient with it. Philip looked at her as she bent over her work; she was healthy, strong, and normal; it must be odd to see her among the other girls in the shop with their flat chests and anaemic faces. Mildred suffered from anaemia. After a time it appeared that Sally had a suitor. She went out occasionally with friends she had made in the work-room, and had met a young man, an electrical engineer in a very good way of business, who was a most eligible person. One day she told her mother that he had asked her to marry him. "What did you say?" said her mother. "Oh, I told him I wasn't over-anxious to marry anyone just yet awhile." She paused a little as was her habit between observations. "He took on so that I said he might come to tea on Sunday." It was an occasion that thoroughly appealed to Athelny. He rehearsed all the afternoon how he should play the heavy father for the young man's edification till he reduced his children to helpless giggling. Just before he was due Athelny routed out an Egyptian tarboosh and insisted on putting it on. "Go on with you, Athelny," said his wife, who was in her best, which was of black velvet, and, since she was growing stouter every year, very tight for her. "You'll spoil the girl's chances." She tried to pull it off, but the little man skipped nimbly out of her way. "Unhand me, woman. Nothing will induce me to take it off. This young man must be shown at once that it is no ordinary family he is preparing to enter." "Let him keep it on, mother," said Sally, in her even, indifferent fashion. "If Mr. Donaldson doesn't take it the way it's meant he can take himself off, and good riddance." Philip thought it was a severe ordeal that the young man was being exposed to, since Athelny, in his brown velvet jacket, flowing black tie, and red tarboosh, was a startling spectacle for an innocent electrical engineer. When he came he was greeted by his host with the proud courtesy of a Spanish grandee and by Mrs. Athelny in an altogether homely and natural fashion. They sat down at the old ironing-table in the high-backed monkish chairs, and Mrs. Athelny poured tea out of a lustre teapot which gave a note of England and the country-side to the festivity. She had made little cakes with her own hand, and on the table was home-made jam. It was a farm-house tea, and to Philip very quaint and charming in that Jacobean house. Athelny for some fantastic reason took it into his head to discourse upon Byzantine history; he had been reading the later volumes of the Decline and Fall; and, his forefinger dramatically extended, he poured into the astonished ears of the suitor scandalous stories about Theodora and Irene. He addressed himself directly to his guest with a torrent of rhodomontade; and the young man, reduced to helpless silence and shy, nodded his head at intervals to show that he took an intelligent interest. Mrs. Athelny paid no attention to Thorpe's conversation, but interrupted now and then to offer the young man more tea or to press upon him cake and jam. Philip watched Sally; she sat with downcast eyes, calm, silent, and observant; and her long eye-lashes cast a pretty shadow on her cheek. You could not tell whether she was amused at the scene or if she cared for the young man. She was inscrutable. But one thing was certain: the electrical engineer was good-looking, fair and clean-shaven, with pleasant, regular features, and an honest face; he was tall and well-made. Philip could not help thinking he would make an excellent mate for her, and he felt a pang of envy for the happiness which he fancied was in store for them. Presently the suitor said he thought it was about time he was getting along. Sally rose to her feet without a word and accompanied him to the door. When she came back her father burst out: "Well, Sally, we think your young man very nice. We are prepared to welcome him into our family. Let the banns be called and I will compose a nuptial song." Sally set about clearing away the tea-things. She did not answer. Suddenly she shot a swift glance at Philip. "What did you think of him, Mr. Philip?" She had always refused to call him Uncle Phil as the other children did, and would not call him Philip. "I think you'd make an awfully handsome pair." She looked at him quickly once more, and then with a slight blush went on with her business. "I thought him a very nice civil-spoken young fellow," said Mrs. Athelny, "and I think he's just the sort to make any girl happy." Sally did not reply for a minute or two, and Philip looked at her curiously: it might be thought that she was meditating upon what her mother had said, and on the other hand she might be thinking of the man in the moon. "Why don't you answer when you're spoken to, Sally?" remarked her mother, a little irritably. "I thought he was a silly." "Aren't you going to have him then?" "No, I'm not." "I don't know how much more you want," said Mrs. Athelny, and it was quite clear now that she was put out. "He's a very decent young fellow and he can afford to give you a thorough good home. We've got quite enough to feed here without you. If you get a chance like that it's wicked not to take it. And I daresay you'd be able to have a girl to do the rough work." Philip had never before heard Mrs. Athelny refer so directly to the difficulties of her life. He saw how important it was that each child should be provided for. "It's no good your carrying on, mother," said Sally in her quiet way. "I'm not going to marry him." "I think you're a very hard-hearted, cruel, selfish girl." "If you want me to earn my own living, mother, I can always go into service." "Don't be so silly, you know your father would never let you do that." Philip caught Sally's eye, and he thought there was in it a glimmer of amusement. He wondered what there had been in the conversation to touch her sense of humour. She was an odd girl. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXVI During his last year at St. Luke's Philip had to work hard. He was contented with life. He found it very comfortable to be heart-free and to have enough money for his needs. He had heard people speak contemptuously of money: he wondered if they had ever tried to do without it. He knew that the lack made a man petty, mean, grasping; it distorted his character and caused him to view the world from a vulgar angle; when you had to consider every penny, money became of grotesque importance: you needed a competency to rate it at its proper value. He lived a solitary life, seeing no one except the Athelnys, but he was not lonely; he busied himself with plans for the future, and sometimes he thought of the past. His recollection dwelt now and then on old friends, but he made no effort to see them. He would have liked to know what was become of Norah Nesbit; she was Norah something else now, but he could not remember the name of the man she was going to marry; he was glad to have known her: she was a good and a brave soul. One evening about half past eleven he saw Lawson, walking along Piccadilly; he was in evening clothes and might be supposed to be coming back from a theatre. Philip gave way to a sudden impulse and quickly turned down a side street. He had not seen him for two years and felt that he could not now take up again the interrupted friendship. He and Lawson had nothing more to say to one another. Philip was no longer interested in art; it seemed to him that he was able to enjoy beauty with greater force than when he was a boy; but art appeared to him unimportant. He was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of life, and the materials with which he worked seemed to make preoccupation with pigments and words very trivial. Lawson had served his turn. Philip's friendship with him had been a motive in the design he was elaborating: it was merely sentimental to ignore the fact that the painter was of no further interest to him. Sometimes Philip thought of Mildred. He avoided deliberately the streets in which there was a chance of seeing her; but occasionally some feeling, perhaps curiosity, perhaps something deeper which he would not acknowledge, made him wander about Piccadilly and Regent Street during the hours when she might be expected to be there. He did not know then whether he wished to see her or dreaded it. Once he saw a back which reminded him of hers, and for a moment he thought it was she; it gave him a curious sensation: it was a strange sharp pain in his heart, there was fear in it and a sickening dismay; and when he hurried on and found that he was mistaken he did not know whether it was relief that he experienced or disappointment. At the beginning of August Philip passed his surgery, his last examination, and received his diploma. It was seven years since he had entered St. Luke's Hospital. He was nearly thirty. He walked down the stairs of the Royal College of Surgeons with the roll in his hand which qualified him to practice, and his heart beat with satisfaction. "Now I'm really going to begin life," he thought. Next day he went to the secretary's office to put his name down for one of the hospital appointments. The secretary was a pleasant little man with a black beard, whom Philip had always found very affable. He congratulated him on his success, and then said: "I suppose you wouldn't like to do a locum for a month on the South coast? Three guineas a week with board and lodging." "I wouldn't mind," said Philip. "It's at Farnley, in Dorsetshire. Doctor South. You'd have to go down at once; his assistant has developed mumps. I believe it's a very pleasant place." There was something in the secretary's manner that puzzled Philip. It was a little doubtful. "What's the crab in it?" he asked. The secretary hesitated a moment and laughed in a conciliating fashion. "Well, the fact is, I understand he's rather a crusty, funny old fellow. The agencies won't send him anyone any more. He speaks his mind very openly, and men don't like it." "But d'you think he'll be satisfied with a man who's only just qualified? After all I have no experience." "He ought to be glad to get you," said the secretary diplomatically. Philip thought for a moment. He had nothing to do for the next few weeks, and he was glad of the chance to earn a bit of money. He could put it aside for the holiday in Spain which he had promised himself when he had finished his appointment at St. Luke's or, if they would not give him anything there, at some other hospital. "All right. I'll go." "The only thing is, you must go this afternoon. Will that suit you? If so, I'll send a wire at once." Philip would have liked a few days to himself; but he had seen the Athelnys the night before (he had gone at once to take them his good news) and there was really no reason why he should not start immediately. He had little luggage to pack. Soon after seven that evening he got out of the station at Farnley and took a cab to Doctor South's. It was a broad low stucco house, with a Virginia creeper growing over it. He was shown into the consulting-room. An old man was writing at a desk. He looked up as the maid ushered Philip in. He did not get up, and he did not speak; he merely stared at Philip. Philip was taken aback. "I think you're expecting me," he said. "The secretary of St. Luke's wired to you this morning." "I kept dinner back for half an hour. D'you want to wash?" "I do," said Philip. Doctor South amused him by his odd manner. He got up now, and Philip saw that he was a man of middle height, thin, with white hair cut very short and a long mouth closed so tightly that he seemed to have no lips at all; he was clean-shaven but for small white whiskers, and they increased the squareness of face which his firm jaw gave him. He wore a brown tweed suit and a white stock. His clothes hung loosely about him as though they had been made for a much larger man. He looked like a respectable farmer of the middle of the nineteenth century. He opened the door. "There is the dining-room," he said, pointing to the door opposite. "Your bed-room is the first door you come to when you get on the landing. Come downstairs when you're ready." During dinner Philip knew that Doctor South was examining him, but he spoke little, and Philip felt that he did not want to hear his assistant talk. "When were you qualified?" he asked suddenly. "Yesterday." "Were you at a university?" "No." "Last year when my assistant took a holiday they sent me a 'Varsity man. I told 'em not to do it again. Too damned gentlemanly for me." There was another pause. The dinner was very simple and very good. Philip preserved a sedate exterior, but in his heart he was bubbling over with excitement. He was immensely elated at being engaged as a locum; it made him feel extremely grown up; he had an insane desire to laugh at nothing in particular; and the more he thought of his professional dignity the more he was inclined to chuckle. But Doctor South broke suddenly into his thoughts. "How old are you?" "Getting on for thirty." "How is it you're only just qualified?" "I didn't go in for the medical till I was nearly twenty-three, and I had to give it up for two years in the middle." "Why?" "Poverty." Doctor South gave him an odd look and relapsed into silence. At the end of dinner he got up from the table. "D'you know what sort of a practice this is?" "No," answered Philip. "Mostly fishermen and their families. I have the Union and the Seamen's Hospital. I used to be alone here, but since they tried to make this into a fashionable sea-side resort a man has set up on the cliff, and the well-to-do people go to him. I only have those who can't afford to pay for a doctor at all." Philip saw that the rivalry was a sore point with the old man. "You know that I have no experience," said Philip. "You none of you know anything." He walked out of the room without another word and left Philip by himself. When the maid came in to clear away she told Philip that Doctor South saw patients from six till seven. Work for that night was over. Philip fetched a book from his room, lit his pipe, and settled himself down to read. It was a great comfort, since he had read nothing but medical books for the last few months. At ten o'clock Doctor South came in and looked at him. Philip hated not to have his feet up, and he had dragged up a chair for them. "You seem able to make yourself pretty comfortable," said Doctor South, with a grimness which would have disturbed Philip if he had not been in such high spirits. Philip's eyes twinkled as he answered. "Have you any objection?" Doctor South gave him a look, but did not reply directly. "What's that you're reading?" "Peregrine Pickle. Smollett." "I happen to know that Smollett wrote Peregrine Pickle." "I beg your pardon. Medical men aren't much interested in literature, are they?" Philip had put the book down on the table, and Doctor South took it up. It was a volume of an edition which had belonged to the Vicar of Blackstable. It was a thin book bound in faded morocco, with a copperplate engraving as a frontispiece; the pages were musty with age and stained with mould. Philip, without meaning to, started forward a little as Doctor South took the volume in his hands, and a slight smile came into his eyes. Very little escaped the old doctor. "Do I amuse you?" he asked icily. "I see you're fond of books. You can always tell by the way people handle them." Doctor South put down the novel immediately. "Breakfast at eight-thirty," he said and left the room. "What a funny old fellow!" thought Philip. He soon discovered why Doctor South's assistants found it difficult to get on with him. In the first place, he set his face firmly against all the discoveries of the last thirty years: he had no patience with the drugs which became modish, were thought to work marvellous cures, and in a few years were discarded; he had stock mixtures which he had brought from St. Luke's where he had been a student, and had used all his life; he found them just as efficacious as anything that had come into fashion since. Philip was startled at Doctor South's suspicion of asepsis; he had accepted it in deference to universal opinion; but he used the precautions which Philip had known insisted upon so scrupulously at the hospital with the disdainful tolerance of a man playing at soldiers with children. "I've seen antiseptics come along and sweep everything before them, and then I've seen asepsis take their place. Bunkum!" The young men who were sent down to him knew only hospital practice; and they came with the unconcealed scorn for the General Practitioner which they had absorbed in the air at the hospital; but they had seen only the complicated cases which appeared in the wards; they knew how to treat an obscure disease of the suprarenal bodies, but were helpless when consulted for a cold in the head. Their knowledge was theoretical and their self-assurance unbounded. Doctor South watched them with tightened lips; he took a savage pleasure in showing them how great was their ignorance and how unjustified their conceit. It was a poor practice, of fishing folk, and the doctor made up his own prescriptions. Doctor South asked his assistant how he expected to make both ends meet if he gave a fisherman with a stomach-ache a mixture consisting of half a dozen expensive drugs. He complained too that the young medical men were uneducated: their reading consisted of The Sporting Times and The British Medical Journal; they could neither write a legible hand nor spell correctly. For two or three days Doctor South watched Philip closely, ready to fall on him with acid sarcasm if he gave him the opportunity; and Philip, aware of this, went about his work with a quiet sense of amusement. He was pleased with the change of occupation. He liked the feeling of independence and of responsibility. All sorts of people came to the consulting-room. He was gratified because he seemed able to inspire his patients with confidence; and it was entertaining to watch the process of cure which at a hospital necessarily could be watched only at distant intervals. His rounds took him into low-roofed cottages in which were fishing tackle and sails and here and there mementoes of deep-sea travelling, a lacquer box from Japan, spears and oars from Melanesia, or daggers from the bazaars of Stamboul; there was an air of romance in the stuffy little rooms, and the salt of the sea gave them a bitter freshness. Philip liked to talk to the sailor-men, and when they found that he was not supercilious they told him long yarns of the distant journeys of their youth. Once or twice he made a mistake in diagnosis: (he had never seen a case of measles before, and when he was confronted with the rash took it for an obscure disease of the skin;) and once or twice his ideas of treatment differed from Doctor South's. The first time this happened Doctor South attacked him with savage irony; but Philip took it with good humour; he had some gift for repartee, and he made one or two answers which caused Doctor South to stop and look at him curiously. Philip's face was grave, but his eyes were twinkling. The old gentleman could not avoid the impression that Philip was chaffing him. He was used to being disliked and feared by his assistants, and this was a new experience. He had half a mind to fly into a passion and pack Philip off by the next train, he had done that before with his assistants; but he had an uneasy feeling that Philip then would simply laugh at him outright; and suddenly he felt amused. His mouth formed itself into a smile against his will, and he turned away. In a little while he grew conscious that Philip was amusing himself systematically at his expense. He was taken aback at first and then diverted. "Damn his impudence," he chuckled to himself. "Damn his impudence." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXVII Philip had written to Athelny to tell him that he was doing a locum in Dorsetshire and in due course received an answer from him. It was written in the formal manner he affected, studded with pompous epithets as a Persian diadem was studded with precious stones; and in the beautiful hand, like black letter and as difficult to read, upon which he prided himself. He suggested that Philip should join him and his family in the Kentish hop-field to which he went every year; and to persuade him said various beautiful and complicated things about Philip's soul and the winding tendrils of the hops. Philip replied at once that he would come on the first day he was free. Though not born there, he had a peculiar affection for the Isle of Thanet, and he was fired with enthusiasm at the thought of spending a fortnight so close to the earth and amid conditions which needed only a blue sky to be as idyllic as the olive groves of Arcady. The four weeks of his engagement at Farnley passed quickly. On the cliff a new town was springing up, with red brick villas round golf links, and a large hotel had recently been opened to cater for the summer visitors; but Philip went there seldom. Down below, by the harbour, the little stone houses of a past century were clustered in a delightful confusion, and the narrow streets, climbing down steeply, had an air of antiquity which appealed to the imagination. By the water's edge were neat cottages with trim, tiny gardens in front of them; they were inhabited by retired captains in the merchant service, and by mothers or widows of men who had gained their living by the sea; and they had an appearance which was quaint and peaceful. In the little harbour came tramps from Spain and the Levant, ships of small tonnage; and now and then a windjammer was borne in by the winds of romance. It reminded Philip of the dirty little harbour with its colliers at Blackstable, and he thought that there he had first acquired the desire, which was now an obsession, for Eastern lands and sunlit islands in a tropic sea. But here you felt yourself closer to the wide, deep ocean than on the shore of that North Sea which seemed always circumscribed; here you could draw a long breath as you looked out upon the even vastness; and the west wind, the dear soft salt wind of England, uplifted the heart and at the same time melted it to tenderness. One evening, when Philip had reached his last week with Doctor South, a child came to the surgery door while the old doctor and Philip were making up prescriptions. It was a little ragged girl with a dirty face and bare feet. Philip opened the door. "Please, sir, will you come to Mrs. Fletcher's in Ivy Lane at once?" "What's the matter with Mrs. Fletcher?" called out Doctor South in his rasping voice. The child took no notice of him, but addressed herself again to Philip. "Please, sir, her little boy's had an accident and will you come at once?" "Tell Mrs. Fletcher I'm coming," called out Doctor South. The little girl hesitated for a moment, and putting a dirty finger in a dirty mouth stood still and looked at Philip. "What's the matter, Kid?" said Philip, smiling. "Please, sir, Mrs. Fletcher says, will the new doctor come?" There was a sound in the dispensary and Doctor South came out into the passage. "Isn't Mrs. Fletcher satisfied with me?" he barked. "I've attended Mrs. Fletcher since she was born. Why aren't I good enough to attend her filthy brat?" The little girl looked for a moment as though she were going to cry, then she thought better of it; she put out her tongue deliberately at Doctor South, and, before he could recover from his astonishment, bolted off as fast as she could run. Philip saw that the old gentleman was annoyed. "You look rather fagged, and it's a goodish way to Ivy Lane," he said, by way of giving him an excuse not to go himself. Doctor South gave a low snarl. "It's a damned sight nearer for a man who's got the use of both legs than for a man who's only got one and a half." Philip reddened and stood silent for a while. "Do you wish me to go or will you go yourself?" he said at last frigidly. "What's the good of my going? They want you." Philip took up his hat and went to see the patient. It was hard upon eight o'clock when he came back. Doctor South was standing in the dining-room with his back to the fireplace. "You've been a long time," he said. "I'm sorry. Why didn't you start dinner?" "Because I chose to wait. Have you been all this while at Mrs. Fletcher's?" "No, I'm afraid I haven't. I stopped to look at the sunset on my way back, and I didn't think of the time." Doctor South did not reply, and the servant brought in some grilled sprats. Philip ate them with an excellent appetite. Suddenly Doctor South shot a question at him. "Why did you look at the sunset?" Philip answered with his mouth full. "Because I was happy." Doctor South gave him an odd look, and the shadow of a smile flickered across his old, tired face. They ate the rest of the dinner in silence; but when the maid had given them the port and left the room, the old man leaned back and fixed his sharp eyes on Philip. "It stung you up a bit when I spoke of your game leg, young fellow?" he said. "People always do, directly or indirectly, when they get angry with me." "I suppose they know it's your weak point." Philip faced him and looked at him steadily. "Are you very glad to have discovered it?" The doctor did not answer, but he gave a chuckle of bitter mirth. They sat for a while staring at one another. Then Doctor South surprised Philip extremely. "Why don't you stay here and I'll get rid of that damned fool with his mumps?" "It's very kind of you, but I hope to get an appointment at the hospital in the autumn. It'll help me so much in getting other work later." "I'm offering you a partnership," said Doctor South grumpily. "Why?" asked Philip, with surprise. "They seem to like you down here." "I didn't think that was a fact which altogether met with your approval," Philip said drily. "D'you suppose that after forty years' practice I care a twopenny damn whether people prefer my assistant to me? No, my friend. There's no sentiment between my patients and me. I don't expect gratitude from them, I expect them to pay my fees. Well, what d'you say to it?" Philip made no reply, not because he was thinking over the proposal, but because he was astonished. It was evidently very unusual for someone to offer a partnership to a newly qualified man; and he realised with wonder that, although nothing would induce him to say so, Doctor South had taken a fancy to him. He thought how amused the secretary at St. Luke's would be when he told him. "The practice brings in about seven hundred a year. We can reckon out how much your share would be worth, and you can pay me off by degrees. And when I die you can succeed me. I think that's better than knocking about hospitals for two or three years, and then taking assistantships until you can afford to set up for yourself." Philip knew it was a chance that most people in his profession would jump at; the profession was over-crowded, and half the men he knew would be thankful to accept the certainty of even so modest a competence as that. "I'm awfully sorry, but I can't," he said. "It means giving up everything I've aimed at for years. In one way and another I've had a roughish time, but I always had that one hope before me, to get qualified so that I might travel; and now, when I wake in the morning, my bones simply ache to get off, I don't mind where particularly, but just away, to places I've never been to." Now the goal seemed very near. He would have finished his appointment at St. Luke's by the middle of the following year, and then he would go to Spain; he could afford to spend several months there, rambling up and down the land which stood to him for romance; after that he would get a ship and go to the East. Life was before him and time of no account. He could wander, for years if he chose, in unfrequented places, amid strange peoples, where life was led in strange ways. He did not know what he sought or what his journeys would bring him; but he had a feeling that he would learn something new about life and gain some clue to the mystery that he had solved only to find more mysterious. And even if he found nothing he would allay the unrest which gnawed at his heart. But Doctor South was showing him a great kindness, and it seemed ungrateful to refuse his offer for no adequate reason; so in his shy way, trying to appear as matter of fact as possible, he made some attempt to explain why it was so important to him to carry out the plans he had cherished so passionately. Doctor South listened quietly, and a gentle look came into his shrewd old eyes. It seemed to Philip an added kindness that he did not press him to accept his offer. Benevolence is often very peremptory. He appeared to look upon Philip's reasons as sound. Dropping the subject, he began to talk of his own youth; he had been in the Royal Navy, and it was his long connection with the sea that, when he retired, had made him settle at Farnley. He told Philip of old days in the Pacific and of wild adventures in China. He had taken part in an expedition against the head-hunters of Borneo and had known Samoa when it was still an independent state. He had touched at coral islands. Philip listened to him entranced. Little by little he told Philip about himself. Doctor South was a widower, his wife had died thirty years before, and his daughter had married a farmer in Rhodesia; he had quarrelled with him, and she had not come to England for ten years. It was just as if he had never had wife or child. He was very lonely. His gruffness was little more than a protection which he wore to hide a complete disillusionment; and to Philip it seemed tragic to see him just waiting for death, not impatiently, but rather with loathing for it, hating old age and unable to resign himself to its limitations, and yet with the feeling that death was the only solution of the bitterness of his life. Philip crossed his path, and the natural affection which long separation from his daughter had killed--she had taken her husband's part in the quarrel and her children he had never seen--settled itself upon Philip. At first it made him angry, he told himself it was a sign of dotage; but there was something in Philip that attracted him, and he found himself smiling at him he knew not why. Philip did not bore him. Once or twice he put his hand on his shoulder: it was as near a caress as he had got since his daughter left England so many years before. When the time came for Philip to go Doctor South accompanied him to the station: he found himself unaccountably depressed. "I've had a ripping time here," said Philip. "You've been awfully kind to me." "I suppose you're very glad to go?" "I've enjoyed myself here." "But you want to get out into the world? Ah, you have youth." He hesitated a moment. "I want you to remember that if you change your mind my offer still stands." "That's awfully kind of you." Philip shook hands with him out of the carriage window, and the train steamed out of the station. Philip thought of the fortnight he was going to spend in the hop-field: he was happy at the idea of seeing his friends again, and he rejoiced because the day was fine. But Doctor South walked slowly back to his empty house. He felt very old and very lonely. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXVIII It was late in the evening when Philip arrived at Ferne. It was Mrs. Athelny's native village, and she had been accustomed from her childhood to pick in the hop-field to which with her husband and her children she still went every year. Like many Kentish folk her family had gone out regularly, glad to earn a little money, but especially regarding the annual outing, looked forward to for months, as the best of holidays. The work was not hard, it was done in common, in the open air, and for the children it was a long, delightful picnic; here the young men met the maidens; in the long evenings when work was over they wandered about the lanes, making love; and the hopping season was generally followed by weddings. They went out in carts with bedding, pots and pans, chairs and tables; and Ferne while the hopping lasted was deserted. They were very exclusive and would have resented the intrusion of foreigners, as they called the people who came from London; they looked down upon them and feared them too; they were a rough lot, and the respectable country folk did not want to mix with them. In the old days the hoppers slept in barns, but ten years ago a row of huts had been erected at the side of a meadow; and the Athelnys, like many others, had the same hut every year. Athelny met Philip at the station in a cart he had borrowed from the public-house at which he had got a room for Philip. It was a quarter of a mile from the hop-field. They left his bag there and walked over to the meadow in which were the huts. They were nothing more than a long, low shed, divided into little rooms about twelve feet square. In front of each was a fire of sticks, round which a family was grouped, eagerly watching the cooking of supper. The sea-air and the sun had browned already the faces of Athelny's children. Mrs. Athelny seemed a different woman in her sun-bonnet: you felt that the long years in the city had made no real difference to her; she was the country woman born and bred, and you could see how much at home she found herself in the country. She was frying bacon and at the same time keeping an eye on the younger children, but she had a hearty handshake and a jolly smile for Philip. Athelny was enthusiastic over the delights of a rural existence. "We're starved for sun and light in the cities we live in. It isn't life, it's a long imprisonment. Let us sell all we have, Betty, and take a farm in the country." "I can see you in the country," she answered with good-humoured scorn. "Why, the first rainy day we had in the winter you'd be crying for London." She turned to Philip. "Athelny's always like this when we come down here. Country, I like that! Why, he don't know a swede from a mangel-wurzel." "Daddy was lazy today," remarked Jane, with the frankness which characterized her, "he didn't fill one bin." "I'm getting into practice, child, and tomorrow I shall fill more bins than all of you put together." "Come and eat your supper, children," said Mrs. Athelny. "Where's Sally?" "Here I am, mother." She stepped out of their little hut, and the flames of the wood fire leaped up and cast sharp colour upon her face. Of late Philip had only seen her in the trim frocks she had taken to since she was at the dressmaker's, and there was something very charming in the print dress she wore now, loose and easy to work in; the sleeves were tucked up and showed her strong, round arms. She too had a sun-bonnet. "You look like a milkmaid in a fairy story," said Philip, as he shook hands with her. "She's the belle of the hop-fields," said Athelny. "My word, if the Squire's son sees you he'll make you an offer of marriage before you can say Jack Robinson." "The Squire hasn't got a son, father," said Sally. She looked about for a place to sit down in, and Philip made room for her beside him. She looked wonderful in the night lit by wood fires. She was like some rural goddess, and you thought of those fresh, strong girls whom old Herrick had praised in exquisite numbers. The supper was simple, bread and butter, crisp bacon, tea for the children, and beer for Mr. and Mrs. Athelny and Philip. Athelny, eating hungrily, praised loudly all he ate. He flung words of scorn at Lucullus and piled invectives upon Brillat-Savarin. "There's one thing one can say for you, Athelny," said his wife, "you do enjoy your food and no mistake!" "Cooked by your hand, my Betty," he said, stretching out an eloquent forefinger. Philip felt himself very comfortable. He looked happily at the line of fires, with people grouped about them, and the colour of the flames against the night; at the end of the meadow was a line of great elms, and above the starry sky. The children talked and laughed, and Athelny, a child among them, made them roar by his tricks and fancies. "They think a rare lot of Athelny down here," said his wife. "Why, Mrs. Bridges said to me, I don't know what we should do without Mr. Athelny now, she said. He's always up to something, he's more like a schoolboy than the father of a family." Sally sat in silence, but she attended to Philip's wants in a thoughtful fashion that charmed him. It was pleasant to have her beside him, and now and then he glanced at her sunburned, healthy face. Once he caught her eyes, and she smiled quietly. When supper was over Jane and a small brother were sent down to a brook that ran at the bottom of the meadow to fetch a pail of water for washing up. "You children, show your Uncle Philip where we sleep, and then you must be thinking of going to bed." Small hands seized Philip, and he was dragged towards the hut. He went in and struck a match. There was no furniture in it; and beside a tin box, in which clothes were kept, there was nothing but the beds; there were three of them, one against each wall. Athelny followed Philip in and showed them proudly. "That's the stuff to sleep on," he cried. "None of your spring-mattresses and swansdown. I never sleep so soundly anywhere as here. YOU will sleep between sheets. My dear fellow, I pity you from the bottom of my soul." The beds consisted of a thick layer of hopvine, on the top of which was a coating of straw, and this was covered with a blanket. After a day in the open air, with the aromatic scent of the hops all round them, the happy pickers slept like tops. By nine o'clock all was quiet in the meadow and everyone in bed but one or two men who still lingered in the public-house and would not come back till it was closed at ten. Athelny walked there with Philip. But before he went Mrs. Athelny said to him: "We breakfast about a quarter to six, but I daresay you won't want to get up as early as that. You see, we have to set to work at six." "Of course he must get up early," cried Athelny, "and he must work like the rest of us. He's got to earn his board. No work, no dinner, my lad." "The children go down to bathe before breakfast, and they can give you a call on their way back. They pass The Jolly Sailor." "If they'll wake me I'll come and bathe with them," said Philip. Jane and Harold and Edward shouted with delight at the prospect, and next morning Philip was awakened out of a sound sleep by their bursting into his room. The boys jumped on his bed, and he had to chase them out with his slippers. He put on a coat and a pair of trousers and went down. The day had only just broken, and there was a nip in the air; but the sky was cloudless, and the sun was shining yellow. Sally, holding Connie's hand, was standing in the middle of the road, with a towel and a bathing-dress over her arm. He saw now that her sun-bonnet was of the colour of lavender, and against it her face, red and brown, was like an apple. She greeted him with her slow, sweet smile, and he noticed suddenly that her teeth were small and regular and very white. He wondered why they had never caught his attention before. "I was for letting you sleep on," she said, "but they would go up and wake you. I said you didn't really want to come." "Oh, yes, I did." They walked down the road and then cut across the marshes. That way it was under a mile to the sea. The water looked cold and gray, and Philip shivered at the sight of it; but the others tore off their clothes and ran in shouting. Sally did everything a little slowly, and she did not come into the water till all the rest were splashing round Philip. Swimming was his only accomplishment; he felt at home in the water; and soon he had them all imitating him as he played at being a porpoise, and a drowning man, and a fat lady afraid of wetting her hair. The bathe was uproarious, and it was necessary for Sally to be very severe to induce them all to come out. "You're as bad as any of them," she said to Philip, in her grave, maternal way, which was at once comic and touching. "They're not anything like so naughty when you're not here." They walked back, Sally with her bright hair streaming over one shoulder and her sun-bonnet in her hand, but when they got to the huts Mrs. Athelny had already started for the hop-garden. Athleny, in a pair of the oldest trousers anyone had ever worn, his jacket buttoned up to show he had no shirt on, and in a wide-brimmed soft hat, was frying kippers over a fire of sticks. He was delighted with himself: he looked every inch a brigand. As soon as he saw the party he began to shout the witches' chorus from Macbeth over the odorous kippers. "You mustn't dawdle over your breakfast or mother will be angry," he said, when they came up. And in a few minutes, Harold and Jane with pieces of bread and butter in their hands, they sauntered through the meadow into the hop-field. They were the last to leave. A hop-garden was one of the sights connected with Philip's boyhood and the oast-houses to him the most typical feature of the Kentish scene. It was with no sense of strangeness, but as though he were at home, that Philip followed Sally through the long lines of the hops. The sun was bright now and cast a sharp shadow. Philip feasted his eyes on the richness of the green leaves. The hops were yellowing, and to him they had the beauty and the passion which poets in Sicily have found in the purple grape. As they walked along Philip felt himself overwhelmed by the rich luxuriance. A sweet scent arose from the fat Kentish soil, and the fitful September breeze was heavy with the goodly perfume of the hops. Athelstan felt the exhilaration instinctively, for he lifted up his voice and sang; it was the cracked voice of the boy of fifteen, and Sally turned round. "You be quiet, Athelstan, or we shall have a thunderstorm." In a moment they heard the hum of voices, and in a moment more came upon the pickers. They were all hard at work, talking and laughing as they picked. They sat on chairs, on stools, on boxes, with their baskets by their sides, and some stood by the bin throwing the hops they picked straight into it. There were a lot of children about and a good many babies, some in makeshift cradles, some tucked up in a rug on the soft brown dry earth. The children picked a little and played a great deal. The women worked busily, they had been pickers from childhood, and they could pick twice as fast as foreigners from London. They boasted about the number of bushels they had picked in a day, but they complained you could not make money now as in former times: then they paid you a shilling for five bushels, but now the rate was eight and even nine bushels to the shilling. In the old days a good picker could earn enough in the season to keep her for the rest of the year, but now there was nothing in it; you got a holiday for nothing, and that was about all. Mrs. Hill had bought herself a pianner out of what she made picking, so she said, but she was very near, one wouldn't like to be near like that, and most people thought it was only what she said, if the truth was known perhaps it would be found that she had put a bit of money from the savings bank towards it. The hoppers were divided into bin companies of ten pickers, not counting children, and Athelny loudly boasted of the day when he would have a company consisting entirely of his own family. Each company had a bin-man, whose duty it was to supply it with strings of hops at their bins (the bin was a large sack on a wooden frame, about seven feet high, and long rows of them were placed between the rows of hops;) and it was to this position that Athelny aspired when his family was old enough to form a company. Meanwhile he worked rather by encouraging others than by exertions of his own. He sauntered up to Mrs. Athelny, who had been busy for half an hour and had already emptied a basket into the bin, and with his cigarette between his lips began to pick. He asserted that he was going to pick more than anyone that day, but mother; of course no one could pick so much as mother; that reminded him of the trials which Aphrodite put upon the curious Psyche, and he began to tell his children the story of her love for the unseen bridegroom. He told it very well. It seemed to Philip, listening with a smile on his lips, that the old tale fitted in with the scene. The sky was very blue now, and he thought it could not be more lovely even in Greece. The children with their fair hair and rosy cheeks, strong, healthy, and vivacious; the delicate form of the hops; the challenging emerald of the leaves, like a blare of trumpets; the magic of the green alley, narrowing to a point as you looked down the row, with the pickers in their sun-bonnets: perhaps there was more of the Greek spirit there than you could find in the books of professors or in museums. He was thankful for the beauty of England. He thought of the winding white roads and the hedgerows, the green meadows with their elm-trees, the delicate line of the hills and the copses that crowned them, the flatness of the marshes, and the melancholy of the North Sea. He was very glad that he felt its loveliness. But presently Athelny grew restless and announced that he would go and ask how Robert Kemp's mother was. He knew everyone in the garden and called them all by their Christian names; he knew their family histories and all that had happened to them from birth. With harmless vanity he played the fine gentleman among them, and there was a touch of condescension in his familiarity. Philip would not go with him. "I'm going to earn my dinner," he said. "Quite right, my boy," answered Athelny, with a wave of the hand, as he strolled away. "No work, no dinner." </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXIX Philip had not a basket of his own, but sat with Sally. Jane thought it monstrous that he should help her elder sister rather than herself, and he had to promise to pick for her when Sally's basket was full. Sally was almost as quick as her mother. "Won't it hurt your hands for sewing?" asked Philip. "Oh, no, it wants soft hands. That's why women pick better than men. If your hands are hard and your fingers all stiff with a lot of rough work you can't pick near so well." He liked to see her deft movements, and she watched him too now and then with that maternal spirit of hers which was so amusing and yet so charming. He was clumsy at first, and she laughed at him. When she bent over and showed him how best to deal with a whole line their hands met. He was surprised to see her blush. He could not persuade himself that she was a woman; because he had known her as a flapper, he could not help looking upon her as a child still; yet the number of her admirers showed that she was a child no longer; and though they had only been down a few days one of Sally's cousins was already so attentive that she had to endure a lot of chaffing. His name was Peter Gann, and he was the son of Mrs. Athelny's sister, who had married a farmer near Ferne. Everyone knew why he found it necessary to walk through the hop-field every day. A call-off by the sounding of a horn was made for breakfast at eight, and though Mrs. Athelny told them they had not deserved it, they ate it very heartily. They set to work again and worked till twelve, when the horn sounded once more for dinner. At intervals the measurer went his round from bin to bin, accompanied by the booker, who entered first in his own book and then in the hopper's the number of bushels picked. As each bin was filled it was measured out in bushel baskets into a huge bag called a poke; and this the measurer and the pole-puller carried off between them and put on the waggon. Athelny came back now and then with stories of how much Mrs. Heath or Mrs. Jones had picked, and he conjured his family to beat her: he was always wanting to make records, and sometimes in his enthusiasm picked steadily for an hour. His chief amusement in it, however, was that it showed the beauty of his graceful hands, of which he was excessively proud. He spent much time manicuring them. He told Philip, as he stretched out his tapering fingers, that the Spanish grandees had always slept in oiled gloves to preserve their whiteness. The hand that wrung the throat of Europe, he remarked dramatically, was as shapely and exquisite as a woman's; and he looked at his own, as he delicately picked the hops, and sighed with self-satisfaction. When he grew tired of this he rolled himself a cigarette and discoursed to Philip of art and literature. In the afternoon it grew very hot. Work did not proceed so actively and conversation halted. The incessant chatter of the morning dwindled now to desultory remarks. Tiny beads of sweat stood on Sally's upper lip, and as she worked her lips were slightly parted. She was like a rosebud bursting into flower. Calling-off time depended on the state of the oast-house. Sometimes it was filled early, and as many hops had been picked by three or four as could be dried during the night. Then work was stopped. But generally the last measuring of the day began at five. As each company had its bin measured it gathered up its things and, chatting again now that work was over, sauntered out of the garden. The women went back to the huts to clean up and prepare the supper, while a good many of the men strolled down the road to the public-house. A glass of beer was very pleasant after the day's work. The Athelnys' bin was the last to be dealt with. When the measurer came Mrs. Athelny, with a sigh of relief, stood up and stretched her arms: she had been sitting in the same position for many hours and was stiff. "Now, let's go to The Jolly Sailor," said Athelny. "The rites of the day must be duly performed, and there is none more sacred than that." "Take a jug with you, Athelny," said his wife, "and bring back a pint and a half for supper." She gave him the money, copper by copper. The bar-parlour was already well filled. It had a sanded floor, benches round it, and yellow pictures of Victorian prize-fighters on the walls. The licencee knew all his customers by name, and he leaned over his bar smiling benignly at two young men who were throwing rings on a stick that stood up from the floor: their failure was greeted with a good deal of hearty chaff from the rest of the company. Room was made for the new arrivals. Philip found himself sitting between an old labourer in corduroys, with string tied under his knees, and a shiny-faced lad of seventeen with a love-lock neatly plastered on his red forehead. Athelny insisted on trying his hand at the throwing of rings. He backed himself for half a pint and won it. As he drank the loser's health he said: "I would sooner have won this than won the Derby, my boy." He was an outlandish figure, with his wide-brimmed hat and pointed beard, among those country folk, and it was easy to see that they thought him very queer; but his spirits were so high, his enthusiasm so contagious, that it was impossible not to like him. Conversation went easily. A certain number of pleasantries were exchanged in the broad, slow accent of the Isle of Thanet, and there was uproarious laughter at the sallies of the local wag. A pleasant gathering! It would have been a hard-hearted person who did not feel a glow of satisfaction in his fellows. Philip's eyes wandered out of the window where it was bright and sunny still; there were little white curtains in it tied up with red ribbon like those of a cottage window, and on the sill were pots of geraniums. In due course one by one the idlers got up and sauntered back to the meadow where supper was cooking. "I expect you'll be ready for your bed," said Mrs. Athelny to Philip. "You're not used to getting up at five and staying in the open air all day." "You're coming to bathe with us, Uncle Phil, aren't you?" the boys cried. "Rather." He was tired and happy. After supper, balancing himself against the wall of the hut on a chair without a back, he smoked his pipe and looked at the night. Sally was busy. She passed in and out of the hut, and he lazily watched her methodical actions. Her walk attracted his notice; it was not particularly graceful, but it was easy and assured; she swung her legs from the hips, and her feet seemed to tread the earth with decision. Athelny had gone off to gossip with one of the neighbours, and presently Philip heard his wife address the world in general. "There now, I'm out of tea and I wanted Athelny to go down to Mrs. Black's and get some." A pause, and then her voice was raised: "Sally, just run down to Mrs. Black's and get me half a pound of tea, will you? I've run quite out of it." "All right, mother." Mrs. Black had a cottage about half a mile along the road, and she combined the office of postmistress with that of universal provider. Sally came out of the hut, turning down her sleeves. "Shall I come with you, Sally?" asked Philip. "Don't you trouble. I'm not afraid to go alone." "I didn't think you were; but it's getting near my bedtime, and I was just thinking I'd like to stretch my legs." Sally did not answer, and they set out together. The road was white and silent. There was not a sound in the summer night. They did not speak much. "It's quite hot even now, isn't it?" said Philip. "I think it's wonderful for the time of year." But their silence did not seem awkward. They found it was pleasant to walk side by side and felt no need of words. Suddenly at a stile in the hedgerow they heard a low murmur of voices, and in the darkness they saw the outline of two people. They were sitting very close to one another and did not move as Philip and Sally passed. "I wonder who that was," said Sally. "They looked happy enough, didn't they?" "I expect they took us for lovers too." They saw the light of the cottage in front of them, and in a minute went into the little shop. The glare dazzled them for a moment. "You are late," said Mrs. Black. "I was just going to shut up." She looked at the clock. "Getting on for nine." Sally asked for her half pound of tea (Mrs. Athelny could never bring herself to buy more than half a pound at a time), and they set off up the road again. Now and then some beast of the night made a short, sharp sound, but it seemed only to make the silence more marked. "I believe if you stood still you could hear the sea," said Sally. They strained their ears, and their fancy presented them with a faint sound of little waves lapping up against the shingle. When they passed the stile again the lovers were still there, but now they were not speaking; they were in one another's arms, and the man's lips were pressed against the girl's. "They seem busy," said Sally. They turned a corner, and a breath of warm wind beat for a moment against their faces. The earth gave forth its freshness. There was something strange in the tremulous night, and something, you knew not what, seemed to be waiting; the silence was on a sudden pregnant with meaning. Philip had a queer feeling in his heart, it seemed very full, it seemed to melt (the hackneyed phrases expressed precisely the curious sensation), he felt happy and anxious and expectant. To his memory came back those lines in which Jessica and Lorenzo murmur melodious words to one another, capping each other's utterance; but passion shines bright and clear through the conceits that amuse them. He did not know what there was in the air that made his senses so strangely alert; it seemed to him that he was pure soul to enjoy the scents and the sounds and the savours of the earth. He had never felt such an exquisite capacity for beauty. He was afraid that Sally by speaking would break the spell, but she said never a word, and he wanted to hear the sound of her voice. Its low richness was the voice of the country night itself. They arrived at the field through which she had to walk to get back to the huts. Philip went in to hold the gate open for her. "Well, here I think I'll say good-night." "Thank you for coming all that way with me." She gave him her hand, and as he took it, he said: "If you were very nice you'd kiss me good-night like the rest of the family." "I don't mind," she said. Philip had spoken in jest. He merely wanted to kiss her, because he was happy and he liked her and the night was so lovely. "Good-night then," he said, with a little laugh, drawing her towards him. She gave him her lips; they were warm and full and soft; he lingered a little, they were like a flower; then, he knew not how, without meaning it, he flung his arms round her. She yielded quite silently. Her body was firm and strong. He felt her heart beat against his. Then he lost his head. His senses overwhelmed him like a flood of rushing waters. He drew her into the darker shadow of the hedge. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXX Philip slept like a log and awoke with a start to find Harold tickling his face with a feather. There was a shout of delight when he opened his eyes. He was drunken with sleep. "Come on, lazybones," said Jane. "Sally says she won't wait for you unless you hurry up." Then he remembered what had happened. His heart sank, and, half out of bed already, he stopped; he did not know how he was going to face her; he was overwhelmed with a sudden rush of self-reproach, and bitterly, bitterly, he regretted what he had done. What would she say to him that morning? He dreaded meeting her, and he asked himself how he could have been such a fool. But the children gave him no time; Edward took his bathing-drawers and his towel, Athelstan tore the bed-clothes away; and in three minutes they all clattered down into the road. Sally gave him a smile. It was as sweet and innocent as it had ever been. "You do take a time to dress yourself," she said. "I thought you was never coming." There was not a particle of difference in her manner. He had expected some change, subtle or abrupt; he fancied that there would be shame in the way she treated him, or anger, or perhaps some increase of familiarity; but there was nothing. She was exactly the same as before. They walked towards the sea all together, talking and laughing; and Sally was quiet, but she was always that, reserved, but he had never seen her otherwise, and gentle. She neither sought conversation with him nor avoided it. Philip was astounded. He had expected the incident of the night before to have caused some revolution in her, but it was just as though nothing had happened; it might have been a dream; and as he walked along, a little girl holding on to one hand and a little boy to the other, while he chatted as unconcernedly as he could, he sought for an explanation. He wondered whether Sally meant the affair to be forgotten. Perhaps her senses had run away with her just as his had, and, treating what had occurred as an accident due to unusual circumstances, it might be that she had decided to put the matter out of her mind. It was ascribing to her a power of thought and a mature wisdom which fitted neither with her age nor with her character. But he realised that he knew nothing of her. There had been in her always something enigmatic. They played leap-frog in the water, and the bathe was as uproarious as on the previous day. Sally mothered them all, keeping a watchful eye on them, and calling to them when they went out too far. She swam staidly backwards and forwards while the others got up to their larks, and now and then turned on her back to float. Presently she went out and began drying herself; she called to the others more or less peremptorily, and at last only Philip was left in the water. He took the opportunity to have a good hard swim. He was more used to the cold water this second morning, and he revelled in its salt freshness; it rejoiced him to use his limbs freely, and he covered the water with long, firm strokes. But Sally, with a towel round her, went down to the water's edge. "You're to come out this minute, Philip," she called, as though he were a small boy under her charge. And when, smiling with amusement at her authoritative way, he came towards her, she upbraided him. "It is naughty of you to stay in so long. Your lips are quite blue, and just look at your teeth, they're chattering." "All right. I'll come out." She had never talked to him in that manner before. It was as though what had happened gave her a sort of right over him, and she looked upon him as a child to be cared for. In a few minutes they were dressed, and they started to walk back. Sally noticed his hands. "Just look, they're quite blue." "Oh, that's all right. It's only the circulation. I shall get the blood back in a minute." "Give them to me." She took his hands in hers and rubbed them, first one and then the other, till the colour returned. Philip, touched and puzzled, watched her. He could not say anything to her on account of the children, and he did not meet her eyes; but he was sure they did not avoid his purposely, it just happened that they did not meet. And during the day there was nothing in her behaviour to suggest a consciousness in her that anything had passed between them. Perhaps she was a little more talkative than usual. When they were all sitting again in the hop-field she told her mother how naughty Philip had been in not coming out of the water till he was blue with cold. It was incredible, and yet it seemed that the only effect of the incident of the night before was to arouse in her a feeling of protection towards him: she had the same instinctive desire to mother him as she had with regard to her brothers and sisters. It was not till the evening that he found himself alone with her. She was cooking the supper, and Philip was sitting on the grass by the side of the fire. Mrs. Athelny had gone down to the village to do some shopping, and the children were scattered in various pursuits of their own. Philip hesitated to speak. He was very nervous. Sally attended to her business with serene competence and she accepted placidly the silence which to him was so embarrassing. He did not know how to begin. Sally seldom spoke unless she was spoken to or had something particular to say. At last he could not bear it any longer. "You're not angry with me, Sally?" he blurted out suddenly. She raised her eyes quietly and looked at him without emotion. "Me? No. Why should I be?" He was taken aback and did not reply. She took the lid off the pot, stirred the contents, and put it on again. A savoury smell spread over the air. She looked at him once more, with a quiet smile which barely separated her lips; it was more a smile of the eyes. "I always liked you," she said. His heart gave a great thump against his ribs, and he felt the blood rushing to his cheeks. He forced a faint laugh. "I didn't know that." "That's because you're a silly." "I don't know why you liked me." "I don't either." She put a little more wood on the fire. "I knew I liked you that day you came when you'd been sleeping out and hadn't had anything to eat, d'you remember? And me and mother, we got Thorpy's bed ready for you." He flushed again, for he did not know that she was aware of that incident. He remembered it himself with horror and shame. "That's why I wouldn't have anything to do with the others. You remember that young fellow mother wanted me to have? I let him come to tea because he bothered so, but I knew I'd say no." Philip was so surprised that he found nothing to say. There was a queer feeling in his heart; he did not know what it was, unless it was happiness. Sally stirred the pot once more. "I wish those children would make haste and come. I don't know where they've got to. Supper's ready now." "Shall I go and see if I can find them?" said Philip. It was a relief to talk about practical things. "Well, it wouldn't be a bad idea, I must say.... There's mother coming." Then, as he got up, she looked at him without embarrassment. "Shall I come for a walk with you tonight when I've put the children to bed?" "Yes." "Well, you wait for me down by the stile, and I'll come when I'm ready." He waited under the stars, sitting on the stile, and the hedges with their ripening blackberries were high on each side of him. From the earth rose rich scents of the night, and the air was soft and still. His heart was beating madly. He could not understand anything of what happened to him. He associated passion with cries and tears and vehemence, and there was nothing of this in Sally; but he did not know what else but passion could have caused her to give herself. But passion for him? He would not have been surprised if she had fallen to her cousin, Peter Gann, tall, spare, and straight, with his sunburned face and long, easy stride. Philip wondered what she saw in him. He did not know if she loved him as he reckoned love. And yet? He was convinced of her purity. He had a vague inkling that many things had combined, things that she felt though was unconscious of, the intoxication of the air and the hops and the night, the healthy instincts of the natural woman, a tenderness that overflowed, and an affection that had in it something maternal and something sisterly; and she gave all she had to give because her heart was full of charity. He heard a step on the road, and a figure came out of the darkness. "Sally," he murmured. She stopped and came to the stile, and with her came sweet, clean odours of the country-side. She seemed to carry with her scents of the new-mown hay, and the savour of ripe hops, and the freshness of young grass. Her lips were soft and full against his, and her lovely, strong body was firm within his arms. "Milk and honey," he said. "You're like milk and honey." He made her close her eyes and kissed her eyelids, first one and then the other. Her arm, strong and muscular, was bare to the elbow; he passed his hand over it and wondered at its beauty; it gleamed in the darkness; she had the skin that Rubens painted, astonishingly fair and transparent, and on one side were little golden hairs. It was the arm of a Saxon goddess; but no immortal had that exquisite, homely naturalness; and Philip thought of a cottage garden with the dear flowers which bloom in all men's hearts, of the hollyhock and the red and white rose which is called York and Lancaster, and of love--in-a-mist and Sweet William, and honeysuckle, larkspur, and London Pride. "How can you care for me?" he said. "I'm insignificant and crippled and ordinary and ugly." She took his face in both her hands and kissed his lips. "You're an old silly, that's what you are," she said. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXXI When the hops were picked, Philip with the news in his pocket that he had got the appointment as assistant house-physician at St. Luke's, accompanied the Athelnys back to London. He took modest rooms in Westminster and at the beginning of October entered upon his duties. The work was interesting and varied; every day he learned something new; he felt himself of some consequence; and he saw a good deal of Sally. He found life uncommonly pleasant. He was free about six, except on the days on which he had out-patients, and then he went to the shop at which Sally worked to meet her when she came out. There were several young men, who hung about opposite the 'trade entrance' or a little further along, at the first corner; and the girls, coming out two and two or in little groups, nudged one another and giggled as they recognised them. Sally in her plain black dress looked very different from the country lass who had picked hops side by side with him. She walked away from the shop quickly, but she slackened her pace when they met, and greeted him with her quiet smile. They walked together through the busy street. He talked to her of his work at the hospital, and she told him what she had been doing in the shop that day. He came to know the names of the girls she worked with. He found that Sally had a restrained, but keen, sense of the ridiculous, and she made remarks about the girls or the men who were set over them which amused him by their unexpected drollery. She had a way of saying a thing which was very characteristic, quite gravely, as though there were nothing funny in it at all, and yet it was so sharp-sighted that Philip broke into delighted laughter. Then she would give him a little glance in which the smiling eyes showed she was not unaware of her own humour. They met with a handshake and parted as formally. Once Philip asked her to come and have tea with him in his rooms, but she refused. "No, I won't do that. It would look funny." Never a word of love passed between them. She seemed not to desire anything more than the companionship of those walks. Yet Philip was positive that she was glad to be with him. She puzzled him as much as she had done at the beginning. He did not begin to understand her conduct; but the more he knew her the fonder he grew of her; she was competent and self controlled, and there was a charming honesty in her: you felt that you could rely upon her in every circumstance. "You are an awfully good sort," he said to her once a propos of nothing at all. "I expect I'm just the same as everyone else," she answered. He knew that he did not love her. It was a great affection that he felt for her, and he liked her company; it was curiously soothing; and he had a feeling for her which seemed to him ridiculous to entertain towards a shop-girl of nineteen: he respected her. And he admired her magnificent healthiness. She was a splendid animal, without defect; and physical perfection filled him always with admiring awe. She made him feel unworthy. Then, one day, about three weeks after they had come back to London as they walked together, he noticed that she was unusually silent. The serenity of her expression was altered by a slight line between the eyebrows: it was the beginning of a frown. "What's the matter, Sally?" he asked. She did not look at him, but straight in front of her, and her colour darkened. "I don't know." He understood at once what she meant. His heart gave a sudden, quick beat, and he felt the colour leave his cheeks. "What d'you mean? Are you afraid that... ?" He stopped. He could not go on. The possibility that anything of the sort could happen had never crossed his mind. Then he saw that her lips were trembling, and she was trying not to cry. "I'm not certain yet. Perhaps it'll be all right." They walked on in silence till they came to the corner of Chancery Lane, where he always left her. She held out her hand and smiled. "Don't worry about it yet. Let's hope for the best." He walked away with a tumult of thoughts in his head. What a fool he had been! That was the first thing that struck him, an abject, miserable fool, and he repeated it to himself a dozen times in a rush of angry feeling. He despised himself. How could he have got into such a mess? But at the same time, for his thoughts chased one another through his brain and yet seemed to stand together, in a hopeless confusion, like the pieces of a jig-saw puzzle seen in a nightmare, he asked himself what he was going to do. Everything was so clear before him, all he had aimed at so long within reach at last, and now his inconceivable stupidity had erected this new obstacle. Philip had never been able to surmount what he acknowledged was a defect in his resolute desire for a well ordered life, and that was his passion for living in the future; and no sooner was he settled in his work at the hospital than he had busied himself with arrangements for his travels. In the past he had often tried not to think too circumstantially of his plans for the future, it was only discouraging; but now that his goal was so near he saw no harm in giving away to a longing that was so difficult to resist. First of all he meant to go to Spain. That was the land of his heart; and by now he was imbued with its spirit, its romance and colour and history and grandeur; he felt that it had a message for him in particular which no other country could give. He knew the fine old cities already as though he had trodden their tortuous streets from childhood. Cordova, Seville, Toledo, Leon, Tarragona, Burgos. The great painters of Spain were the painters of his soul, and his pulse beat quickly as he pictured his ecstasy on standing face to face with those works which were more significant than any others to his own tortured, restless heart. He had read the great poets, more characteristic of their race than the poets of other lands; for they seemed to have drawn their inspiration not at all from the general currents of the world's literature but directly from the torrid, scented plains and the bleak mountains of their country. A few short months now, and he would hear with his own ears all around him the language which seemed most apt for grandeur of soul and passion. His fine taste had given him an inkling that Andalusia was too soft and sensuous, a little vulgar even, to satisfy his ardour; and his imagination dwelt more willingly among the wind-swept distances of Castile and the rugged magnificence of Aragon and Leon. He did not know quite what those unknown contacts would give him, but he felt that he would gather from them a strength and a purpose which would make him more capable of affronting and comprehending the manifold wonders of places more distant and more strange. For this was only a beginning. He had got into communication with the various companies which took surgeons out on their ships, and knew exactly what were their routes, and from men who had been on them what were the advantages and disadvantages of each line. He put aside the Orient and the P. & O. It was difficult to get a berth with them; and besides their passenger traffic allowed the medical officer little freedom; but there were other services which sent large tramps on leisurely expeditions to the East, stopping at all sorts of ports for various periods, from a day or two to a fortnight, so that you had plenty of time, and it was often possible to make a trip inland. The pay was poor and the food no more than adequate, so that there was not much demand for the posts, and a man with a London degree was pretty sure to get one if he applied. Since there were no passengers other than a casual man or so, shipping on business from some out-of-the-way port to another, the life on board was friendly and pleasant. Philip knew by heart the list of places at which they touched; and each one called up in him visions of tropical sunshine, and magic colour, and of a teeming, mysterious, intense life. Life! That was what he wanted. At last he would come to close quarters with Life. And perhaps, from Tokyo or Shanghai it would be possible to tranship into some other line and drip down to the islands of the South Pacific. A doctor was useful anywhere. There might be an opportunity to go up country in Burmah, and what rich jungles in Sumatra or Borneo might he not visit? He was young still and time was no object to him. He had no ties in England, no friends; he could go up and down the world for years, learning the beauty and the wonder and the variedness of life. Now this thing had come. He put aside the possibility that Sally was mistaken; he felt strangely certain that she was right; after all, it was so likely; anyone could see that Nature had built her to be the mother of children. He knew what he ought to do. He ought not to let the incident divert him a hair's breadth from his path. He thought of Griffiths; he could easily imagine with what indifference that young man would have received such a piece of news; he would have thought it an awful nuisance and would at once have taken to his heels, like a wise fellow; he would have left the girl to deal with her troubles as best she could. Philip told himself that if this had happened it was because it was inevitable. He was no more to blame than Sally; she was a girl who knew the world and the facts of life, and she had taken the risk with her eyes open. It would be madness to allow such an accident to disturb the whole pattern of his life. He was one of the few people who was acutely conscious of the transitoriness of life, and how necessary it was to make the most of it. He would do what he could for Sally; he could afford to give her a sufficient sum of money. A strong man would never allow himself to be turned from his purpose. Philip said all this to himself, but he knew he could not do it. He simply could not. He knew himself. "I'm so damned weak," he muttered despairingly. She had trusted him and been kind to him. He simply could not do a thing which, notwithstanding all his reason, he felt was horrible. He knew he would have no peace on his travels if he had the thought constantly with him that she was wretched. Besides, there were her father and mother: they had always treated him well; it was not possible to repay them with ingratitude. The only thing was to marry Sally as quickly as possible. He would write to Doctor South, tell him he was going to be married at once, and say that if his offer still held he was willing to accept it. That sort of practice, among poor people, was the only one possible for him; there his deformity did not matter, and they would not sneer at the simple manners of his wife. It was curious to think of her as his wife, it gave him a queer, soft feeling; and a wave of emotion spread over him as he thought of the child which was his. He had little doubt that Doctor South would be glad to have him, and he pictured to himself the life he would lead with Sally in the fishing village. They would have a little house within sight of the sea, and he would watch the mighty ships passing to the lands he would never know. Perhaps that was the wisest thing. Cronshaw had told him that the facts of life mattered nothing to him who by the power of fancy held in fee the twin realms of space and time. It was true. Forever wilt thou love and she be fair! His wedding present to his wife would be all his high hopes. Self-sacrifice! Philip was uplifted by its beauty, and all through the evening he thought of it. He was so excited that he could not read. He seemed to be driven out of his rooms into the streets, and he walked up and down Birdcage Walk, his heart throbbing with joy. He could hardly bear his impatience. He wanted to see Sally's happiness when he made her his offer, and if it had not been so late he would have gone to her there and then. He pictured to himself the long evenings he would spend with Sally in the cosy sitting-room, the blinds undrawn so that they could watch the sea; he with his books, while she bent over her work, and the shaded lamp made her sweet face more fair. They would talk over the growing child, and when she turned her eyes to his there was in them the light of love. And the fishermen and their wives who were his patients would come to feel a great affection for them, and they in their turn would enter into the pleasures and pains of those simple lives. But his thoughts returned to the son who would be his and hers. Already he felt in himself a passionate devotion to it. He thought of passing his hands over his little perfect limbs, he knew he would be beautiful; and he would make over to him all his dreams of a rich and varied life. And thinking over the long pilgrimage of his past he accepted it joyfully. He accepted the deformity which had made life so hard for him; he knew that it had warped his character, but now he saw also that by reason of it he had acquired that power of introspection which had given him so much delight. Without it he would never have had his keen appreciation of beauty, his passion for art and literature, and his interest in the varied spectacle of life. The ridicule and the contempt which had so often been heaped upon him had turned his mind inward and called forth those flowers which he felt would never lose their fragrance. Then he saw that the normal was the rarest thing in the world. Everyone had some defect, of body or of mind: he thought of all the people he had known (the whole world was like a sick-house, and there was no rhyme or reason in it), he saw a long procession, deformed in body and warped in mind, some with illness of the flesh, weak hearts or weak lungs, and some with illness of the spirit, languor of will, or a craving for liquor. At this moment he could feel a holy compassion for them all. They were the helpless instruments of blind chance. He could pardon Griffiths for his treachery and Mildred for the pain she had caused him. They could not help themselves. The only reasonable thing was to accept the good of men and be patient with their faults. The words of the dying God crossed his memory: Forgive them, for they know not what they do. </CHAPTER> <CHAPTER> CXXII He had arranged to meet Sally on Saturday in the National Gallery. She was to come there as soon as she was released from the shop and had agreed to lunch with him. Two days had passed since he had seen her, and his exultation had not left him for a moment. It was because he rejoiced in the feeling that he had not attempted to see her. He had repeated to himself exactly what he would say to her and how he should say it. Now his impatience was unbearable. He had written to Doctor South and had in his pocket a telegram from him received that morning: "Sacking the mumpish fool. When will you come?" Philip walked along Parliament Street. It was a fine day, and there was a bright, frosty sun which made the light dance in the street. It was crowded. There was a tenuous mist in the distance, and it softened exquisitely the noble lines of the buildings. He crossed Trafalgar Square. Suddenly his heart gave a sort of twist in his body; he saw a woman in front of him who he thought was Mildred. She had the same figure, and she walked with that slight dragging of the feet which was so characteristic of her. Without thinking, but with a beating heart, he hurried till he came alongside, and then, when the woman turned, he saw it was someone unknown to him. It was the face of a much older person, with a lined, yellow skin. He slackened his pace. He was infinitely relieved, but it was not only relief that he felt; it was disappointment too; he was seized with horror of himself. Would he never be free from that passion? At the bottom of his heart, notwithstanding everything, he felt that a strange, desperate thirst for that vile woman would always linger. That love had caused him so much suffering that he knew he would never, never quite be free of it. Only death could finally assuage his desire. But he wrenched the pang from his heart. He thought of Sally, with her kind blue eyes; and his lips unconsciously formed themselves into a smile. He walked up the steps of the National Gallery and sat down in the first room, so that he should see her the moment she came in. It always comforted him to get among pictures. He looked at none in particular, but allowed the magnificence of their colour, the beauty of their lines, to work upon his soul. His imagination was busy with Sally. It would be pleasant to take her away from that London in which she seemed an unusual figure, like a cornflower in a shop among orchids and azaleas; he had learned in the Kentish hop-field that she did not belong to the town; and he was sure that she would blossom under the soft skies of Dorset to a rarer beauty. She came in, and he got up to meet her. She was in black, with white cuffs at her wrists and a lawn collar round her neck. They shook hands. "Have you been waiting long?" "No. Ten minutes. Are you hungry?" "Not very." "Let's sit here for a bit, shall we?" "If you like." They sat quietly, side by side, without speaking. Philip enjoyed having her near him. He was warmed by her radiant health. A glow of life seemed like an aureole to shine about her. "Well, how have you been?" he said at last, with a little smile. "Oh, it's all right. It was a false alarm." "Was it?" "Aren't you glad?" An extraordinary sensation filled him. He had felt certain that Sally's suspicion was well-founded; it had never occurred to him for an instant that there was a possibility of error. All his plans were suddenly overthrown, and the existence, so elaborately pictured, was no more than a dream which would never be realised. He was free once more. Free! He need give up none of his projects, and life still was in his hands for him to do what he liked with. He felt no exhilaration, but only dismay. His heart sank. The future stretched out before him in desolate emptiness. It was as though he had sailed for many years over a great waste of waters, with peril and privation, and at last had come upon a fair haven, but as he was about to enter, some contrary wind had arisen and drove him out again into the open sea; and because he had let his mind dwell on these soft meads and pleasant woods of the land, the vast deserts of the ocean filled him with anguish. He could not confront again the loneliness and the tempest. Sally looked at him with her clear eyes. "Aren't you glad?" she asked again. "I thought you'd be as pleased as Punch." He met her gaze haggardly. "I'm not sure," he muttered. "You are funny. Most men would." He realised that he had deceived himself; it was no self-sacrifice that had driven him to think of marrying, but the desire for a wife and a home and love; and now that it all seemed to slip through his fingers he was seized with despair. He wanted all that more than anything in the world. What did he care for Spain and its cities, Cordova, Toledo, Leon; what to him were the pagodas of Burmah and the lagoons of South Sea Islands? America was here and now. It seemed to him that all his life he had followed the ideals that other people, by their words or their writings, had instilled into him, and never the desires of his own heart. Always his course had been swayed by what he thought he should do and never by what he wanted with his whole soul to do. He put all that aside now with a gesture of impatience. He had lived always in the future, and the present always, always had slipped through his fingers. His ideals? He thought of his desire to make a design, intricate and beautiful, out of the myriad, meaningless facts of life: had he not seen also that the simplest pattern, that in which a man was born, worked, married, had children, and died, was likewise the most perfect? It might be that to surrender to happiness was to accept defeat, but it was a defeat better than many victories. He glanced quickly at Sally, he wondered what she was thinking, and then looked away again. "I was going to ask you to marry me," he said. "I thought p'raps you might, but I shouldn't have liked to stand in your way." "You wouldn't have done that." "How about your travels, Spain and all that?" "How d'you know I want to travel?" "I ought to know something about it. I've heard you and Dad talk about it till you were blue in the face." "I don't care a damn about all that." He paused for an instant and then spoke in a low, hoarse whisper. "I don't want to leave you! I can't leave you." She did not answer. He could not tell what she thought. "I wonder if you'll marry me, Sally." She did not move and there was no flicker of emotion on her face, but she did not look at him when she answered. "If you like." "Don't you want to?" "Oh, of course I'd like to have a house of my own, and it's about time I was settling down." He smiled a little. He knew her pretty well by now, and her manner did not surprise him. "But don't you want to marry ME?" "There's no one else I would marry." "Then that settles it." "Mother and Dad will be surprised, won't they?" "I'm so happy." "I want my lunch," she said. "Dear!" He smiled and took her hand and pressed it. They got up and walked out of the gallery. They stood for a moment at the balustrade and looked at Trafalgar Square. Cabs and omnibuses hurried to and fro, and crowds passed, hastening in every direction, and the sun was shining. </CHAPTER> End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Of Human Bondage, by W. 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Chapters 112-122

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of Chapters CXII-CXXII Philip's legacy is enough to continue his education. He feels that "now he could begin a new life, and he would put behind him all the errors, follies, and miseries of the past" . He reenters St. Luke's and begins the midwifery duties, averaging three births a day. He inspires the poor people he works among, for he has learned a lot in the last two years as a worker. He has a gentleness about him the people like, and he makes friends with his patients. Though he sees death, he learns that the greatest tragedy for the poor is not death but the loss of work. They are not sentimental or dramatic but accept their lots stoically. Philip gives a gold chain of his aunt's to Sally Athelny. She is now apprenticed to a dressmaker. She is beautiful and has many admirers, but she refuses them all. Philip has always been shy around her, because she is very quiet. When a suitor comes to tea, the family approves of him, but she rejects him for apparently no good reason. Philip is in his last year and works hard, contented with life. The Athelnys are his only friends. After he receives his diploma, he gets an assistantship with Dr. South at Farnley in Dorsetshire. He is very crusty and hard to get along with, but he takes to Philip. His patients also like Philip, and Dr. South offers him a partnership. It is not a lucrative practice, but it is near the sea among simple people. Philip refuses because he has his heart set on traveling the world. He spends a vacation with the Athelnys and their children where they go every summer to harvest the hops in Kent, Betty Athelny's home. They stay in a cabin in the fields and camp out, with outdoor cooking, swimming in the sea, dances, and hop collecting in the day. Hopping season is also local courting season, and Philip and Sally are attracted. She is sunburned and natural, with a peasant and earthy beauty. Philip swims with Sally and the children in the sea every day. He likes her natural and unaffected manners, and they walk together, though they are mostly silent. The smell of hops in the air makes lovemaking easy, and one night, Philip and Sally make love in the field. The next day she acts quite natural with him, making no demands or sign that anything has altered. Philip feels guilt about losing his head, but she does not seem to mind. They continue to meet, and her loving makes him happy. He calls it "milk and honey" . In London, he gets an appointment at St. Luke's, and Sally works at the dressmaker's. They meet regularly for walks, but no words of love pass between them. She does not insist on anything. They enjoy one another's company. He has affection for her, but he does not think he loves her. One day she tells him she is worried. He realizes she could be pregnant and thinks what a fool he is to have ruined his life just when he wanted to travel. His first thought is that he should not divert his plans. They both went into it with open eyes. But on the other hand, he owes so much to the Athelnys. He should marry her. As soon as he thinks of her as his wife and himself as a father, he becomes very happy. He wires Dr. South to accept the offered appointment, so he will have a home for her. Sally tells him it was a false alarm, and he is disappointed. He proposes to her, and she accepts. He sees that the simplest pattern of life is being born, working, getting married, having children, and dying. It is good enough for him.

Commentary on Chapters CXII-CXXII When Philip returns to the hospital, he is a different person. He now has "a certain confidence in himself and a different outlook upon many things" . He has had to survive on his own in completely alien circumstances for two years. When he goes back to visit his old school, he sees young boys going through the same scenes he did. Life has a certain rhythm, and he forgives his old suffering. He sees tragedies, but he also sees "the beauty of the world. Beside that nothing seemed to matter" . When Philip sees Lawson in the street, he avoids him because he no longer has anything in common with him. He doesn't want to create art now; he wants to create beauty in his life: "he was occupied with the forming of a pattern out of the manifold chaos of life" . It is significant that the story ends in the rural hop fields where he falls in love with Sally, for most of the book takes place in buildings and cities, often in ugly scenes. In the open air, he sees Sally as "a milkmaid in a fairy story" . Her natural ways are contrasted to the possessiveness of Miss Wilkinson or Fanny Price or Mildred. She does not make any claim on Philip after they make love, though she has obviously been interested in him for years. Her beauty is not only a healthy physical beauty , but a beauty from within. She is maternal and kind, like all the "good" women in the book. He does not associate his feelings for Sally with love at first: "He could not understand anything of what happened to him" . Sally gives herself freely, but "He was convinced of her purity" . He decides she has "the healthy instincts of the natural woman" . When he thinks she is pregnant, he finally understands he is very happy, and that he wants to participate in the natural force of life with this woman as his partner. He feels her honesty and reliability. Maugham does take up the theme of women's issues in his writings, and here, he makes a case for Sally being a young woman with natural sexual desire, but still pure. A Victorian woman was not allowed to have sexual desire. Only prostitutes like Mildred were sexual. Sally not only has sex, she does not use it as a weapon or threat, even when she thinks she might be pregnant. Lucy Otter, Ruth Chalice, Norah Nesbit, Emily Wilkinson, and Sally are all women who go beyond conventional women's roles. Philip begins to understand the joy of "self-sacrifice" for the sake of a family. He had felt this toward Mildred and her child too, but Mildred spoiled it by taking advantage of him. Finally, this love is different because he begins for once to accept himself and his deformity. He realizes that his deformity has made him thoughtful and appreciative. He can forgive everyone now. He once thinks he sees Mildred on the street; it isn't her, but his heart skips a beat, and he knows that there is still a shadow of that passion that will remain in his heart. It is Sally and their future, however, that will justify life for him, not a philosophy or "meaning." Sally can help him create a beautiful pattern out of life, as Thorpe Athelny did with Betty.

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all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/chapters_1_to_2.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_1_part_0.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapters 1-2

chapters 1-2

{"name": "Chapters 1-2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-2", "summary": "An old man, a collie dog, and two younger men are sitting in the garden of an old English mansion to tea. The narrator attests that the house, and the whole scene, appears to be characteristically English. The manor is called \"Gardencourt.\" The old man, Mr. Touchett, is an American banker who has owned the house for twenty years. Initially he thought it was ugly, but now he feels that it is an aesthetic object. He knows the history of the house very well, it having passed through the hands of many Englishmen until he himself bought it. The man has a very American face, and seems to have an air of having been both successful at life, and also something of a failure. One of the young men, Lord Warburton, appears to be thirty-five and looks very English. The other of the young men, Ralph Touchett, the son of Mr. Touchett, looks both very clever and very ill. The men are joking about one another's interest in life: Warburton claims that Ralph is \"sick of life,\" while Ralph thinks that Warburton is bored. Ralph counsels Warburton to take a wife, and Mr. Touchett agrees, believing that such a wife would help make life interesting, and that there is furthermore the benefit that women will be protected from any political and social changes yet to come. The old man then jokes that Lord Warburton may fall in love with anyone but his niece who is slated to arrive very soon. The old man explains that his niece will arrive from America for the first time, having been discovered by his estranged wife, Mrs. Touchett. The wife has recently sent a telegram informing him of their impending arrival. \"Taken sister's girl, died last year, go to Europe, two sisters, quite independent,\" the telegram informed him. Mr. Touchett wonders over the many interpretations of this cryptic telegram: who is \"quite independent\" and does Mrs. Touchett mean financially or morally independent? Lord Warburton asks to be informed of the arrival of this niece, and Mr. Touchett half-seriously jokes that he will, so long as he promises not to fall in love with her! Just as Lord Warburton and Mr. Touchett are discussing the arrival of Mr. Touchett's niece, Ralph wanders off and notes a young lady in the distance. Ralph's dog runs up to her, who happens to be the very niece who had been under discussion, Isabel Archer. She delivers a message from Mrs. Touchett that Ralph is to meet his mother at 7pm for dinner. Upon meeting Lord Warburton, she declares: \"Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!\" She has a pleasurable impression of the house and the entire atmosphere, and she reflects this to her companions in her upbeat nature and smiling countenance. Ralph wonders that he never knew of her existence, and she responds that there was some disagreement between her own father and Mrs. Touchett, his sister. Mr. Touchett then goes off with Isabel alone, to discuss Mrs. Touchett. Lord Warburton tells Ralph: \"You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting woman. There it is!\"", "analysis": "A theme of typical Englishness and the encroachment of American-ness upon such a scene are introduced in the tea scene in the garden. The setting is representative of a larger theme in the novel: the Old World vs. the New World . While the narrator claims that the picture appears typically English, it is clear that the Americans are infiltrating the English aristocracy through their money. The house has passed through the hands of many Englishmen, only now to land in the hands of an American banker who originally thought the house ugly. However these men seem pretty well adjusted to English society now, represented in the fact that Mr. Touchett now appreciates the aesthetics of the house, the presence of an English lord in their garden, and the fact that his son was likely born in England. The chapter foreshadows that Lord Warburton will in fact do exactly what Mr. Touchett counsels him not to: fall in love with his niece. Further, it paints a picture of a degraded state of marriage: while Mr. Touchett believes that women will make life \"interesting,\" his own estranged wife appears to make his own life lonely. She does not come to greet her own family upon her arrival, and he has to ask Isabel Archer for \"information\" about her. Why do people marry, and why should they marry? The many possible varying motivations people might have for marriage are foreshadowed here: money, an ethereal \"idea\" of what a woman should be, insularity from political life, a vague notion of making life \"interesting.\" These chapters also show some authorial irony in the character's awareness of their own fictional circumstances. Generally, characters do not know they are located in a fictional world: that is part of the illusion of reality that novels create. Yet, the author embeds two ironic references to this fictitiousness. First, Isabel Archer believes herself to be in the world of a \"novel\" when she sees the representative English picture, complete with a real lord. This ironic because little does she know, she actually is in a novel. Second, the Lord believes that his \"idea\" of a good woman is Isabel Archer, realized in the flesh. This mirror's the author's own approach to the book , where he details how his \"sense of a character\" was the \"germ\" of an idea, of Isabel Archer. Isabel has appeared out of thin air at the very moment the men have been thinking about her. Will their idea of her conform to her reality?"}

Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not--some people of course never do,--the situation is in itself delightful. Those that I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of the little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English country-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality. Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressed that sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief source of one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o'clock to eight is on certain occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this the interval could be only an eternity of pleasure. The persons concerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not of the sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular; they were the shadows of an old man sitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and of two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him. The old man had his cup in his hand; it was an unusually large cup, of a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted in brilliant colours. He disposed of its contents with much circumspection, holding it for a long time close to his chin, with his face turned to the house. His companions had either finished their tea or were indifferent to their privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of them, from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certain attention at the elder man, who, unconscious of observation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that rose beyond the lawn was a structure to repay such consideration and was the most characteristic object in the peculiarly English picture I have attempted to sketch. It stood upon a low hill, above the river--the river being the Thames at some forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather had played all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented to the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers. The house had a name and a history; the old gentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these things: how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night's hospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular bed which still formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had been a good deal bruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and much enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodelled and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed into the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originally because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of twenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all its points and would tell you just where to stand to see them in combination and just the hour when the shadows of its various protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork--were of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he could have counted off most of the successive owners and occupants, several of whom were known to general fame; doing so, however, with an undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was not the least honourable. The front of the house overlooking that portion of the lawn with which we are concerned was not the entrance-front; this was in quite another quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension of a luxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as that of velvet curtains; and the place was furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs, with the books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at some distance; where the ground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the less a charming walk down to the water. The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty years before, had brought with him, at the top of his baggage, his American physiognomy; and he had not only brought it with him, but he had kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have taken it back to his own country with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to displace himself; his journeys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently a face in which the range of representation was not large, so that the air of contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successful in life, yet it seemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive and invidious, but had had much of the inoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience of men, but there was an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean, spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the table. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees, and his feet were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near his chair, watching the master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in the still more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultory attendance upon the other gentlemen. One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched was something else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair and frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich adornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look--the air of a happy temperament fertilised by a high civilisation--which would have made almost any observer envy him at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from a long ride; he wore a white hat, which looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in one of them--a large, white, well-shaped fist--was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves. His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person of quite a different pattern, who, although he might have excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly put together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no means decorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. He looked clever and ill--a combination by no means felicitous; and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there was something in the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling, wandering quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in the chair he rested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, you would easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his son's eye at last and gave him a mild, responsive smile. "I'm getting on very well," he said. "Have you drunk your tea?" asked the son. "Yes, and enjoyed it." "Shall I give you some more?" The old man considered, placidly. "Well, I guess I'll wait and see." He had, in speaking, the American tone. "Are you cold?" the son enquired. The father slowly rubbed his legs. "Well, I don't know. I can't tell till I feel." "Perhaps some one might feel for you," said the younger man, laughing. "Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me, Lord Warburton?" "Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton, promptly. "I'm bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable." "Well, I suppose I am, in most respects." And the old man looked down at his green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. "The fact is I've been comfortable so many years that I suppose I've got so used to it I don't know it." "Yes, that's the bore of comfort," said Lord Warburton. "We only know when we're uncomfortable." "It strikes me we're rather particular," his companion remarked. "Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular," Lord Warburton murmured. And then the three men remained silent a while; the two younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presently asked for more tea. "I should think you would be very unhappy with that shawl," Lord Warburton resumed while his companion filled the old man's cup again. "Oh no, he must have the shawl!" cried the gentleman in the velvet coat. "Don't put such ideas as that into his head." "It belongs to my wife," said the old man simply. "Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons--" And Lord Warburton made a gesture of apology. "I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old man went on. "You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover your poor old legs." "Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess they are as good as yours." "Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied, giving him his tea. "Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference." "I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?" "Well, it's rather hot." "That's intended to be a merit." "Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man, kindly. "He's a very good nurse, Lord Warburton." "Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship. "Oh no, he's not clumsy--considering that he's an invalid himself. He's a very good nurse--for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because he's sick himself." "Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed. "Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it." "I might try: that's an idea," said the young man. "Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked. Lord Warburton considered a moment. "Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf." "He's making light of you, daddy," said the other young man. "That's a sort of joke." "Well, there seem to be so many sorts now," daddy replied, serenely. "You don't look as if you had been sick, anyway, Lord Warburton." "He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about it," said Lord Warburton's friend. "Is that true, sir?" asked the old man gravely. "If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow to talk to--a regular cynic. He doesn't seem to believe in anything." "That's another sort of joke," said the person accused of cynicism. "It's because his health is so poor," his father explained to Lord Warburton. "It affects his mind and colours his way of looking at things; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it's almost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect his spirits. I've hardly ever seen him when he wasn't cheerful--about as he is at present. He often cheers me up." The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. "Is it a glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should you like me to carry out my theories, daddy?" "By Jove, we should see some queer things!" cried Lord Warburton. "I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone," said the old man. "Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm not in the least bored; I find life only too interesting." "Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!" "I'm never bored when I come here," said Lord Warburton. "One gets such uncommonly good talk." "Is that another sort of joke?" asked the old man. "You've no excuse for being bored anywhere. When I was your age I had never heard of such a thing." "You must have developed very late." "No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twenty years old I was very highly developed indeed. I was working tooth and nail. You wouldn't be bored if you had something to do; but all you young men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You're too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich." "Oh, I say," cried Lord Warburton, "you're hardly the person to accuse a fellow-creature of being too rich!" "Do you mean because I'm a banker?" asked the old man. "Because of that, if you like; and because you have--haven't you?--such unlimited means." "He isn't very rich," the other young man mercifully pleaded. "He has given away an immense deal of money." "Well, I suppose it was his own," said Lord Warburton; "and in that case could there be a better proof of wealth? Let not a public benefactor talk of one's being too fond of pleasure." "Daddy's very fond of pleasure--of other people's." The old man shook his head. "I don't pretend to have contributed anything to the amusement of my contemporaries." "My dear father, you're too modest!" "That's a kind of joke, sir," said Lord Warburton. "You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you've nothing left." "Fortunately there are always more jokes," the ugly young man remarked. "I don't believe it--I believe things are getting more serious. You young men will find that out." "The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great opportunity of jokes." "They'll have to be grim jokes," said the old man. "I'm convinced there will be great changes, and not all for the better." "I quite agree with you, sir," Lord Warburton declared. "I'm very sure there will be great changes, and that all sorts of queer things will happen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying your advice; you know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold' of something. One hesitates to take hold of a thing that may the next moment be knocked sky-high." "You ought to take hold of a pretty woman," said his companion. "He's trying hard to fall in love," he added, by way of explanation, to his father. "The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!" Lord Warburton exclaimed. "No, no, they'll be firm," the old man rejoined; "they'll not be affected by the social and political changes I just referred to." "You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay hands on one as soon as possible and tie her round my neck as a life-preserver." "The ladies will save us," said the old man; "that is the best of them will--for I make a difference between them. Make up to a good one and marry her, and your life will become much more interesting." A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a sense of the magnanimity of this speech, for it was a secret neither for his son nor for his visitor that his own experiment in matrimony had not been a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and these words may have been intended as a confession of personal error; though of course it was not in place for either of his companions to remark that apparently the lady of his choice had not been one of the best. "If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what you say?" Lord Warburton asked. "I'm not at all keen about marrying--your son misrepresented me; but there's no knowing what an interesting woman might do with me." "I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman," said his friend. "My dear fellow, you can't see ideas--especially such highly ethereal ones as mine. If I could only see it myself--that would be a great step in advance." "Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn't fall in love with my niece," said the old man. His son broke into a laugh. "He'll think you mean that as a provocation! My dear father, you've lived with the English for thirty years, and you've picked up a good many of the things they say. But you've never learned the things they don't say!" "I say what I please," the old man returned with all his serenity. "I haven't the honour of knowing your niece," Lord Warburton said. "I think it's the first time I've heard of her." "She's a niece of my wife's; Mrs. Touchett brings her to England." Then young Mr. Touchett explained. "My mother, you know, has been spending the winter in America, and we're expecting her back. She writes that she has discovered a niece and that she has invited her to come out with her." "I see,--very kind of her," said Lord Warburton. Is the young lady interesting?" "We hardly know more about her than you; my mother has not gone into details. She chiefly communicates with us by means of telegrams, and her telegrams are rather inscrutable. They say women don't know how to write them, but my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of condensation. 'Tired America, hot weather awful, return England with niece, first steamer decent cabin.' That's the sort of message we get from her--that was the last that came. But there had been another before, which I think contained the first mention of the niece. 'Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk, address here. Taken sister's girl, died last year, go to Europe, two sisters, quite independent.' Over that my father and I have scarcely stopped puzzling; it seems to admit of so many interpretations." "There's one thing very clear in it," said the old man; "she has given the hotel-clerk a dressing." "I'm not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the field. We thought at first that the sister mentioned might be the sister of the clerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece seems to prove that the allusion is to one of my aunts. Then there was a question as to whose the two other sisters were; they are probably two of my late aunt's daughters. But who's 'quite independent,' and in what sense is the term used?--that point's not yet settled. Does the expression apply more particularly to the young lady my mother has adopted, or does it characterise her sisters equally?--and is it used in a moral or in a financial sense? Does it mean that they've been left well off, or that they wish to be under no obligations? or does it simply mean that they're fond of their own way?" "Whatever else it means, it's pretty sure to mean that," Mr. Touchett remarked. "You'll see for yourself," said Lord Warburton. "When does Mrs. Touchett arrive?" "We're quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decent cabin. She may be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she may already have disembarked in England." "In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you." "She never telegraphs when you would expect it--only when you don't," said the old man. "She likes to drop on me suddenly; she thinks she'll find me doing something wrong. She has never done so yet, but she's not discouraged." "It's her share in the family trait, the independence she speaks of." Her son's appreciation of the matter was more favourable. "Whatever the high spirit of those young ladies may be, her own is a match for it. She likes to do everything for herself and has no belief in any one's power to help her. She thinks me of no more use than a postage-stamp without gum, and she would never forgive me if I should presume to go to Liverpool to meet her." "Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?" Lord Warburton asked. "Only on the condition I've mentioned--that you don't fall in love with her!" Mr. Touchett replied. "That strikes me as hard, don't you think me good enough?" "I think you too good--because I shouldn't like her to marry you. She hasn't come here to look for a husband, I hope; so many young ladies are doing that, as if there were no good ones at home. Then she's probably engaged; American girls are usually engaged, I believe. Moreover I'm not sure, after all, that you'd be a remarkable husband." "Very likely she's engaged; I've known a good many American girls, and they always were; but I could never see that it made any difference, upon my word! As for my being a good husband," Mr. Touchett's visitor pursued, "I'm not sure of that either. One can but try!" "Try as much as you please, but don't try on my niece," smiled the old man, whose opposition to the idea was broadly humorous. "Ah, well," said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still, "perhaps, after all, she's not worth trying on!" While this exchange of pleasantries took place between the two Ralph Touchett wandered away a little, with his usual slouching gait, his hands in his pockets and his little rowdyish terrier at his heels. His face was turned toward the house, but his eyes were bent musingly on the lawn; so that he had been an object of observation to a person who had just made her appearance in the ample doorway for some moments before he perceived her. His attention was called to her by the conduct of his dog, who had suddenly darted forward with a little volley of shrill barks, in which the note of welcome, however, was more sensible than that of defiance. The person in question was a young lady, who seemed immediately to interpret the greeting of the small beast. He advanced with great rapidity and stood at her feet, looking up and barking hard; whereupon, without hesitation, she stooped and caught him in her hands, holding him face to face while he continued his quick chatter. His master now had had time to follow and to see that Bunchie's new friend was a tall girl in a black dress, who at first sight looked pretty. She was bareheaded, as if she were staying in the house--a fact which conveyed perplexity to the son of its master, conscious of that immunity from visitors which had for some time been rendered necessary by the latter's ill-health. Meantime the two other gentlemen had also taken note of the new-comer. "Dear me, who's that strange woman?" Mr. Touchett had asked. "Perhaps it's Mrs. Touchett's niece--the independent young lady," Lord Warburton suggested. "I think she must be, from the way she handles the dog." The collie, too, had now allowed his attention to be diverted, and he trotted toward the young lady in the doorway, slowly setting his tail in motion as he went. "But where's my wife then?" murmured the old man. "I suppose the young lady has left her somewhere: that's a part of the independence." The girl spoke to Ralph, smiling, while she still held up the terrier. "Is this your little dog, sir?" "He was mine a moment ago; but you've suddenly acquired a remarkable air of property in him." "Couldn't we share him?" asked the girl. "He's such a perfect little darling." Ralph looked at her a moment; she was unexpectedly pretty. "You may have him altogether," he then replied. The young lady seemed to have a great deal of confidence, both in herself and in others; but this abrupt generosity made her blush. "I ought to tell you that I'm probably your cousin," she brought out, putting down the dog. "And here's another!" she added quickly, as the collie came up. "Probably?" the young man exclaimed, laughing. "I supposed it was quite settled! Have you arrived with my mother?" "Yes, half an hour ago." "And has she deposited you and departed again?" "No, she went straight to her room, and she told me that, if I should see you, I was to say to you that you must come to her there at a quarter to seven." The young man looked at his watch. "Thank you very much; I shall be punctual." And then he looked at his cousin. "You're very welcome here. I'm delighted to see you." She was looking at everything, with an eye that denoted clear perception--at her companion, at the two dogs, at the two gentlemen under the trees, at the beautiful scene that surrounded her. "I've never seen anything so lovely as this place. I've been all over the house; it's too enchanting." "I'm sorry you should have been here so long without our knowing it." "Your mother told me that in England people arrived very quietly; so I thought it was all right. Is one of those gentlemen your father?" "Yes, the elder one--the one sitting down," said Ralph. The girl gave a laugh. "I don't suppose it's the other. Who's the other?" "He's a friend of ours--Lord Warburton." "Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!" And then, "Oh you adorable creature!" she suddenly cried, stooping down and picking up the small dog again. She remained standing where they had met, making no offer to advance or to speak to Mr. Touchett, and while she lingered so near the threshold, slim and charming, her interlocutor wondered if she expected the old man to come and pay her his respects. American girls were used to a great deal of deference, and it had been intimated that this one had a high spirit. Indeed Ralph could see that in her face. "Won't you come and make acquaintance with my father?" he nevertheless ventured to ask. "He's old and infirm--he doesn't leave his chair." "Ah, poor man, I'm very sorry!" the girl exclaimed, immediately moving forward. "I got the impression from your mother that he was rather intensely active." Ralph Touchett was silent a moment. "She hasn't seen him for a year." "Well, he has a lovely place to sit. Come along, little hound." "It's a dear old place," said the young man, looking sidewise at his neighbour. "What's his name?" she asked, her attention having again reverted to the terrier. "My father's name?" "Yes," said the young lady with amusement; "but don't tell him I asked you." They had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was sitting, and he slowly got up from his chair to introduce himself. "My mother has arrived," said Ralph, "and this is Miss Archer." The old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, looked at her a moment with extreme benevolence and then gallantly kissed her. "It's a great pleasure to me to see you here; but I wish you had given us a chance to receive you." "Oh, we were received," said the girl. "There were about a dozen servants in the hall. And there was an old woman curtseying at the gate." "We can do better than that--if we have notice!" And the old man stood there smiling, rubbing his hands and slowly shaking his head at her. "But Mrs. Touchett doesn't like receptions." "She went straight to her room." "Yes--and locked herself in. She always does that. Well, I suppose I shall see her next week." And Mrs. Touchett's husband slowly resumed his former posture. "Before that," said Miss Archer. "She's coming down to dinner--at eight o'clock. Don't you forget a quarter to seven," she added, turning with a smile to Ralph. "What's to happen at a quarter to seven?" "I'm to see my mother," said Ralph. "Ah, happy boy!" the old man commented. "You must sit down--you must have some tea," he observed to his wife's niece. "They gave me some tea in my room the moment I got there," this young lady answered. "I'm sorry you're out of health," she added, resting her eyes upon her venerable host. "Oh, I'm an old man, my dear; it's time for me to be old. But I shall be the better for having you here." She had been looking all round her again--at the lawn, the great trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house; and while engaged in this survey she had made room in it for her companions; a comprehensiveness of observation easily conceivable on the part of a young woman who was evidently both intelligent and excited. She had seated herself and had put away the little dog; her white hands, in her lap, were folded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye lighted, her flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that, in sympathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught impressions. Her impressions were numerous, and they were all reflected in a clear, still smile. "I've never seen anything so beautiful as this." "It's looking very well," said Mr. Touchett. "I know the way it strikes you. I've been through all that. But you're very beautiful yourself," he added with a politeness by no means crudely jocular and with the happy consciousness that his advanced age gave him the privilege of saying such things--even to young persons who might possibly take alarm at them. What degree of alarm this young person took need not be exactly measured; she instantly rose, however, with a blush which was not a refutation. "Oh yes, of course I'm lovely!" she returned with a quick laugh. "How old is your house? Is it Elizabethan?" "It's early Tudor," said Ralph Touchett. She turned toward him, watching his face. "Early Tudor? How very delightful! And I suppose there are a great many others." "There are many much better ones." "Don't say that, my son!" the old man protested. "There's nothing better than this." "I've got a very good one; I think in some respects it's rather better," said Lord Warburton, who as yet had not spoken, but who had kept an attentive eye upon Miss Archer. He slightly inclined himself, smiling; he had an excellent manner with women. The girl appreciated it in an instant; she had not forgotten that this was Lord Warburton. "I should like very much to show it to you," he added. "Don't believe him," cried the old man; "don't look at it! It's a wretched old barrack--not to be compared with this." "I don't know--I can't judge," said the girl, smiling at Lord Warburton. In this discussion Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever; he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if he should like to renew his conversation with his new-found cousin. "Are you very fond of dogs?" he enquired by way of beginning. He seemed to recognise that it was an awkward beginning for a clever man. "Very fond of them indeed." "You must keep the terrier, you know," he went on, still awkwardly. "I'll keep him while I'm here, with pleasure." "That will be for a long time, I hope." "You're very kind. I hardly know. My aunt must settle that." "I'll settle it with her--at a quarter to seven." And Ralph looked at his watch again. "I'm glad to be here at all," said the girl. "I don't believe you allow things to be settled for you." "Oh yes; if they're settled as I like them." "I shall settle this as I like it," said Ralph. "It's most unaccountable that we should never have known you." "I was there--you had only to come and see me." "There? Where do you mean?" "In the United States: in New York and Albany and other American places." "I've been there--all over, but I never saw you. I can't make it out." Miss Archer just hesitated. "It was because there had been some disagreement between your mother and my father, after my mother's death, which took place when I was a child. In consequence of it we never expected to see you." "Ah, but I don't embrace all my mother's quarrels--heaven forbid!" the young man cried. "You've lately lost your father?" he went on more gravely. "Yes; more than a year ago. After that my aunt was very kind to me; she came to see me and proposed that I should come with her to Europe." "I see," said Ralph. "She has adopted you." "Adopted me?" The girl stared, and her blush came back to her, together with a momentary look of pain which gave her interlocutor some alarm. He had underestimated the effect of his words. Lord Warburton, who appeared constantly desirous of a nearer view of Miss Archer, strolled toward the two cousins at the moment, and as he did so she rested her wider eyes on him. "Oh no; she has not adopted me. I'm not a candidate for adoption." "I beg a thousand pardons," Ralph murmured. "I meant--I meant--" He hardly knew what he meant. "You meant she has taken me up. Yes; she likes to take people up. She has been very kind to me; but," she added with a certain visible eagerness of desire to be explicit, "I'm very fond of my liberty." "Are you talking about Mrs. Touchett?" the old man called out from his chair. "Come here, my dear, and tell me about her. I'm always thankful for information." The girl hesitated again, smiling. "She's really very benevolent," she answered; after which she went over to her uncle, whose mirth was excited by her words. Lord Warburton was left standing with Ralph Touchett, to whom in a moment he said: "You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting woman. There it is!"

Chapters 1-2

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-1-2

An old man, a collie dog, and two younger men are sitting in the garden of an old English mansion to tea. The narrator attests that the house, and the whole scene, appears to be characteristically English. The manor is called "Gardencourt." The old man, Mr. Touchett, is an American banker who has owned the house for twenty years. Initially he thought it was ugly, but now he feels that it is an aesthetic object. He knows the history of the house very well, it having passed through the hands of many Englishmen until he himself bought it. The man has a very American face, and seems to have an air of having been both successful at life, and also something of a failure. One of the young men, Lord Warburton, appears to be thirty-five and looks very English. The other of the young men, Ralph Touchett, the son of Mr. Touchett, looks both very clever and very ill. The men are joking about one another's interest in life: Warburton claims that Ralph is "sick of life," while Ralph thinks that Warburton is bored. Ralph counsels Warburton to take a wife, and Mr. Touchett agrees, believing that such a wife would help make life interesting, and that there is furthermore the benefit that women will be protected from any political and social changes yet to come. The old man then jokes that Lord Warburton may fall in love with anyone but his niece who is slated to arrive very soon. The old man explains that his niece will arrive from America for the first time, having been discovered by his estranged wife, Mrs. Touchett. The wife has recently sent a telegram informing him of their impending arrival. "Taken sister's girl, died last year, go to Europe, two sisters, quite independent," the telegram informed him. Mr. Touchett wonders over the many interpretations of this cryptic telegram: who is "quite independent" and does Mrs. Touchett mean financially or morally independent? Lord Warburton asks to be informed of the arrival of this niece, and Mr. Touchett half-seriously jokes that he will, so long as he promises not to fall in love with her! Just as Lord Warburton and Mr. Touchett are discussing the arrival of Mr. Touchett's niece, Ralph wanders off and notes a young lady in the distance. Ralph's dog runs up to her, who happens to be the very niece who had been under discussion, Isabel Archer. She delivers a message from Mrs. Touchett that Ralph is to meet his mother at 7pm for dinner. Upon meeting Lord Warburton, she declares: "Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!" She has a pleasurable impression of the house and the entire atmosphere, and she reflects this to her companions in her upbeat nature and smiling countenance. Ralph wonders that he never knew of her existence, and she responds that there was some disagreement between her own father and Mrs. Touchett, his sister. Mr. Touchett then goes off with Isabel alone, to discuss Mrs. Touchett. Lord Warburton tells Ralph: "You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting woman. There it is!"

A theme of typical Englishness and the encroachment of American-ness upon such a scene are introduced in the tea scene in the garden. The setting is representative of a larger theme in the novel: the Old World vs. the New World . While the narrator claims that the picture appears typically English, it is clear that the Americans are infiltrating the English aristocracy through their money. The house has passed through the hands of many Englishmen, only now to land in the hands of an American banker who originally thought the house ugly. However these men seem pretty well adjusted to English society now, represented in the fact that Mr. Touchett now appreciates the aesthetics of the house, the presence of an English lord in their garden, and the fact that his son was likely born in England. The chapter foreshadows that Lord Warburton will in fact do exactly what Mr. Touchett counsels him not to: fall in love with his niece. Further, it paints a picture of a degraded state of marriage: while Mr. Touchett believes that women will make life "interesting," his own estranged wife appears to make his own life lonely. She does not come to greet her own family upon her arrival, and he has to ask Isabel Archer for "information" about her. Why do people marry, and why should they marry? The many possible varying motivations people might have for marriage are foreshadowed here: money, an ethereal "idea" of what a woman should be, insularity from political life, a vague notion of making life "interesting." These chapters also show some authorial irony in the character's awareness of their own fictional circumstances. Generally, characters do not know they are located in a fictional world: that is part of the illusion of reality that novels create. Yet, the author embeds two ironic references to this fictitiousness. First, Isabel Archer believes herself to be in the world of a "novel" when she sees the representative English picture, complete with a real lord. This ironic because little does she know, she actually is in a novel. Second, the Lord believes that his "idea" of a good woman is Isabel Archer, realized in the flesh. This mirror's the author's own approach to the book , where he details how his "sense of a character" was the "germ" of an idea, of Isabel Archer. Isabel has appeared out of thin air at the very moment the men have been thinking about her. Will their idea of her conform to her reality?

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 5

chapter 5

{"name": "Chapter 5", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-5-6", "summary": "At the opening of Chapter 5, Ralph Touchett knocks on his mother's door eagerly. His mother is described as being more fatherly, her father, as more motherly. Ralph's father, Mr. Daniel Touchett, is described as having adopted England as his country because he found it sane and accommodating. Yet he also had no great desire to render himself less American. Ralph therefore spent many terms at an American school, has a degree from an American university, but he also spent three years at Oxford. Ralph is therefore well accustomed to English manners, and appeared English from the outside, but his mind is described as enjoying independence. He did well at Oxford, but he was prevented from having a successful career in England because he was American. Ralph admires his father but has no aptitude for banking himself. Ralph appreciates his father's \"fine ivory surface\" mostly -- that is, his father's impenetrability to the ideas of others, his father's \"originality\". Mr. Daniel Touchett has been successful because he is less pliant than many other Americans. Ralph had worked briefly at his father's bank before he caught a violent sickness; he is a consumptive. This is a deadly disease, but it is described optimistically, insofar as Ralph believes he will survive quite a few winters. He always goes abroad during the winter because of this disease. He comforts himself with the thought that he had not really had ambition to do much in his life in the first place. One winter though, he stayed too long in England, and arrived more \"dead than alive\" in Algiers. After this scare, his attitude changed: he no longer felt he had to struggle to distinguish himself. His friends then know him as more serene. He though does still have the prospect of being in love in his future, although he has forbidden himself an \"expression\" of this. Ralph Touchett converses with his mother about Isabel, and he jokes that he speaks about her like a piece of \"property\". He asks what she means to do with her. Mrs. Touchett answers practically, when Ralph has asked the question in the abstract. Mrs. Touchett talks about buying her clothing, bringing her to Paris, and so forth. I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way,\" Ralph responds. Mrs. Touchett tells Ralph where she found Isabel. She thinks Isabel may be a \"genius,\" but she does not yet know in what. Ralph asks if she is a genius in flirting, as Lord Warburton has suggested that to him, but Mrs. Touchett thinks that is not where Isabel's talents lie. Ralph delights in the idea that Isabel might be a \"puzzle\" to Lord Warburton. Ralph persists in asking what Mrs. Touchett plans to \"do\" with her, and then asks if she plans to get her to marry someone in Europe. Mrs. Touchett responds, \"She's perfectly able to marry herself,\" implying that she does not plan on assisting her in that regard. Mrs. Touchett does not know if Isabel is already engaged. Ralph then goes to show Isabel around the house. He watches her inspecting some of the art in their gallery, and he notes that she has \"taste\" and a judging eye. He also notes that she has a great passion for knowledge. Isabel wants to know if there is a ghost in their mansion. Ralph responds that their house is \"dismally prosaic\" and that there is no romance there \"but what you may have brought with you \". Isabel asks if there are more people around there house, saying that she liked Ralph's father and his friend, Lord Warburton. She also likes Mrs. Touchett, she declares, because Mrs. Touchett does not expect one to like her. She goes on to assert that she likes Ralph too, even though he is the opposite of Mrs. Touchett in caring what others think of him. Isabel and Ralph conclude the conversation by agreeing that the great point is to be as happy as possible, and that one does not need to suffer", "analysis": "The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the \"American theme\" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's \"success,\" the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be \"successful\" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques \"conventionality\" in a general sense."}

Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness. Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted that of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was paternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial. She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her thoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the other nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities of performance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed for dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about her husband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving no very brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate. In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of his mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he absented himself for a considerable part of each year. He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett, a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as subordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long residence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a simple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had no intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his only son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a problem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to him equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on the grey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify this light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph spent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an American university, after which, as he struck his father on his return as even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years in residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became at last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners that surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed its independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which, naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; at Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction, and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put a watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father, he admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learning enough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was not this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface, polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to possibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither at Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his son's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for the latter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr. Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the ground of his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted with pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as he was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the disposition superficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he had never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less well of him. Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling; after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father's bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise, however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end of some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out of health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs and threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply, to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he slighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least he was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person with whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved on acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging tolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes strange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something at stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation for ordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of which note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other promised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather a dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand. He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again. A secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse might have slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped to reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced the field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading a good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a young man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled some three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this history opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in England and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers. He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation. With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties became an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself; an idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the less delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin. It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interest in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the imagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--had still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the riot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with a passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one. "And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his mother. "What do you mean to do with her?" Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her to stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt." "You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My father will ask her as a matter of course." "I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his." "Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the more reason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months (for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four paltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?" "I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing." "Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?" "I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence." "You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way." "My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very much," she added. "No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a hint of where you see your duty." "In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice of two of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in French, which she already knows very well." Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry--even allowing her the choice of two of the countries." "If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel alone to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day." "Do you mean she's a gifted being?" "I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever girl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being bored." "I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How do you two get on?" "Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one. Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think I greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort of girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just what to expect of each other." "Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expect of you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--in presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never suspected." "Do you think her so very pretty?" "Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her general air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make her acquaintance?" "I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn't know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--I should have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of it--like most American girls; but like most American girls she's ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there's no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You know I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapproved entirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she said it was just what her sister needed--that some one should take an interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young person of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that Isabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe; they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes herself to be travelling at her own expense." Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a genius," he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for flirting?" "I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong. You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her." "Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He flatters himself he has made that discovery." His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her. He needn't try." "He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should be puzzled once in a while." "Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked. Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?" "Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more." Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window. Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked. "At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett. Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour then. Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, "Well," he pursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give you trouble?" "I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do that." "She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph. "Natural people are not the most trouble." "No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremely natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of making herself disagreeable?" "Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out for yourself." His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he said, "you've not told me what you intend to do with her." "Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she chooses. She gave me notice of that." "What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's independent." "I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send from America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father." "It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph. "I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew what to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they descended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the staircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak which was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. "You've no plan of marrying her?" he smiled. "Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every facility." "Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?" "I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!" Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston. "As my father says, they're always engaged!" His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their forms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had been travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was really tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow; but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest point and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A fine hypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures; there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing. The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions, which had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening was usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures to advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow. This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked disappointed--smiling still, however--and said: "If you please I should like to see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eager and now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions," Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals, and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to one picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs. She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there; she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the middle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering glances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art. She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when people had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an enchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of the gallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now I know more than I did when I began!" "You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousin returned. "I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant." "You strike me as different from most girls." "Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!" murmured Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a moment, to change the subject, "Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?" she went on. "A ghost?" "A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in America." "So we do here, when we see them." "You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house." "It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed if you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance here but what you may have brought with you." "I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to the right place." "To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here, between my father and me." Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but your father and you?" "My mother, of course." "Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?" "Very few." "I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people." "Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph. "Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely. "Who was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?" "A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often." "I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel. "Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected. "Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too, immensely." "You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear." "I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel. "You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse." "I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too many theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added. Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my father and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother." "I like your mother very much, because--because--" And Isabel found herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs. Touchett. "Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing. "I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't expect one to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not." "So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my mother," said Ralph. "I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try to make them do it." "Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that was not altogether jocular. "But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to clinch the matter will be to show me the ghost." Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never see it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It has never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago," said Ralph. "I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered. "Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the ghost!" She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck him as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and he wondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know," she said: which seemed quite presumptuous enough. "You're not afraid of suffering?" "Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I think people suffer too easily," she added. "I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in his pockets. "I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutely necessary to suffer; we were not made for that." "You were not, certainly." "I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little. "No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be strong." "Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked. They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle, which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call you. When you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happy as possible." She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came to Europe for, to be as happy as possible. Good-night." "Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to contribute to it!" She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.

Chapter 5

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-5-6

At the opening of Chapter 5, Ralph Touchett knocks on his mother's door eagerly. His mother is described as being more fatherly, her father, as more motherly. Ralph's father, Mr. Daniel Touchett, is described as having adopted England as his country because he found it sane and accommodating. Yet he also had no great desire to render himself less American. Ralph therefore spent many terms at an American school, has a degree from an American university, but he also spent three years at Oxford. Ralph is therefore well accustomed to English manners, and appeared English from the outside, but his mind is described as enjoying independence. He did well at Oxford, but he was prevented from having a successful career in England because he was American. Ralph admires his father but has no aptitude for banking himself. Ralph appreciates his father's "fine ivory surface" mostly -- that is, his father's impenetrability to the ideas of others, his father's "originality". Mr. Daniel Touchett has been successful because he is less pliant than many other Americans. Ralph had worked briefly at his father's bank before he caught a violent sickness; he is a consumptive. This is a deadly disease, but it is described optimistically, insofar as Ralph believes he will survive quite a few winters. He always goes abroad during the winter because of this disease. He comforts himself with the thought that he had not really had ambition to do much in his life in the first place. One winter though, he stayed too long in England, and arrived more "dead than alive" in Algiers. After this scare, his attitude changed: he no longer felt he had to struggle to distinguish himself. His friends then know him as more serene. He though does still have the prospect of being in love in his future, although he has forbidden himself an "expression" of this. Ralph Touchett converses with his mother about Isabel, and he jokes that he speaks about her like a piece of "property". He asks what she means to do with her. Mrs. Touchett answers practically, when Ralph has asked the question in the abstract. Mrs. Touchett talks about buying her clothing, bringing her to Paris, and so forth. I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way," Ralph responds. Mrs. Touchett tells Ralph where she found Isabel. She thinks Isabel may be a "genius," but she does not yet know in what. Ralph asks if she is a genius in flirting, as Lord Warburton has suggested that to him, but Mrs. Touchett thinks that is not where Isabel's talents lie. Ralph delights in the idea that Isabel might be a "puzzle" to Lord Warburton. Ralph persists in asking what Mrs. Touchett plans to "do" with her, and then asks if she plans to get her to marry someone in Europe. Mrs. Touchett responds, "She's perfectly able to marry herself," implying that she does not plan on assisting her in that regard. Mrs. Touchett does not know if Isabel is already engaged. Ralph then goes to show Isabel around the house. He watches her inspecting some of the art in their gallery, and he notes that she has "taste" and a judging eye. He also notes that she has a great passion for knowledge. Isabel wants to know if there is a ghost in their mansion. Ralph responds that their house is "dismally prosaic" and that there is no romance there "but what you may have brought with you ". Isabel asks if there are more people around there house, saying that she liked Ralph's father and his friend, Lord Warburton. She also likes Mrs. Touchett, she declares, because Mrs. Touchett does not expect one to like her. She goes on to assert that she likes Ralph too, even though he is the opposite of Mrs. Touchett in caring what others think of him. Isabel and Ralph conclude the conversation by agreeing that the great point is to be as happy as possible, and that one does not need to suffer

The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the "American theme" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's "success," the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be "successful" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques "conventionality" in a general sense.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/06.txt

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 6

chapter 6

{"name": "Chapter 6", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-5-6", "summary": "In Chapter 6, the narrator embarks on more description of Isabel's history, and other's perceptions of her. He describes Isabel as being an active young person \"of many theories\" with a \"finer mind\" than most others, and a \"larger perception\" of facts. One of her aunts, Mrs. Varian, once started a rumor that she was writing a novel, but Isabel had never attempted to do so. She is not a novelist, for she has no talent for expression. She is not exactly a genius, but she does regard herself highly, thinking that people are right in treating her as superior. Thus the narrator says she might be guilty of the \"sin of self-esteem\". Her actual thoughts though are described as a \"tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the judgment of people speaking with authority\" and she had her own, stubborn way in her own unclear opinions. It seems to be her philosophy that life was only worth living if one thinks well of one's self. According to her, the worst thing that could happen to her seems to be that she might cause injury to someone else. She is unaware of the evil in the world, and flattered herself that she would never sink to the dangers of inconsistency which high self-esteem often brought: \"Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she could produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she was\". She sometimes even imagines herself finding herself in a difficult, so that she might arise as a hero of the occasion, and prove herself. The narrator muses that Isabel might be a subject worthy of a scientific criticism were it not for her tendency to awaken the reader's tenderness. Isabel has a friend named Henrietta Stackpole, who is a journalist and financially independent. Henrietta is representative of a progressive woman who has \"clear cut views\" and is very radically liberal. Isabel thinks Henrietta is proof that a woman can be independent and happy. In respect to her own independence, Isabel's \"deepest\" thought in her mind is described as being the belief that she could give herself completely if a man should present herself as a husband, but she also finds the image \"formidable\" more than \"attractive\". Her mind only hovers around this thought. She sometimes even feels that she is immodest in being so happy, thinking others less unfortunate than herself. Overall she returns to the general theory that a young woman who everyone thinks is clever needs to get a \"general impression of life\". Isabel and her uncle get along quite well. She asks him many questions, and he provides her with a great number of answers about British politics and manners, neighborhood gossip. Isabel wonders if his description of things accords with the descriptions in books; and he responds that he would not know, having been always interested in finding things out in their natural form. Isabel notes that the people in Europe are not very kind to girls in novels, and wonders if they will similarly abuse her. Mr. Touchett notes that he was once incorporated into a novelist's description of England in a caricatured form -- and thus, people in novels are not always depicted accurately. He also expresses to Isabel that one advantage of being an American in Europe is that one does not belong to any class, unlike Europeans, who all belong to a class. Isabel thinks she will not be successful in Europe if Europeans prove to be conventional. Mr. Touchett thinks it's already been settled that Isabel will be a \"success\" in Europe", "analysis": "The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the \"American theme\" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's \"success,\" the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be \"successful\" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques \"conventionality\" in a general sense."}

Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was tinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these excellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of Isabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read the classic authors--in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book--Mrs. Varian having a reverence for books, and averred that the girl would distinguish herself in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she entertained that esteem that is connected with a sense of privation. Her own large house, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and decorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs. Varian's acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York Interviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer you had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather to keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was determined to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her impression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl had never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels of authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were right when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or no she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might easily be confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often surveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, that she was right; she treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile her errors and delusions were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts were a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion she had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then she treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she held her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (she couldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully chronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one's self as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should try to be one's own best friend and to give one's self, in this manner, distinguished company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered her a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had a fixed determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of free expansion, of irresistible action: she held it must be detestable to be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them, her mere errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if she had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered her) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another person, presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold her breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen to her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about the things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when she fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was the danger of inconsistency--the danger of keeping up the flag after the place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of artillery to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such contradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire to look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory, flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended to awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely expectant. It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose acquaintance she had made shortly before her father's death, who offered so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability; she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence "ephemeral," but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view--an enterprise the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once; thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise. She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation, no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work to one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it. From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself, in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded person of another sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered; something pure and proud that there was in her--something cold and dry an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called it--had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them should present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience. Deep in her soul--it was the deepest thing there--lay a belief that if a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas, which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places which were not gardens at all--only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were less happy than herself--a thought which for the moment made her fine, full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life. This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject of special attention. England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a "property"--a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk--these things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected--the effect she produced upon people was often different from what she supposed--and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which had much of the "point" observable in that of the young ladies of her country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak--so many characteristics of her niece--that he had fallen in love with Mrs. Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however; for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house; and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the British constitution, the English character, the state of politics, the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down the shawl spread across his legs. "The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books. You must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself--got my information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even; I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good opportunities--better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you were to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you more. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years, and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable information. It's a very fine country on the whole--finer perhaps than what we give it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generally felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it's because I've had a considerable degree of success. When you're successful you naturally feel more at home." "Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?" Isabel asked. "I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful. They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much at home, you know." "Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judicially emphasised. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like the people." "The people are very good people; especially if you like them." "I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are they pleasant in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves agreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't hesitate to say so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe they're very nice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels." "I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believe the novels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're very accurate. We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend of Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on for evidence. Too free a fancy--I suppose that was it. She afterwards published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given a representation--something in the nature of a caricature, as you might say--of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph just handed me the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang, Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate; she couldn't have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the idea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk like an American--I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters, and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle." "Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they? About fifty, I suppose." "Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice of the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here; you don't belong to any class." "I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an English class!" "Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable--especially towards the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and the people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the first." "I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way of taking compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much. "I'm sure the English are very conventional," she added. "They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett admitted. "It's all settled beforehand--they don't leave it to the last moment." "I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said the girl. "I like more unexpectedness." Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. "Well, it's settled beforehand that you'll have great success," he rejoined. "I suppose you'll like that." "I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional. I'm not in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary. That's what they won't like." "No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tell what they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal interest." "Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the lawn--"that will suit me perfectly!"

Chapter 6

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In Chapter 6, the narrator embarks on more description of Isabel's history, and other's perceptions of her. He describes Isabel as being an active young person "of many theories" with a "finer mind" than most others, and a "larger perception" of facts. One of her aunts, Mrs. Varian, once started a rumor that she was writing a novel, but Isabel had never attempted to do so. She is not a novelist, for she has no talent for expression. She is not exactly a genius, but she does regard herself highly, thinking that people are right in treating her as superior. Thus the narrator says she might be guilty of the "sin of self-esteem". Her actual thoughts though are described as a "tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the judgment of people speaking with authority" and she had her own, stubborn way in her own unclear opinions. It seems to be her philosophy that life was only worth living if one thinks well of one's self. According to her, the worst thing that could happen to her seems to be that she might cause injury to someone else. She is unaware of the evil in the world, and flattered herself that she would never sink to the dangers of inconsistency which high self-esteem often brought: "Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she could produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she was". She sometimes even imagines herself finding herself in a difficult, so that she might arise as a hero of the occasion, and prove herself. The narrator muses that Isabel might be a subject worthy of a scientific criticism were it not for her tendency to awaken the reader's tenderness. Isabel has a friend named Henrietta Stackpole, who is a journalist and financially independent. Henrietta is representative of a progressive woman who has "clear cut views" and is very radically liberal. Isabel thinks Henrietta is proof that a woman can be independent and happy. In respect to her own independence, Isabel's "deepest" thought in her mind is described as being the belief that she could give herself completely if a man should present herself as a husband, but she also finds the image "formidable" more than "attractive". Her mind only hovers around this thought. She sometimes even feels that she is immodest in being so happy, thinking others less unfortunate than herself. Overall she returns to the general theory that a young woman who everyone thinks is clever needs to get a "general impression of life". Isabel and her uncle get along quite well. She asks him many questions, and he provides her with a great number of answers about British politics and manners, neighborhood gossip. Isabel wonders if his description of things accords with the descriptions in books; and he responds that he would not know, having been always interested in finding things out in their natural form. Isabel notes that the people in Europe are not very kind to girls in novels, and wonders if they will similarly abuse her. Mr. Touchett notes that he was once incorporated into a novelist's description of England in a caricatured form -- and thus, people in novels are not always depicted accurately. He also expresses to Isabel that one advantage of being an American in Europe is that one does not belong to any class, unlike Europeans, who all belong to a class. Isabel thinks she will not be successful in Europe if Europeans prove to be conventional. Mr. Touchett thinks it's already been settled that Isabel will be a "success" in Europe

The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the "American theme" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's "success," the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be "successful" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques "conventionality" in a general sense.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 7

chapter 7

{"name": "Chapter 7", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-9", "summary": "Isabel and the Touchetts take to often talking about British politics and the British public. The house itself receives very few visitors, and so all these discussions are really more theoretical than based off of Isabel's own observations. Isabel finds herself often disagreeing with Mrs. Touchett on the subject of the British constitution purely because she is more sentimental than Mrs. Touchett. Isabel claims to have an \"American\" view, and Mrs. Touchett tells her that is a shockingly narrow idea. My point of view, thank God, is personal. Mrs. Touchett declares. Meanwhile, Isabel develops a closer relationship to Ralph, who she accuses of never treating anything seriously. He jokingly likes to paint her as representative of America, and although she fears being seen as narrow-minded, she plays along, pretending to yearn for America. Isabel feels a bit sorry for Ralph sometimes, and she even accuses him of being a \"humbug\" who does not care for anything. Ralph jokes that he cares for nothing but her. The narrator comments that in fact this is not so far from the truth, as Ralph thinks about her often. Before her arrival, he had often many heavy thoughts about his ill father that burdened him. Ralph felt that life would be tasteless without his father, and he had always thought his father would outlive him. With Isabel's presence, he is less preoccupied with such dark thoughts. He decides that he is not in love with her, but that she is like the \"finest work of art\". The question though that constantly arises in his mind though is: \"What was she going to do with herself. He decides that he wants to see for himself, whatever it may be. One day, Lord Warburton comes to visit at Gardencourt. Isabel finds that she likes him very much, and almost begins to think of him as a \"hero of romance\". One night, Mrs. Touchett, Ralph, Lord Warburton and Isabel are sitting in the drawing room after dinner. Mrs. Touchett stands up to go to bed and tells Isabel that she ought to bid the gentlemen good night. Isabel, without thinking, tells her aunt she would like to stay another half hour. Mrs. Touchett gives her a cold stare, reminding her that she is not in Albany. Isabel retorts, blushing, \"I wish I were\". Mrs. Touchett decides to simply stay up until Isabel wishes to go to bed. Afterwards, Mrs. Touchett tells her it was not proper to stay in the drawing room, and Isabel tells her she does not understand it, but is glad to know it. I always want to know the things one shouldn't do,\" Isabel says. The aunt asks, \"So as to do them. Isabel responds, \"So as to choose\"", "analysis": "Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a \"fine work of art.\" It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called \"the portrait of a lady,\" which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the \"deepest\" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more \"formidable\" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence?"}

The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having cultivated relations with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions to her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the singular situation of defending the British constitution against her aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use of her sharpness. She was very critical herself--it was incidental to her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's dryness that set her own moral fountains flowing. "Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt. "When you criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn't seem to be American--you thought everything over there so disagreeable. When I criticise I have mine; it's thoroughly American!" "My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are as many points of view in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may say that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in the world; that's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!" Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less advanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett such a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She risked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a great deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a large licence to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating everything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his father's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his fantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted, and his native country, his charming new-found cousin. "I keep a band of music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has orders to play without stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes the world think that dancing's going on within." It was dance-music indeed that you usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph's band; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often found herself irritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked to pass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the private apartments. It mattered little that he had assured her they were a very dismal place; she would have been glad to undertake to sweep them and set them in order. It was but half-hospitality to let her remain outside; to punish him for which Isabel administered innumerable taps with the ferule of her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit was exercised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused himself with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patriotism so heated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was represented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of the prevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner. Isabel's chief dread in life at this period of her development was that she should appear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she should really be so. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding in her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of her native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to regard her, and if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of occupation. She defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang its praises on purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself able to differ from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this small ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October pear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which enabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If her good-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to her he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. "I don't know what's the matter with you," she observed to him once; "but I suspect you're a great humbug." "That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not been used to being so crudely addressed. "I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for anything. You don't really care for England when you praise it; you don't care for America even when you pretend to abuse it." "I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph. "If I could believe even that, I should be very glad." "Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed. Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind. At a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy; his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud. He had grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to his legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had been gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to Ralph that another attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now he appeared disburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a suspicion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to take him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would be little hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted that his father would survive him--that his own name would be the first grimly called. The father and son had been close companions, and the idea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his hands was not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly counted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poor business. At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one inspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very well; but without the encouragement of his father's society he should barely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive of feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a rule with his mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had been a small kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the active rather than the passive party should know the felt wound; he remembered that the old man had always treated his own forecast of an early end as a clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to discredit so far as he might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that of refuting a sophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a state of being which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to hope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett. These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether he were harbouring "love" for this spontaneous young woman from Albany; but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for a week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had found it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his friend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his cousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was conscious she was an entertainment of a high order. "A character like that," he said to himself--"a real little passionate force to see at play is the finest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work of art--than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic cathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where one had least looked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week before she came; I had never expected less that anything pleasant would happen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall--a Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. My poor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment of these reflexions was very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take, as he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical, was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired it greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses and that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature; but what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular, for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes more or less gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of having intentions of her own. "Whenever she executes them," said Ralph, "may I be there to see!" It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr. Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin--a pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate; and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a phaeton--a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it largely and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to the groom as "knowing," was never weary of driving her uncle's capital horses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural incidents she had confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered, past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and glimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When they reached home they usually found tea had been served on the lawn and that Mrs. Touchett had not shrunk from the extremity of handing her husband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old man with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her knitting and wearing that appearance of rare profundity with which some ladies consider the movement of their needles. One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he had indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and she had thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him again--hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not dull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a sort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had ever encountered--her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as yet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind herself that she was interested in human nature and that her foremost hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people. When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, "I wonder you find this endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of our friends, because we have really got a few, though you would never suppose it"--when he offered to invite what he called a "lot of people" and make her acquainted with English society, she encouraged the hospitable impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into the fray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers, and it may be confided to the reader that if the young man delayed to carry them out it was because he found the labour of providing for his companion by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel had spoken to him very often about "specimens;" it was a word that played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent cases. "Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walked up from the riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton. "A specimen of what?" asked the girl. "A specimen of an English gentleman." "Do you mean they're all like him?" "Oh no; they're not all like him." "He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm sure he's nice." "Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate." The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't ask that," he said, "since you've been handling the oars." "I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how should you know it?" "Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship, indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh. "He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined, lowering her voice a little. "Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord Warburton, still with his sonorous mirth. "My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well," said Ralph. "She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!" "It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord Warburton declared. "Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be supported by proof. Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was ended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During this period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself liking him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had weight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce fell short of seeing him--though quite without luridity--as a hero of romance. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a quickened consciousness of possible felicities. "It's very nice to know two such charming people as those," she said, meaning by "those" her cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an incident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good-humour to the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his wife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party. She prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then, rising, observed to Isabel that it was time they should bid the gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not in the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she replied, very simply-- "Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour." "It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett answered. "Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel gaily engaged. "I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!" Lord Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be before midnight." Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alone with the gentlemen. You're not--you're not at your blest Albany, my dear." Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said. "Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out. "My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured. "I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said majestically. "I must take it as I find it." "Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired. "I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin." "Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That will arrange it." Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. "Oh, if it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight." Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her; it had seemed to him her temper was involved--an accident that might be interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night and withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way up. "Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," said Mrs. Touchett. Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised--and a good deal mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?" "Not in the least. Young girls here--in decent houses--don't sit alone with the gentlemen late at night." "You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't understand it, but I'm very glad to know it. "I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I see you taking what seems to me too much liberty." "Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just." "Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways." "Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the things one shouldn't do." "So as to do them?" asked her aunt. "So as to choose," said Isabel.

Chapter 7

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-9

Isabel and the Touchetts take to often talking about British politics and the British public. The house itself receives very few visitors, and so all these discussions are really more theoretical than based off of Isabel's own observations. Isabel finds herself often disagreeing with Mrs. Touchett on the subject of the British constitution purely because she is more sentimental than Mrs. Touchett. Isabel claims to have an "American" view, and Mrs. Touchett tells her that is a shockingly narrow idea. My point of view, thank God, is personal. Mrs. Touchett declares. Meanwhile, Isabel develops a closer relationship to Ralph, who she accuses of never treating anything seriously. He jokingly likes to paint her as representative of America, and although she fears being seen as narrow-minded, she plays along, pretending to yearn for America. Isabel feels a bit sorry for Ralph sometimes, and she even accuses him of being a "humbug" who does not care for anything. Ralph jokes that he cares for nothing but her. The narrator comments that in fact this is not so far from the truth, as Ralph thinks about her often. Before her arrival, he had often many heavy thoughts about his ill father that burdened him. Ralph felt that life would be tasteless without his father, and he had always thought his father would outlive him. With Isabel's presence, he is less preoccupied with such dark thoughts. He decides that he is not in love with her, but that she is like the "finest work of art". The question though that constantly arises in his mind though is: "What was she going to do with herself. He decides that he wants to see for himself, whatever it may be. One day, Lord Warburton comes to visit at Gardencourt. Isabel finds that she likes him very much, and almost begins to think of him as a "hero of romance". One night, Mrs. Touchett, Ralph, Lord Warburton and Isabel are sitting in the drawing room after dinner. Mrs. Touchett stands up to go to bed and tells Isabel that she ought to bid the gentlemen good night. Isabel, without thinking, tells her aunt she would like to stay another half hour. Mrs. Touchett gives her a cold stare, reminding her that she is not in Albany. Isabel retorts, blushing, "I wish I were". Mrs. Touchett decides to simply stay up until Isabel wishes to go to bed. Afterwards, Mrs. Touchett tells her it was not proper to stay in the drawing room, and Isabel tells her she does not understand it, but is glad to know it. I always want to know the things one shouldn't do," Isabel says. The aunt asks, "So as to do them. Isabel responds, "So as to choose"

Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence?

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 8

chapter 8

{"name": "Chapter 8", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-9", "summary": "Lord Warburton gets Mrs. Touchett to promise to bring Isabel to his own manor, Lockleigh. Isabel learns about Lord Warburton's family life: he has two brothers and four sisters. Isabel notes that Warburton acts as if she is an American \"barbarian\" , and he makes little allowance for her imagination or for her experience. Warburton admits to being confused in America, and believes that Americans need as much explanation in England as he had needed in America. Isabel likes Lord Warburton because he appears to have enjoyed the best things of life, but he also is not spoiled for it. He has a boyishness and kindness about him. Isabel confides in Ralph that she likes Warburton, and Ralph responds that he pities him. So he informs Isabel: \"He's a man with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously. He's the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know where to believe in. He can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution\". Isabel tells Mr. Touchett, Ralph's father, that she does not understand Ralph's opinion of Lord Warburton. Mr. Touchett responds that Lord Warburton seems to want to \"do away with many things,\" but also to remain himself. He notes that there are a great many people like Lord Warburton, and he is not sure if they are trying to start a revolution. Isabel is ecstatic at the thought that there might be a revolution, declaring that she would be on the side of the loyalists if there were such a revolution. Mr. Touchett notes that the desire for change among men such as Lord Warburton, and other radicals, is probably more theoretical than earnest. These progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury,\" he says", "analysis": "Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a \"fine work of art.\" It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called \"the portrait of a lady,\" which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the \"deepest\" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more \"formidable\" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence?"}

As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt, on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker she urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he had four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The brothers and sisters were very good people--"not particularly clever, you know," he said, "but very decent and pleasant;" and he was so good as to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in the Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which were opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that, if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the questions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only another example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that, of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them; there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it and owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to pay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. "I don't think I shall pay any more," said her friend; "he lives a monstrous deal better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much finer gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in only for equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers." Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so. The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives, was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire in Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five children. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. "He thinks I'm a barbarian," she said, "and that I've never seen forks and spoons;" and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap, "It's a pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers," she remarked; "if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would have brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had travelled through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained to them. "If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!" he said. "I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose; they're rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you can trust me; about what I tell you there's no mistake." There was no mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and knowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to exhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in, as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect of rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as agreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone of responsible kindness. "I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabel said to Ralph after Lord Warburton had gone. "I like him too--I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pity him more." Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me his only fault--that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything, to know everything, to be everything." "Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted. "I suppose you don't mean in health?" "No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a man with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously." "Does he regard himself as a joke?" "Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse." "Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel. "Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don't think so. But in that case what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice? For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha. He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great country. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position, his power, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot. I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don't understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution." "He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed. "Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being of his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe he is." "I don't," said Isabel. "Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!" In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her what she thought of their late visitor. Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming." "He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recommend you to fall in love with him." "I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your recommendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives me rather a sad account of Lord Warburton." "Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must remember that Ralph must talk." "He thinks your friend's too subversive--or not subversive enough! I don't quite understand which," said Isabel. The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. "I don't know which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible he doesn't go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's natural, but it's rather inconsistent." "Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were to be done away with his friends would miss him sadly." "Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends. I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well. There's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very fashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do--whether they're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it off till after I'm gone. You see they want to disestablish everything; but I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be disestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they were going to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on with expanding hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable changes; there'll be a large number disappointed in that case." "Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed. "I should delight in seeing a revolution." "Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "I forget whether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I've heard you take such opposite views." "I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of everything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they've a chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely." "I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely, but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear." "Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girl interrupted. "I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going gracefully to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. "If you want to see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come to the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at their word." "Of whom are you speaking?" "Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the changes, but I don't think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first. And then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now over here I don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of every day and every hour, and I don't think many of them would find it as pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try, it's their own business; but I expect they won't try very hard." "Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked. "Well, they want to FEEL earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed; "but it seems as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a kind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and they might have coarser tastes than that. You see they're very luxurious, and these progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel moral and yet don't damage their position. They think a great deal of their position; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for if you were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up very short." Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his quaint distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord Warburton's behalf. "I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the test." "Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchett answered. "Lord Warburton's a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art, for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over there--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don't think it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however--he has so many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they certainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he would come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as he is: he's too much liked." "Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabel sighed. "That's a very poor position." "He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said the old man. Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. "I shall never make any one a martyr." "You'll never be one, I hope." "I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?" Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I do, after all!"

Chapter 8

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-9

Lord Warburton gets Mrs. Touchett to promise to bring Isabel to his own manor, Lockleigh. Isabel learns about Lord Warburton's family life: he has two brothers and four sisters. Isabel notes that Warburton acts as if she is an American "barbarian" , and he makes little allowance for her imagination or for her experience. Warburton admits to being confused in America, and believes that Americans need as much explanation in England as he had needed in America. Isabel likes Lord Warburton because he appears to have enjoyed the best things of life, but he also is not spoiled for it. He has a boyishness and kindness about him. Isabel confides in Ralph that she likes Warburton, and Ralph responds that he pities him. So he informs Isabel: "He's a man with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously. He's the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know where to believe in. He can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution". Isabel tells Mr. Touchett, Ralph's father, that she does not understand Ralph's opinion of Lord Warburton. Mr. Touchett responds that Lord Warburton seems to want to "do away with many things," but also to remain himself. He notes that there are a great many people like Lord Warburton, and he is not sure if they are trying to start a revolution. Isabel is ecstatic at the thought that there might be a revolution, declaring that she would be on the side of the loyalists if there were such a revolution. Mr. Touchett notes that the desire for change among men such as Lord Warburton, and other radicals, is probably more theoretical than earnest. These progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury," he says

Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/09.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_4_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 9

chapter 9

{"name": "Chapter 9", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-9", "summary": "Lord Warburton's two sisters, the Misses Molyneux, come to visit Gardencourt. Isabel notes that they are very timid but also very sweet, with the charm of not being \"morbid\". They invite her to Lockleigh during a time in which other guests will also be present. When Isabel visits them at Lockleigh, she asks if their brother, Lord Warburton, is really so radical that he would give up everything if he were put to the test. The two sisters look frightened at the prospect. Isabel then concludes that he must be an impostor. Mildred Molyneux attests that it has always been a tradition in their family to be liberal. Isabel sees Lockleigh as a \"castle in a legend\". She meets Lord Warburton's brother, the Vicar, who she can see as a very strong man, but whom she has difficulty imagining as a spiritual aid. The group goes on a stroll, and Lord Warburton speaks privately with Isabel during this stroll. He tells her that he finds her charming. Isabel senses that this is \"the prelude to something grave\" and quickly utters that she does not believe she will be visiting Lockleigh again. He tells her he will visit her at Gardencourt, even though he believes Mr. Touchett does not like him being there. Lord Warburton tells Isabel that he does not feel safe with her, having the sense that she is always summing people up, and that she has mysterious purposes. Isabel tells him that she only wants to improve her mind by foreign travel. He tells her that her mind is already a formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us,\" he adds. Isabel tells him that he is being quite \"quaint. He then seems to bitterly respond that she \"judges only from the outside\" and that she does not really care , even while she selects the great materials with which to amuse herself. He tells her he will visit her again. She responds coldly, \"Just as you please\". Her coldness, though, is calculated, and it comes from a fear deep within her", "analysis": "Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a \"fine work of art.\" It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called \"the portrait of a lady,\" which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the \"deepest\" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more \"formidable\" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence?"}

The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described them to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them. Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of "ornamental water," set, in parterres, among the geraniums. "They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our heroine said to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions and something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the world and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it clear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh, where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very, very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep: they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she would come while the people were there. "I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the elder sister; "but I dare say you'll take us as you find us." "I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely. Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone, that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the first time they had been called enchanting. "I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be so quiet and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that." "Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour. "I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very much to see them at home." She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother, she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was a want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs. Touchett. "Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked. She knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out. "Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, the younger sister. "At the same time Warburton's very reasonable," Miss Molyneux observed. Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not made an impertinence. "Do you suppose your brother's sincere?" Isabel enquired with a smile. "Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder sister gazed at our heroine in silence. "Do you think he would stand the test?" "The test?" "I mean for instance having to give up all this." "Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice. "Yes, and the other places; what are they called?" The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do you mean--do you mean on account of the expense?" the younger one asked. "I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said the other. "Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded. "I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss Molyneux. "Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't you think it's a false position?" Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My brother's position?" Miss Molyneux enquired. "It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister. "It's the first position in this part of the county." "I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occasion to remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of him." "Of course one looks up to one's brother," said Miss Molyneux simply. "If you do that he must be very good--because you, evidently, are beautifully good." "He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does." "His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's immense." "Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should wish to fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold it tight." "I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently. "We've always been so, even from the earliest times." "Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; I don't wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels." When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it had been a good deal modernised--some of its best points had lost their purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck, and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come to luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him--time enough to institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as vain. The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure, a candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to indiscriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin that before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he was still, on occasion--in the privacy of the family circle as it were--quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him--she was in the mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal taxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on leaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised some ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart from the others. "I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said. "You can't do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip." His own conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which had a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted at intervals to matters more personal--matters personal to the young lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration, returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, "Ah, well," he said, "I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see more of it--that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an immense fancy to you--if that would be any inducement." "There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'm afraid I can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands." "Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty sure you can do whatever you want." "I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice impression to make." "It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "To hope what?" "That in future I may see you often." "Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so terribly emancipated." "Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle likes me." "You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of you." "I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton. "But, I nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt." "I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined, "though I ought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I shall be very glad to see you." "Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say that." "You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel. "No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a moment. "But you've charmed me, Miss Archer." These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the sound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily as possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would allow her: "I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come here again." "Never?" said Lord Warburton. "I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic." "May I come and see you then some day next week?" "Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?" "Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense that you're always summing people up." "You don't of necessity lose by that." "It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?" "I hope so." "Is England not good enough for you?" "That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I want to see as many countries as I can." "Then you'll go on judging, I suppose." "Enjoying, I hope, too." "Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to," said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast designs." "You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of my fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign travel?" "You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion declared. "It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us." "Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously. "Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought 'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest." "That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard," Isabel answered with a smile. Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside--you don't care," he said presently. "You only care to amuse yourself." The note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed with it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had often heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he going to make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young lady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting to his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of course that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials; the foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of nations!" "As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation entertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and Lord Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the others, "I shall come and see you next week," he said. She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that she couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one. Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, "Just as you please." And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a game she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable to many critics. It came from a certain fear.

Chapter 9

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-7-9

Lord Warburton's two sisters, the Misses Molyneux, come to visit Gardencourt. Isabel notes that they are very timid but also very sweet, with the charm of not being "morbid". They invite her to Lockleigh during a time in which other guests will also be present. When Isabel visits them at Lockleigh, she asks if their brother, Lord Warburton, is really so radical that he would give up everything if he were put to the test. The two sisters look frightened at the prospect. Isabel then concludes that he must be an impostor. Mildred Molyneux attests that it has always been a tradition in their family to be liberal. Isabel sees Lockleigh as a "castle in a legend". She meets Lord Warburton's brother, the Vicar, who she can see as a very strong man, but whom she has difficulty imagining as a spiritual aid. The group goes on a stroll, and Lord Warburton speaks privately with Isabel during this stroll. He tells her that he finds her charming. Isabel senses that this is "the prelude to something grave" and quickly utters that she does not believe she will be visiting Lockleigh again. He tells her he will visit her at Gardencourt, even though he believes Mr. Touchett does not like him being there. Lord Warburton tells Isabel that he does not feel safe with her, having the sense that she is always summing people up, and that she has mysterious purposes. Isabel tells him that she only wants to improve her mind by foreign travel. He tells her that her mind is already a formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us," he adds. Isabel tells him that he is being quite "quaint. He then seems to bitterly respond that she "judges only from the outside" and that she does not really care , even while she selects the great materials with which to amuse herself. He tells her he will visit her again. She responds coldly, "Just as you please". Her coldness, though, is calculated, and it comes from a fear deep within her

Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/10.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_5_part_1.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 10

chapter 10

{"name": "Chapter 10", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14", "summary": "Isabel's friend, Henrietta Stackpole, the independent American journalist, arrives in England and visits at Gardencourt to see Isabel. She is described as a neat, plump person with a remarkably observant eye. Henrietta declares to the Touchetts that she would like to know if they consider themselves American or English, so that she will know how to talk to them. Ralph tells her that, in order to please her, he'll be an Englishman, or even a Turk. Isabel intercedes that Ralph is a cosmopolite. Isabel discovers that Henrietta is writing an article on Gardencourt, and tells her that she should not write about the place. Henrietta thinks they will be delighted afterwards, and Isabel protests that Henrietta has no sense of privacy. Henrietta blushes. Later, she asks Isabel if there is some other place she can describe, and Isabel tells her that she could give her a glimpse of Lord Warburton, and perhaps she can observe him. Henrietta finds it odd that Ralph spends his time so idly, without occupation. She asks how he can reconcile his idleness with his conscience, to which he responds, \"I have no conscience. Henrietta proceeds to interrogate him on having abandoned his own country, and Ralph responds that one's country is not a choice, but only an \"element of one's composition\". Henrietta counsels Ralph to \"take hold of something\" -- that is, find something to work on. A few days later, Henrietta diagnoses Ralph: \"I know what's the matter with you. you think you're too good to get married\". Ralph jokes that he thought so until he met Henrietta. She thinks that getting married would improve him, and that it is his \"duty\". Ralph suspects Henrietta has ulterior motives, so he decides to test this by circuitously suggesting that he is proposing to Henrietta. Henrietta gives him a look of resentment. Isabel later tells Ralph that Henrietta thinks Europeans have a low tone towards women. Ralph notes that perhaps he treats her too personally. He thinks though, that she has the \"smell of the Future\"", "analysis": "Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the \"Future\" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known \"American Theme\" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in \"the free exploration of life\" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her \"idea\" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from \"life\" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can \"do something better.\" However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's \"idea\" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions."}

The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend Miss Stackpole--a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided only the night before I left New York--the Interviewer having come round to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist, and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where can we meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have married a lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first people and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can; come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure; for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as possible of the inner life." Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary lady," he said, "I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as that other one did. She has seen others like me." "She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she was not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman lost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting to receive her. "Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved along the platform. "Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She doesn't care a straw what men think of her." "As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster. Is she very ugly?" "No, she's decidedly pretty." "A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see her," Ralph conceded. "It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as she." "I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?" "Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance." "You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all, including Bunchie, to her newspaper." "I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered. "You think she's capable of it then?" "Perfectly." "And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?" "I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her faults." "Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her merits." "You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days." "And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried the young man. The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending, proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature, with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open, surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh, dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr. Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more to give the measure of her confidence in her powers. "Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to you accordingly." "Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally answered. She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character that reminded him of large polished buttons--buttons that might have fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a button is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely embarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her company, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. "I don't suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an American," she said. "To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!" "Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss Stackpole returned. "I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality are no barrier to you," Ralph went on. Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign languages?" "The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius." "I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of the Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave." "He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested. "That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say I think patriotism is like charity--it begins at home." "Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired. "I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long time before I got here." "Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged, innocent voice. "Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take. I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to London." "Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested. "Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt something pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way--then you can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive." "Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and you'll see." Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at school) was "Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest. "I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe the place." Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people want, and it's a lovely place." "It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle wants." "Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted afterwards." "My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it a breach of hospitality." Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen, very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course if you don't approve I won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject." "There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you. We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery." "Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined. "I was going to bring in your cousin--the alienated American. There's a great demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely." "He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the severity, but of the publicity." "Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type--the American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he can object to my paying him honour." Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said, "you've no sense of privacy." Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. "You do me great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've never written a word about myself!" "I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for others also!" "Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. "Just let me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere." she was a thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady in want of matter. "I've promised to do the social side," she said to Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe this place don't you know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised she would bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation with her friend, she happened to mention her visit to Lord Warburton's ancient house. "Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!" Miss Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of the nobility." "I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming here, and you'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning." "Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural." "An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue," Isabel declared. It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had, according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he had spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the park together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days. Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem, which it would be almost immoral not to work out. "What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?" "He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure." "Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor," Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him up." "He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged. "Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her friend. Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown her. "Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd be such an interesting one!" "Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your prejudices; that's one comfort." "My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's intellectual poverty for you." "The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She'll see how thin you are." "Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take the trouble." Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort; resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor amusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through the long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked at the pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion, and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do her justice, was but little addicted to the use of conventional terms; there was something earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times, in its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture speaking a foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that she had at one time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other world; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket none of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had called her attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at him as if he himself had been a picture. "Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded. "I seldom spend it so agreeably." "Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation." "Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living." Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal of a regular occupation," he said. Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested upon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking of something much more serious. "I don't see how you can reconcile it to your conscience." "My dear lady, I have no conscience!" "Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time you go to America." "I shall probably never go again." "Are you ashamed to show yourself?" Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has no conscience one has no shame." "Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared. "Do you consider it right to give up your country?" "Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives UP one's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice--elements of one's composition that are not to be eliminated." "I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do they think of you over here?" "They delight in me." "That's because you truckle to them." "Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed. "I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any charm it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired--or at least you've tried hard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've succeeded. It's a charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some way, and then we'll talk about it." "Well, now, tell me what I shall do," said Ralph. "Go right home, to begin with." "Yes, I see. And then?" "Take right hold of something." "Well, now, what sort of thing?" "Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big work." "Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired. "Not if you put your heart into it." "Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart--!" "Haven't you got a heart?" "I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since." "You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's the matter with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to fix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause to her mysterious perversity. "I know what's the matter with you, Mr. Touchett," she said. "You think you're too good to get married." "I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralph answered; "and then I suddenly changed my mind." "Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned. "Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good enough." "It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty." "Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?" "Of course it is--did you never know that before? It's every one's duty to get married." Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she was not a charming woman she was at least a very good "sort." She was wanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went into cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had not supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words struck him as a false note. When a marriageable young woman urges matrimony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious explanation of her conduct is not the altruistic impulse. "Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ralph rejoined. "There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman was good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one else in the world? In America it's usual for people to marry." "If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours as well?" Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. "Have you the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as good a right to marry as any one else." "Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see you single. It delights me rather." "You're not serious yet. You never will be." "Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to give up the practice of going round alone?" Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to his great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an appearance of alarm and even of resentment. "No, not even then," she answered dryly. After which she walked away. "I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said that evening to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morning about it." "And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied. Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?" "She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of Europeans towards women." "Does she call me a European?" "One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an American never would have said. But she didn't repeat it." Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an extraordinary combination. Did she think I was making love to her?" "No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind construction on it." "I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that unkind?" Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry." "My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph demanded. "Miss Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers, in general, to see I do mine!" "She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She has indeed, and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like her for. She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself. That's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to--to attract you, you were very wrong." "It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract me. Forgive my depravity." "You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed you would think she had." "One must be very modest then to talk with such women," Ralph said humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too personal--considering that she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking at the door." "Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognise the existence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't think them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should stand ajar. But I persist in liking her." "I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined, naturally somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in Miss Stackpole. "Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she's rather vulgar that I like her." "She would be flattered by your reason!" "If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should say it's because there's something of the 'people' in her." "What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?" "She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind of emanation of the great democracy--of the continent, the country, the nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to ask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it." "You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on those very grounds I object to her." "Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so many things! If a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don't want to swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like people to be totally different from Henrietta--in the style of Lord Warburton's sisters for instance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me to answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm straightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in respect to what masses behind her." "Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested. "What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be serious. I like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across the prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the green Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it, and Henrietta--pardon my simile--has something of that odour in her garments." Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush, together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that," he said; "but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does smell of the Future--it almost knocks one down!"

Chapter 10

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14

Isabel's friend, Henrietta Stackpole, the independent American journalist, arrives in England and visits at Gardencourt to see Isabel. She is described as a neat, plump person with a remarkably observant eye. Henrietta declares to the Touchetts that she would like to know if they consider themselves American or English, so that she will know how to talk to them. Ralph tells her that, in order to please her, he'll be an Englishman, or even a Turk. Isabel intercedes that Ralph is a cosmopolite. Isabel discovers that Henrietta is writing an article on Gardencourt, and tells her that she should not write about the place. Henrietta thinks they will be delighted afterwards, and Isabel protests that Henrietta has no sense of privacy. Henrietta blushes. Later, she asks Isabel if there is some other place she can describe, and Isabel tells her that she could give her a glimpse of Lord Warburton, and perhaps she can observe him. Henrietta finds it odd that Ralph spends his time so idly, without occupation. She asks how he can reconcile his idleness with his conscience, to which he responds, "I have no conscience. Henrietta proceeds to interrogate him on having abandoned his own country, and Ralph responds that one's country is not a choice, but only an "element of one's composition". Henrietta counsels Ralph to "take hold of something" -- that is, find something to work on. A few days later, Henrietta diagnoses Ralph: "I know what's the matter with you. you think you're too good to get married". Ralph jokes that he thought so until he met Henrietta. She thinks that getting married would improve him, and that it is his "duty". Ralph suspects Henrietta has ulterior motives, so he decides to test this by circuitously suggesting that he is proposing to Henrietta. Henrietta gives him a look of resentment. Isabel later tells Ralph that Henrietta thinks Europeans have a low tone towards women. Ralph notes that perhaps he treats her too personally. He thinks though, that she has the "smell of the Future"

Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/11.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_5_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 11

chapter 11

{"name": "Chapter 11", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14", "summary": "Henrietta gets along well at Gardencourt mostly, except that she begins to mistrust Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Henrietta is both a bore and an adventuress. She detests her manners. Mrs. Touchett tells Henrietta: \"We judge from different points of view, evidently. I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a 'party'\". In a private moment, Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood came to see her for news about Isabel. Isabel thinks he is simpleminded, and not ugly. Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood is dying for encouragement, but she also notes that Isabel is affected by everything but Mr. Goodwood. She tells Isabel that she shouldn't let her new ideas affect her old ones. Basically Henrietta seems to hope that Isabel will marry Mr. Goodwood, and reminds Isabel that she has already encouraged him that he will be successful if he proposes. Isabel recognizes that Mr. Goodwood is a man of action, the type to \"do something\". Henrietta tells Isabel that Mr. Goodwood will arrive in a few days. Isabel is alarmed by the news. For the next few days she is in a state of ominous foreboding. One day in the garden she receives a letter from Mr. Goodwood. In the letter, Caspar Goodwood reminds Isabel that she had \"dismissed\" him three months earlier when they last saw each other, but that he had refused to accept this, believing her character was not as arbitrary as she was presenting it as. He has arrived in England because she is there. He asks to come see her in half an hour. As Isabel is reading the letter, Lord Warburton appears", "analysis": "Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the \"Future\" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known \"American Theme\" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in \"the free exploration of life\" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her \"idea\" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from \"life\" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can \"do something better.\" However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's \"idea\" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions."}

He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore, appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr. Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she not conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she had at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress and a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend, yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict the girl to those she liked. "If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think I like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss Stackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it, because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's no use trying." Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her, but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst. Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel. "We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett. "I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a 'party.'" "I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated as an American lady." "Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the slaves of slaves." "They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted. "They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the negro waiter. They share their work." "Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" Miss Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, no wonder you don't like America." "If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenely said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in Florence." "I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding me in that menial position." "I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimed Mrs. Touchett with much meaning. "Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband asked. "I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue." "The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph. "It's a beautiful description." "When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!" And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless." "Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?" "No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that." "Faithless to my country then?" "Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what it is. Is it because you've suspected?" "Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel. "I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had forgotten it. What have you to tell me?" Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it. "You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're changed--you're thinking of other things." "Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that." "Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of." "I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean that you're going to be married?" "Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughing at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the steamer with me." "Ah!" Isabel responded. "You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come after you." "Did he tell you so?" "No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly. "He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal." Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last. "It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he drank it all in." "What did you say about me?" Isabel asked. "I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know." "I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't to be encouraged." "He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so handsome." "He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly." "There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion." "It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that." "You don't say that as if you were sure." Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood himself." "He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've been affected by your new surroundings." "Very likely. I'm affected by everything." "By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a slightly harsh hilarity. Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he ask you to speak to me?" "Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he bade me good-bye." "Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away. "Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend continued. "I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as possible." "Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones have been the right ones." Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regard to Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacable glitter. "My dear child, you certainly encouraged him." Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which, however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him." And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood what he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy. "I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do something, and whatever he does will always be right." "I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration. "Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out. "Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man's of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?" "It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self." "Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," said Isabel with a cold smile. This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr. Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day." "I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel. "I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it." To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however, that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless, she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be for the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She had walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion, of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without, she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire. MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it. You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed, and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make; but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else. I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of yours faithfully, CASPAR GOODWOOD. Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however, as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before her.

Chapter 11

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14

Henrietta gets along well at Gardencourt mostly, except that she begins to mistrust Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Henrietta is both a bore and an adventuress. She detests her manners. Mrs. Touchett tells Henrietta: "We judge from different points of view, evidently. I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a 'party'". In a private moment, Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood came to see her for news about Isabel. Isabel thinks he is simpleminded, and not ugly. Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood is dying for encouragement, but she also notes that Isabel is affected by everything but Mr. Goodwood. She tells Isabel that she shouldn't let her new ideas affect her old ones. Basically Henrietta seems to hope that Isabel will marry Mr. Goodwood, and reminds Isabel that she has already encouraged him that he will be successful if he proposes. Isabel recognizes that Mr. Goodwood is a man of action, the type to "do something". Henrietta tells Isabel that Mr. Goodwood will arrive in a few days. Isabel is alarmed by the news. For the next few days she is in a state of ominous foreboding. One day in the garden she receives a letter from Mr. Goodwood. In the letter, Caspar Goodwood reminds Isabel that she had "dismissed" him three months earlier when they last saw each other, but that he had refused to accept this, believing her character was not as arbitrary as she was presenting it as. He has arrived in England because she is there. He asks to come see her in half an hour. As Isabel is reading the letter, Lord Warburton appears

Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/12.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_5_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 12

chapter 12

{"name": "Chapter 12", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14", "summary": "Isabel is aware that Lord Warburton has arrived with some intention, and she feels curious about this intention at the same time she wishes to elude this intention. Although the narrator does not tell us so, it is obvious that Lord Warburton is about to propose marriage to her. She perceives Lord Warburton as \"looming up before her\" and he appears to demand something of her, as if he is about to draw her into the orbit of the system in which he lives. Her instinct tells her to resist though, especially because she has a system of her own. She also notes that Caspar Goodwood is a man with no system at all, even though he has certain definite intentions with her. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton seems somewhat embarrassed. He was about to do something that would shock all his countrymen, even though he has only been in Isabel's company for 26 hours. Lord Warburton tells her he's in love with her, and that he will be forever. Isabel claims that he does not know her at all. He tells her if she is his wife, he will come to know her. She tells him that she believes in him, and does not need the recommendation of his friends to do so. But then, she thanks him for his offer. He tells her that this gives him some hope that she will come to accept him eventually. She tells him not to hope. She is sure that her opinion of him can only rise, but that his opinion of her will only lower with time. Isabel tells him she is refusing him not because she dislikes him, but because it's about what she herself can give to the marriage. Further, she is not sure that she ever wishes to marry anyone. Isabel feels that she would give her little finger to have the impulse to accept Lord Warburton's proposal; she wishes she could believe it was the best possible opportunity she could have. However, she feels like a \"wild, caught creature in a vast cage\" when presented with this opportunity. This opportunity was not the greatest she could conceive of. Isabel tells him finally that he ought not to bring up the subject today again, and that she only needs time to think of some way to let him know that what he asks is impossible. Lord Warburton tells her he will live without purpose if she rejects him, and she protests that he will marry a better woman than she. She tells him that she only wants to collect her mind a little, and he responds that he is afraid of her \"remarkable\" mind. She responds, \"So am I, my lord. As he leaves, Isabel feels that there had been no great difficult choice, as she simply could not have married him. The idea failed to support any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining\"", "analysis": "Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the \"Future\" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known \"American Theme\" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in \"the free exploration of life\" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her \"idea\" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from \"life\" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can \"do something better.\" However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's \"idea\" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions."}

She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her coolness. "They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "and as there was no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, I came out with no more ado." Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors." "Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendly and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June weather. "We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not divest herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of several elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed spent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the pleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" to her from the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both precipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of the former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial magnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her charms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with it really more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong impression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself in examining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence of her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments when this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her an aggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree of an inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been no personages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such at all in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence she had thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what one might like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was a character--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto her visions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largely with moral images--things as to which the question would be whether they pleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely and brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not to be measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of appreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging quickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to demand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to do. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate had conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he rather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious, but persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtually she had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things besides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that a girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it would be very interesting to see something of his system from his own point of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently a great deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of every hour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupid which would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man lately come from America who had no system at all, but who had a character of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the impression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not, however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany who debated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offered himself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do better. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have the satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a direct appeal to charity. Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air of being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was, nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside her for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know it, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected laughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may return to it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people in the world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displease a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommend it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer country across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents, her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as they were generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant. Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about twenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--the perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the most liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had looked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from his thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his buttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of a lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable to his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not discredited by irritating associations. "I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed her companion's hesitancy. "It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me here." "Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more sure that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him if he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old English country-house, with the foreground embellished by a "great" (as she supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on careful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with herself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded scarcely the less in looking at it from the outside. "I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only for you." "You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I can't believe you're serious." These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would have excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if anything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton was not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in which he replied would quite have served the purpose. "One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer; it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I am to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression dates from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two days I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I was doing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the greatest possible attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon me. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you went away--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it over and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've done nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a very judicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburton repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever heard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat, the violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a windless place. By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly, and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, how little you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her hand away. "Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappy enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seems to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall know you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be able to say it's from ignorance." "If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel. "You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah, of course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do, how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me rather, don't you?" "I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this moment she liked him immensely. "I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in which I offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the people who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me." "I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel. "Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself." "Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with the pleasure of feeling she did. The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose all I possess!" She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and, on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as he would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say something if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so mysteriously, matter to him. "I thank you more than I can say for your offer," she returned at last. "It does me great honour." "Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say something like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. I don't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you for listening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such a thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must tell you that I'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you've listened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope." "Don't hope too much," Isabel said. "Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play of high spirits, the exuberance of elation. "Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at all?" Isabel asked. "Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that; it would be a feeling very much worse." Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very sure that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should know you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that you wouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of conventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere." "I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied. "It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question." "I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait a long time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on your answer." "I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel. "Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence than a bad one to-day." "But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be able to give you one that you'd think good." "Why not, since you really like me?" "Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel. "Well then, I don't see what more you ask!" "It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suit you; I really don't think I should." "You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a better royalist than the king." "It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry any one." "Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin that way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "But they're frequently persuaded." "Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed. Her suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence. "I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate," he said presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own country." Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?" "I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans generally." "He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England." Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outward felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a restricted view. It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: "Ah, my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, you know! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little." "Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it this way." "Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your objection to what I propose." "I'm afraid I can't make you understand." "You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you afraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know. You can pick out your climate, the whole world over." These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the embrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in her face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at that moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: "Lord Warburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world, I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." But though she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move back into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in a vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was not the greatest she could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was something very different--something that deferred the need of really facing her crisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more about this to-day." "Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you for the world." "You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it justice." "That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember how absolutely my happiness is in your hands." Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is some way of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting you know it without making you miserable." "There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuse me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall live to no purpose." "You'll live to marry a better woman than I." "Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely. "That's fair to neither of us." "To marry a worse one then." "If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all I can say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no accounting for tastes." His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again requesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll speak to you myself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you." "At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take, it must seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that." "I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a little." He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. "Do you know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?" Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed. His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured. "I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you." "Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." And then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more," he went on. "You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's damp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of it. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined; it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn't dream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; there are plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don't like a moat, you know. Good-bye." "I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye." He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment long enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he walked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset. Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the question. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining. She must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so little to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever qualifications one would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the situation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, might contain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne; but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of twenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then upon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she, what was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view of life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that pretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If she wouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she must do something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself from time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be more sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: the isolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a desert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her accepting Lord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was so conscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was the very softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too much to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there was a fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he saw it--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it; and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to criticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him she would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, she wandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself in meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. But this was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard, priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going rather quickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, really frightened at herself.

Chapter 12

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14

Isabel is aware that Lord Warburton has arrived with some intention, and she feels curious about this intention at the same time she wishes to elude this intention. Although the narrator does not tell us so, it is obvious that Lord Warburton is about to propose marriage to her. She perceives Lord Warburton as "looming up before her" and he appears to demand something of her, as if he is about to draw her into the orbit of the system in which he lives. Her instinct tells her to resist though, especially because she has a system of her own. She also notes that Caspar Goodwood is a man with no system at all, even though he has certain definite intentions with her. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton seems somewhat embarrassed. He was about to do something that would shock all his countrymen, even though he has only been in Isabel's company for 26 hours. Lord Warburton tells her he's in love with her, and that he will be forever. Isabel claims that he does not know her at all. He tells her if she is his wife, he will come to know her. She tells him that she believes in him, and does not need the recommendation of his friends to do so. But then, she thanks him for his offer. He tells her that this gives him some hope that she will come to accept him eventually. She tells him not to hope. She is sure that her opinion of him can only rise, but that his opinion of her will only lower with time. Isabel tells him she is refusing him not because she dislikes him, but because it's about what she herself can give to the marriage. Further, she is not sure that she ever wishes to marry anyone. Isabel feels that she would give her little finger to have the impulse to accept Lord Warburton's proposal; she wishes she could believe it was the best possible opportunity she could have. However, she feels like a "wild, caught creature in a vast cage" when presented with this opportunity. This opportunity was not the greatest she could conceive of. Isabel tells him finally that he ought not to bring up the subject today again, and that she only needs time to think of some way to let him know that what he asks is impossible. Lord Warburton tells her he will live without purpose if she rejects him, and she protests that he will marry a better woman than she. She tells him that she only wants to collect her mind a little, and he responds that he is afraid of her "remarkable" mind. She responds, "So am I, my lord. As he leaves, Isabel feels that there had been no great difficult choice, as she simply could not have married him. The idea failed to support any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining"

Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/13.txt

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 13

chapter 13

{"name": "Chapter 13", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14", "summary": "Isabel decides to speak to her uncle, Mr. Touchett, about this event. Mr. Touchett, upon hearing of the proposal, tells her that he knew she would be a success here. He also already knew about Lord Warburton's intentions. Speaking with her uncle allows Isabel to feel that she has reasonable and natural emotions, rather than a vague intellectualism that rests upon an unfounded idea. She did not refuse Lord Warburton either because she planned on accepting Caspar Goodwood. In Caspar Goodwood's presence, she feels deprived of a sense of freedom, and she is often haunted by the sense that he might disapprove of what she did. Sometimes she thinks of Caspar Goodwood as the \"stubbornest fact she knew\". The narrator informs the reader that Caspar Goodwood is the son of a proprietor of cotton-mills in Massachusetts, and therefore a man of means. He even had managed to invent an improvement to the process of cotton spinning and was seen as accomplished because of this. Isabel likes the idea that he is a character and a mover of men , but he does not move her imagination in any other ways. He did not correspond to her idea of a delightful person, although Lord Warburton did correspond to it exactly. However she was still unsatisfied. Isabel decides not to reply to Mr. Goodwood. She writes to Lord Warburton after three days. She tells him, \"We see our lives from our own point of view,\" and that she can never see hers from the point of view of his wife. Henrietta tries to get Ralph Touchett to allow Caspar Goodwood to visit, taking him for a stroll in the garden. Ralph hesitates, but finally agrees when Henrietta accuses him of being in love with Isabel. He tells her he will invite Caspar Goodwood to prove that he is not in love with Isabel. Henrietta tells him that he is inviting Caspar Goodwood to prove it to himself. Ralph writes to Caspar to invite him to Gardencourt, but Caspar refuses. This puzzles Henrietta. Henrietta and Isabel decide to go on to London together, and Ralph joins them", "analysis": "Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the \"Future\" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known \"American Theme\" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in \"the free exploration of life\" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her \"idea\" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from \"life\" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can \"do something better.\" However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's \"idea\" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions."}

It was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice--she had no desire whatever for that--that led her to speak to her uncle of what had taken place. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more natural, more human, and her uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in a more attractive light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her cousin of course was a possible confidant; but she would have had to do herself violence to air this special secret to Ralph. So the next day, after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never left his apartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, as he said, in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class so designated, which, for the rest, included the old man's son, his physician, his personal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett did not figure in the list, and this was an obstacle the less to Isabel's finding her host alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical chair, at the open window of his room, looking westward over the park and the river, with his newspapers and letters piled up beside him, his toilet freshly and minutely made, and his smooth, speculative face composed to benevolent expectation. She approached her point directly. "I think I ought to let you know that Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I ought to tell my aunt; but it seems best to tell you first." The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the confidence she showed him. "Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him?" he then enquired. "I've not answered him definitely yet; I've taken a little time to think of it, because that seems more respectful. But I shall not accept him." Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air of thinking that, whatever interest he might take in the matter from the point of view of sociability, he had no active voice in it. "Well, I told you you'd be a success over here. Americans are highly appreciated." "Very highly indeed," said Isabel. "But at the cost of seeming both tasteless and ungrateful, I don't think I can marry Lord Warburton." "Well," her uncle went on, "of course an old man can't judge for a young lady. I'm glad you didn't ask me before you made up your mind. I suppose I ought to tell you," he added slowly, but as if it were not of much consequence, "that I've known all about it these three days." "About Lord Warburton's state of mind?" "About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant letter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see his letter?" the old man obligingly asked. "Thank you; I don't think I care about that. But I'm glad he wrote to you; it was right that he should, and he would be certain to do what was right." "Ah well, I guess you do like him!" Mr. Touchett declared. "You needn't pretend you don't." "I like him extremely; I'm very free to admit that. But I don't wish to marry any one just now." "You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well, that's very likely," said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show his kindness to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and finding cheerful reasons for it. "I don't care if I don't meet any one else. I like Lord Warburton quite well enough." she fell into that appearance of a sudden change of point of view with which she sometimes startled and even displeased her interlocutors. Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these impressions. "He's a very fine man," he resumed in a tone which might have passed for that of encouragement. "His letter was one of the pleasantest I've received for some weeks. I suppose one of the reasons I liked it was that it was all about you; that is all except the part that was about himself. I suppose he told you all that." "He would have told me everything I wished to ask him," Isabel said. "But you didn't feel curious?" "My curiosity would have been idle--once I had determined to decline his offer." "You didn't find it sufficiently attractive?" Mr. Touchett enquired. She was silent a little. "I suppose it was that," she presently admitted. "But I don't know why." "Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons," said her uncle. "There's a great deal that's attractive about such an idea; but I don't see why the English should want to entice us away from our native land. I know that we try to attract them over there, but that's because our population is insufficient. Here, you know, they're rather crowded. However, I presume there's room for charming young ladies everywhere." "There seems to have been room here for you," said Isabel, whose eyes had been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park. Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. "There's room everywhere, my dear, if you'll pay for it. I sometimes think I've paid too much for this. Perhaps you also might have to pay too much." "Perhaps I might," the girl replied. That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her uncle's mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was concerned with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and not altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague ambitions--ambitions reaching beyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal, reaching to something indefinable and possibly not commendable. In so far as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour at this juncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, of a union with Caspar Goodwood; for however she might have resisted conquest at her English suitor's large quiet hands she was at least as far removed from the disposition to let the young man from Boston take positive possession of her. The sentiment in which She sought refuge after reading his letter was a critical view of his having come abroad; for it was part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed to deprive her of the sense of freedom. There was a disagreeably strong push, a kind of hardness of presence, in his way of rising before her. She had been haunted at moments by the image, by the danger, of his disapproval and had wondered--a consideration she had never paid in equal degree to any one else--whether he would like what she did. The difficulty was that more than any man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she had begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar Goodwood expressed for her an energy--and she had already felt it as a power that was of his very nature. It was in no degree a matter of his "advantages"--it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his clear-burning eyes like some tireless watcher at a window. She might like it or not, but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force: even in one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that. The idea of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at present, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her independence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe and yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed to range himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest fact she knew; she said to herself at such moments that she might evade him for a time, but that she must make terms with him at last--terms which would be certain to be favourable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail herself of the things that helped her to resist such an obligation; and this impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her aunt's invitation, which had come to her at an hour when she expected from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood and when she was glad to have an answer ready for something she was sure he would say to her. When she had told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that she couldn't then discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by the great immediate opening of her aunt's offer of "Europe," he declared that this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtain a better one that he was following her across the sea. To say to herself that he was a kind of grim fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was able to take much for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a nearer and a clearer view. He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in Massachusetts--a gentleman who had accumulated a considerable fortune in the exercise of this industry. Caspar at present managed the works, and with a judgement and a temper which, in spite of keen competition and languid years, had kept their prosperity from dwindling. He had received the better part of his education at Harvard College, where, however, he had gained renown rather as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a gleaner of more dispersed knowledge. Later on he had learned that the finer intelligence too could vault and pull and strain--might even, breaking the record, treat itself to rare exploits. He had thus discovered in himself a sharp eye for the mystery of mechanics, and had invented an improvement in the cotton-spinning process which was now largely used and was known by his name. You might have seen it in the newspapers in connection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he had given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York Interviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwood patent--an article not prepared by Miss Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his more sentimental interests. There were intricate, bristling things he rejoiced in; he liked to organise, to contend, to administer; he could make people work his will, believe in him, march before him and justify him. This was the art, as they said, of managing men--which rested, in him, further, on a bold though brooding ambition. It struck those who knew him well that he might do greater things than carry on a cotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and his friends took for granted that he would somehow and somewhere write himself in bigger letters. But it was as if something large and confused, something dark and ugly, would have to call upon him: he was not after all in harmony with mere smug peace and greed and gain, an order of things of which the vital breath was ubiquitous advertisement. It pleased Isabel to believe that he might have ridden, on a plunging steed, the whirlwind of a great war--a war like the Civil strife that had overdarkened her conscious childhood and his ripening youth. She liked at any rate this idea of his being by character and in fact a mover of men--liked it much better than some other points in his nature and aspect. She cared nothing for his cotton-mill--the Goodwood patent left her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him no ounce less of his manhood, but she sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if he looked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too square and set and his figure too straight and stiff: these things suggested a want of easy consonance with the deeper rhythms of life. Then she viewed with reserve a habit he had of dressing always in the same manner; it was not apparently that he wore the same clothes continually, for, on the contrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new. But they all seemed of the same piece; the figure, the stuff, was so drearily usual. She had reminded herself more than once that this was a frivolous objection to a person of his importance; and then she had amended the rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection only if she were in love with him. She was not in love with him and therefore might criticise his small defects as well as his great--which latter consisted in the collective reproach of his being too serious, or, rather, not of his being so, since one could never be, but certainly of his seeming so. He showed his appetites and designs too simply and artlessly; when one was alone with him he talked too much about the same subject, and when other people were present he talked too little about anything. And yet he was of supremely strong, clean make--which was so much she saw the different fitted parts of him as she had seen, in museums and portraits, the different fitted parts of armoured warriors--in plates of steel handsomely inlaid with gold. It was very strange: where, ever, was any tangible link between her impression and her act? Caspar Goodwood had never corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and she supposed that this was why he left her so harshly critical. When, however, Lord Warburton, who not only did correspond with it, but gave an extension to the term, appealed to her approval, she found herself still unsatisfied. It was certainly strange. The sense of her incoherence was not a help to answering Mr. Goodwood's letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while unhonoured. If he had determined to persecute her he must take the consequences; foremost among which was his being left to perceive how little it charmed her that he should come down to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the incursions of one suitor at this place, and though it might be pleasant to be appreciated in opposite quarters there was a kind of grossness in entertaining two such passionate pleaders at once, even in a case where the entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She made no reply to Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord Warburton, and the letter belongs to our history. DEAR LORD WARBURTON--A great deal of earnest thought has not led me to change my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make me the other day. I am not, I am really and truly not, able to regard you in the light of a companion for life; or to think of your home--your various homes--as the settled seat of my existence. These things cannot be reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to the subject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from our own point of view; that is the privilege of the weakest and humblest of us; and I shall never be able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly let this suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given your proposal the deeply respectful consideration it deserves. It is with this very great regard that I remain sincerely yours, ISABEL ARCHER. While the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was accompanied by no demur. She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and when he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to testify to his high expectations, she informed him that she had a favour to ask of him. It may be admitted that at this information the young man flinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as apt to push an advantage. The alarm was unreasoned, however; for he was clear about the area of her indiscretion as little as advised of its vertical depth, and he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He was afraid of her and presently told her so. "When you look at me in a certain way my knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I'm filled with trepidation and I ask only for strength to execute your commands. You've an address that I've never encountered in any woman." "Well," Henrietta replied good-humouredly, "if I had not known before that you were trying somehow to abash me I should know it now. Of course I'm easy game--I was brought up with such different customs and ideas. I'm not used to your arbitrary standards, and I've never been spoken to in America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with me over there were to speak to me like that I shouldn't know what to make of it. We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all, we're a great deal more simple. I admit that; I'm very simple myself. Of course if you choose to laugh at me for it you're very welcome; but I think on the whole I would rather be myself than you. I'm quite content to be myself; I don't want to change. There are plenty of people that appreciate me just as I am. It's true they're nice fresh free-born Americans!" Henrietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence and large concession. "I want you to assist me a little," she went on. "I don't care in the least whether I amuse you while you do so; or, rather, I'm perfectly willing your amusement should be your reward. I want you to help me about Isabel." "Has she injured you?" Ralph asked. "If she had I shouldn't mind, and I should never tell you. What I'm afraid of is that she'll injure herself." "I think that's very possible," said Ralph. His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps the very gaze that unnerved him. "That too would amuse you, I suppose. The way you do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent." "To Isabel? Ah, not that!" "Well, you're not in love with her, I hope." "How can that be, when I'm in love with Another?" "You're in love with yourself, that's the Other!" Miss Stackpole declared. "Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once in your life here's a chance; and if you really care for your cousin here's an opportunity to prove it. I don't expect you to understand her; that's too much to ask. But you needn't do that to grant my favour. I'll supply the necessary intelligence." "I shall enjoy that immensely!" Ralph exclaimed. "I'll be Caliban and you shall be Ariel." "You're not at all like Caliban, because you're sophisticated, and Caliban was not. But I'm not talking about imaginary characters; I'm talking about Isabel. Isabel's intensely real. What I wish to tell you is that I find her fearfully changed." "Since you came, do you mean?" "Since I came and before I came. She's not the same as she once so beautifully was." "As she was in America?" "Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there. She can't help it, but she does." "Do you want to change her back again?" "Of course I do, and I want you to help me." "Ah," said Ralph, "I'm only Caliban; I'm not Prospero." "You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You've acted on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett." "I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted on me--yes; she acts on every one. But I've been absolutely passive." "You're too passive then. You had better stir yourself and be careful. Isabel's changing every day; she's drifting away--right out to sea. I've watched her and I can see it. She's not the bright American girl she was. She's taking different views, a different colour, and turning away from her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and that's where you come in." "Not surely as an ideal?" "Well, I hope not," Henrietta replied promptly. "I've got a fear in my heart that she's going to marry one of these fell Europeans, and I want to prevent it. "Ah, I see," cried Ralph; "and to prevent it you want me to step in and marry her?" "Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you're the typical, the fell European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I wish you to take an interest in another person--a young man to whom she once gave great encouragement and whom she now doesn't seem to think good enough. He's a thoroughly grand man and a very dear friend of mine, and I wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here." Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his fault was that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really be as candid as this request of Miss Stackpole's appeared. That a young woman should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear friend should be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable to another young woman, a young woman whose attention had wandered and whose charms were greater--this was an anomaly which for the moment challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account was the sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even from this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved by a force that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward light on the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers. This conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was perhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady's imperturbable gaze. He returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an inclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries. "Who's the gentleman you speak of?" "Mr. Caspar Goodwood--of Boston. He has been extremely attentive to Isabel--just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out here and he's at present in London. I don't know his address, but I guess I can obtain it." "I've never heard of him," said Ralph. "Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't believe he has ever heard of you; but that's no reason why Isabel shouldn't marry him." Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. "What a rage you have for marrying people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?" "I've got over that. You don't know how to take such ideas. Mr. Goodwood does, however; and that's what I like about him. He's a splendid man and a perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it." "Is she very fond of him?" "If she isn't she ought to be. He's simply wrapped up in her." "And you wish me to ask him here," said Ralph reflectively. "It would be an act of true hospitality." "Caspar Goodwood," Ralph continued--"it's rather a striking name." "I don't care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and I should say the same. He's the only man I have ever seen whom I think worthy of Isabel." "You're a very devoted friend," said Ralph. "Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don't care." "I don't say it to pour scorn on you; I'm very much struck with it." "You're more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr. Goodwood." "I assure you I'm very serious; you ought to understand that," said Ralph. In a moment his companion understood it. "I believe you are; now you're too serious." "You're difficult to please." "Oh, you're very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr. Goodwood." "I don't know," said Ralph. "I'm capable of strange things. Tell me a little about Mr. Goodwood. What's he like?" "He's just the opposite of you. He's at the head of a cotton-factory; a very fine one." "Has he pleasant manners?" asked Ralph. "Splendid manners--in the American style." "Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?" "I don't think he'd care much about our little circle. He'd concentrate on Isabel." "And how would my cousin like that?" "Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call back her thoughts." "Call them back--from where?" "From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose he was acceptable to her, and it's not worthy of Isabel to go back on a real friend simply because she has changed the scene. I've changed the scene too, and the effect of it has been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It's my belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. I know her well enough to know that she would never be truly happy over here, and I wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a preservative." "Aren't you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?" Ralph enquired. "Don't you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old England?" "A chance to ruin her bright young life? One's never too much in a hurry to save a precious human creature from drowning." "As I understand it then," said Ralph, "you wish me to push Mr. Goodwood overboard after her. Do you know," he added, "that I've never heard her mention his name?" Henrietta gave a brilliant smile. "I'm delighted to hear that; it proves how much she thinks of him." Ralph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this, and he surrendered to thought while his companion watched him askance. "If I should invite Mr. Goodwood," he finally said, "it would be to quarrel with him." "Don't do that; he'd prove the better man." "You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really don't think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him." "It's just as you please," Henrietta returned. "I had no idea you were in love with her yourself." "Do you really believe that?" the young man asked with lifted eyebrows. "That's the most natural speech I've ever heard you make! Of course I believe it," Miss Stackpole ingeniously said. "Well," Ralph concluded, "to prove to you that you're wrong I'll invite him. It must be of course as a friend of yours." "It will not be as a friend of mine that he'll come; and it will not be to prove to me that I'm wrong that you'll ask him--but to prove it to yourself!" These last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the two presently separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged to recognise; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a recognition that, in spite of his suspecting it would be rather more indiscreet to keep than to break his promise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six lines, expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that he should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker whom Henrietta suggested) he waited in some suspense. He had heard this fresh formidable figure named for the first time; for when his mother had mentioned on her arrival that there was a story about the girl's having an "admirer" at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality and he had taken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would involve only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native admiration of which his cousin was the object had become more concrete; it took the form of a young man who had followed her to London, who was interested in a cotton-mill and had manners in the most splendid of the American styles. Ralph had two theories about this intervenes. Either his passion was a sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole's (there was always a sort of tacit understanding among women, born of the solidarity of the sex, that they should discover or invent lovers for each other), in which case he was not to be feared and would probably not accept the invitation; or else he would accept the invitation and in this event prove himself a creature too irrational to demand further consideration. The latter clause of Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent; but it embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in Isabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stackpole he would not care to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter lady. "On this supposition," said Ralph, "he must regard her as a thorn on the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must find her wanting in tact." Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible and presenting many compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who, when she had read it, exclaimed: "Well, I never have heard of anything so stiff!" "I'm afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you suppose," Ralph observed. "No, it's not that; it's some subtler motive. His nature's very deep. But I'm determined to fathom it, and I shall write to him to know what he means." His refusal of Ralph's overtures was vaguely disconcerting; from the moment he declined to come to Gardencourt our friend began to think him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether Isabel's admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not rivals of his and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius. Nevertheless he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's promised enquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness--a curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her three days later if she had written to London she was obliged to confess she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not replied. "I suppose he's thinking it over," she said; "he thinks everything over; he's not really at all impetuous. But I'm accustomed to having my letters answered the same day." She presently proposed to Isabel, at all events, that they should make an excursion to London together. "If I must tell the truth," she observed, "I'm not seeing much at this place, and I shouldn't think you were either. I've not even seen that aristocrat--what's his name?--Lord Washburton. He seems to let you severely alone." "Lord Warburton's coming to-morrow, I happen to know," replied her friend, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer to her own letter. "You'll have every opportunity of turning him inside out." "Well, he may do for one letter, but what's one letter when you want to write fifty? I've described all the scenery in this vicinity and raved about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please, scenery doesn't make a vital letter. I must go back to London and get some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came away, and that's hardly time to get in touch." As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even less of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of Henrietta's that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The idea struck Isabel as charming; he was curious of the thick detail of London, which had always loomed large and rich to her. They turned over their schemes together and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They would stay at some picturesque old inn--one of the inns described by Dickens--and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at a coffee-house and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the Abbey and the British Museum and find out where Doctor Johnson had lived, and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager and presently unveiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter which scarce expressed the sympathy she had desired. "It's a delightful plan," he said. "I advise you to go to the Duke's Head in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I'll have you put down at my club." "Do you mean it's improper?" Isabel asked. "Dear me, isn't anything proper here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she isn't hampered in that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent and can at least find her way about this minute island." "Ah then," said Ralph, "let me take advantage of her protection to go up to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!"

Chapter 13

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14

Isabel decides to speak to her uncle, Mr. Touchett, about this event. Mr. Touchett, upon hearing of the proposal, tells her that he knew she would be a success here. He also already knew about Lord Warburton's intentions. Speaking with her uncle allows Isabel to feel that she has reasonable and natural emotions, rather than a vague intellectualism that rests upon an unfounded idea. She did not refuse Lord Warburton either because she planned on accepting Caspar Goodwood. In Caspar Goodwood's presence, she feels deprived of a sense of freedom, and she is often haunted by the sense that he might disapprove of what she did. Sometimes she thinks of Caspar Goodwood as the "stubbornest fact she knew". The narrator informs the reader that Caspar Goodwood is the son of a proprietor of cotton-mills in Massachusetts, and therefore a man of means. He even had managed to invent an improvement to the process of cotton spinning and was seen as accomplished because of this. Isabel likes the idea that he is a character and a mover of men , but he does not move her imagination in any other ways. He did not correspond to her idea of a delightful person, although Lord Warburton did correspond to it exactly. However she was still unsatisfied. Isabel decides not to reply to Mr. Goodwood. She writes to Lord Warburton after three days. She tells him, "We see our lives from our own point of view," and that she can never see hers from the point of view of his wife. Henrietta tries to get Ralph Touchett to allow Caspar Goodwood to visit, taking him for a stroll in the garden. Ralph hesitates, but finally agrees when Henrietta accuses him of being in love with Isabel. He tells her he will invite Caspar Goodwood to prove that he is not in love with Isabel. Henrietta tells him that he is inviting Caspar Goodwood to prove it to himself. Ralph writes to Caspar to invite him to Gardencourt, but Caspar refuses. This puzzles Henrietta. Henrietta and Isabel decide to go on to London together, and Ralph joins them

Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/14.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_5_part_5.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 14

chapter 14

{"name": "Chapter 14", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14", "summary": "Lord Warburton and his sisters arrive at Gardencourt right before Isabel departs for London. Henrietta meets Lord Warburton and tells him that she does not approve of lords as an institution. Lord Warburton agrees, and Miss Stackpole asks why he does not give it up. Lord Warburton jokes that they'll make a ceremony of it. Isabel and Lord Warburton have a moment alone in the gallery together. He tells her he does not understand why she rejects him, and he interrogates her as to what her reasons are. Isabel at least tells him the reason is that she feels she cannot escape her fate. It's not my fate to give up,\" she tells him. She does not want to give up other chances. I can't escape unhappiness. In marrying you I shall be trying to,\" she explains. She claims it is not that she wants to be miserable, but rather that she does not want to separate herself from the \"usual chances and dangers\" of life. Lord Warburton promises to separate her from nothing. The rest of the group then interrupts Isabel and Lord Warburton. Isabel tells Miss Molyneux that she will not be able to visit Lockleigh again because she is going away. Henrietta declares the whole party very dismal and bad material for any article she would write about them. Before Isabel leaves, Mrs. Touchett informs her that she knows about Lord Warburton's offer. She claims to know Isabel better than Mr. Touchett does, and she says that when she refuses such an offer it is because she expects to do something better", "analysis": "Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the \"Future\" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known \"American Theme\" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in \"the free exploration of life\" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her \"idea\" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from \"life\" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can \"do something better.\" However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's \"idea\" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions."}

Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him. For four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had written, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later. There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the girl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient, not to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied that she was so sure he "really liked" her. Isabel told her uncle she had written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his appearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his being of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away in case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters with him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole, who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel, who was nervous and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing the question he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring his good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of that preoccupation with her presence it was natural she should suppose him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth, nun-like forehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck, was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her eyes constantly rested in a manner suggesting a conflict between deep alienation and yearning wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she was the one Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary quiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and silver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery--some delightful reinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would never know--that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at least, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in conversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be shocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our heroine's last position) she would impute to the young American but a due consciousness of inequality. Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events, Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which she now found herself immersed. "Do you know you're the first lord I've ever seen?" she said very promptly to her neighbour. "I suppose you think I'm awfully benighted." "You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warburton answered, looking a trifle absently about the table. "Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they're all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and crowns." "Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said Lord Warburton, "like your tomahawks and revolvers." "I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid," Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?" "Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour allowed. "Won't you have a potato?" "I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you from an ordinary American gentleman." "Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "I don't see how you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to eat over here." Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere. "I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," she went on at last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you know; I feel as if I ought to tell you that." "Don't approve of me?" "Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has got beyond them--far beyond." "Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes over me--how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you know? But that's rather good, by the way--not to be vainglorious." "Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired. "Give up--a--?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a very mellow one. "Give up being a lord." "Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do think of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these days." "I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly. "I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance." "Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't approve of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for themselves." "Mighty little, as you see!" "I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta continued. "But you're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting my eye. I see you want to escape me." "No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes." "Please explain about that young lady--your sister--then. I don't understand about her. Is she a Lady?" "She's a capital good girl." "I don't like the way you say that--as if you wanted to change the subject. Is her position inferior to yours?" "We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better off than I, because she has none of the bother." "Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you may do." "Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord Warburton. "And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!" "I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross a badge?" "A badge?" "A sign of rank." Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered in a moment; "the women go in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of Viscounts." Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had his credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without criticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't write to me that way." "It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and believe that." "If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can't believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you should admit you do--" "What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale. "That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing, and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a sense of injustice." "I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his heart contract. "I should like very much to know it." "I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it." "Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it." "You make me very unhappy," said Isabel. "I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. "Do you prefer some one else?" "That's a question I'd rather not answer." "Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness. The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I don't." He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back against the wall; "for that would be an excuse." She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?" He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?" "I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand them." "You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same to you." Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason that I wouldn't tell you--I'll tell it you after all. It's that I can't escape my fate." "Your fate?" "I should try to escape it if I were to marry you." "I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as anything else?" "Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not my fate to give up--I know it can't be." Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do you call marrying me giving up?" "Not in the usual sense. It's getting--getting--getting a great deal. But it's giving up other chances." "Other chances for what?" "I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear. "I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more than you'll lose," her companion observed. "I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be trying to." "I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh. "I mustn't--I can't!" cried the girl. "Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none for me." "I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be. I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by turning away, by separating myself." "By separating yourself from what?" "From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people know and suffer." Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why, my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China! All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it. You shall separate from nothing whatever--not even from your friend Miss Stackpole." "She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for doing so. "Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked impatiently. "I never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds." "Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with humility; and she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery, accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph. Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer--apparently not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss Molyneux--as if he had been Royalty--stood like a lady-in-waiting. "Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "If I wanted to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to do it." "Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux answered with a quick, shy laugh. "How very many pictures you have!" she went on, turning to Ralph. "They look a good many, because they're all put together," said Ralph. "But it's really a bad way." "Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm so very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph, as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her. "Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who appeared to know better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her. "They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady continued. "It has rained of late so very often." "I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henrietta. "I wanted to get a great deal more out of you." "I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered. "Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies." "I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux, looking at her brother. "Very good, my dear. We'll go." "I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to see what Miss Molyneux would do." "I never do anything," said this young lady. "I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!" Miss Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you at home." "You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend. Isabel looked into her quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord Warburton--the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she said: "I'm afraid I can never come again." "Never again?" "I'm afraid I'm going away." "Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so very wrong of you." Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him. "I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a great many questions I wish to ask you." "I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh answered; "but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When will you come?" "Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to London, but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some satisfaction out of you." "If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She won't come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place." "She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta. Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same. You had better come alone," he added. Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. "Would you make that remark to an English lady?" she enquired with soft asperity. Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough." "You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same--that I oughtn't to bring in individuals." Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and failed to catch her allusion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!" she therefore went on. "Warning me?" "Isn't that why she came off alone with you here--to put you on your guard?" "Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had no such solemn character as that." "Well, you've been on your guard--intensely. I suppose it's natural to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss Molyneux--she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned, anyway," Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady; "but for you it wasn't necessary." "I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely. "Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained. "She's a great satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up." "Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!" Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. "There's something the matter with you all; you're as dismal as if you had got a bad cable." "You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a low tone, giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the gallery. "There's something the matter with us all." Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then, "Is it true you're going to London?" he asked. "I believe it has been arranged." "And when shall you come back?" "In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to Paris with my aunt." "When, then, shall I see you again?" "Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I hope." "Do you really hope it?" "Very much." He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand. "Good-bye." "Good-bye," said Isabel. Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it, without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had stopped on her way to the salon. "I may as well tell you," said that lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord Warburton." Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times." "Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchett dispassionately asked. Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better." "Yes, but I know you better." "I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling. "Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better." "Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.

Chapter 14

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-10-14

Lord Warburton and his sisters arrive at Gardencourt right before Isabel departs for London. Henrietta meets Lord Warburton and tells him that she does not approve of lords as an institution. Lord Warburton agrees, and Miss Stackpole asks why he does not give it up. Lord Warburton jokes that they'll make a ceremony of it. Isabel and Lord Warburton have a moment alone in the gallery together. He tells her he does not understand why she rejects him, and he interrogates her as to what her reasons are. Isabel at least tells him the reason is that she feels she cannot escape her fate. It's not my fate to give up," she tells him. She does not want to give up other chances. I can't escape unhappiness. In marrying you I shall be trying to," she explains. She claims it is not that she wants to be miserable, but rather that she does not want to separate herself from the "usual chances and dangers" of life. Lord Warburton promises to separate her from nothing. The rest of the group then interrupts Isabel and Lord Warburton. Isabel tells Miss Molyneux that she will not be able to visit Lockleigh again because she is going away. Henrietta declares the whole party very dismal and bad material for any article she would write about them. Before Isabel leaves, Mrs. Touchett informs her that she knows about Lord Warburton's offer. She claims to know Isabel better than Mr. Touchett does, and she says that when she refuses such an offer it is because she expects to do something better

Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 22

chapter 22

{"name": "Chapter 22", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-22-23", "summary": "Six months after Mr. Touchett's death, we are told about an exchange between Madame Merle and her friend Gilbert Osmond. Gilbert Osmond lives in his own house in Florence. The house is described as a \"face\" that seems to have heavy lids, but no eyes. It windows are described as defying the world to look inside, rather than being communicative. Inside, there is much padded furniture, tapestries, watercolor paintings, a gentleman named Gilbert Osmond, his daughter Pansy, and two nuns. Gilbert Osmond is described as having a studied look, with intelligent and observant eyes. His appearance suggests a \"fine gold coin\" but one that is not in the \"general circulation\". The child, Pansy, is studying a painting done by her father. The nuns report on the girl's education, describing the languages she has been exposed to, the drawing teacher, the sports she engages in, and so forth. He asks what they have made of her, and they respond that they have made her a Christian, and a \"charming young lady\" in whom there will be nothing but \"contentment\". Little Pansy is described as being perfect and very much loved by the sisters of the convent. She is 15 years old. Madame Merle arrives as the nuns are leaving to go back to Rome. Merle has apparently gone to see Pansy at the convent before, and will give some counsel as to how long Pansy will be educated in the convent. When the nuns leave, Osmond suggests that they send Pansy out while they discuss whether or not she will stay in the convent. Madame Merle says that they do not need to because the subject of their conversation will be something that Pansy does not understand. At the same time that Madame Merle brings up what is on her mind, Osmond notes that she is always doing things for her friends. Madame Merle declares that she cares greatly for her own self. Osmond retorts, \"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of everyone else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many others. Madame Merle retorts: \"What do you call one's life. They end up sending Pansy away after this exchange. Madame Merle tells Osmond that she will introduce him to Isabel. She tells him that he will \"profit\" by her knowledge of Isabel. Osmond asks if he will indeed \"profit\". He asks if Isabel is \"beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent, and unprecedentedly virtuous\" , saying that he will only meet with her if that is the case. Madame Merle responds that Isabel is all of the above. He asks Merle what he means to \"do\" with Isabel. Madame Merle tells him that she will merely put Isabel in his way. I don't pretend to know what people are meant for,\" she says, \"I only know what I can do with them\". Osmond expresses sympathy for Isabel. He then compliments Merle for looking well; he knows that she has some \"idea\" and that it looks rather becoming on her. For once, Madame Merle loses her self-possession, and the two have a moment of looking each other face to face at an equal level. They both see it as an inconvenient to be known, but because it is mutual they are willing to accept this situation. Merle wishes to Osmond that he were not so heartless. She takes a look at Osmond's picture and notes that she does not care for it. He believes his drawings are better than others'. Merle wishes he had had other ambitions, and he says that this is impossible. Merle compliments him on the taste in his well-furnished rooms. Osmond asks once again if Miss Archer is rich, and Merle lets him know the exact number: she has seventy thousand pounds. Merle tells him that she wishes him to marry Isabel. Osmond says he does not understand her ambitions. Merle notes that Pansy has had enough of the convent. She also remarks that Pansy does not seem to like her, even though the child is as \"pure as a pearl\"", "analysis": "Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a \"face\" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a \"coin\" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can \"do with them.\" She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she \"knows\" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme."}

On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr. Touchett's death, a small group that might have been described by a painter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of an ancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gate of Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, with the far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that encircle Florence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmonious a rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses that usually rise in groups of three or four beside it. The house had a front upon a little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupied a part of the hill-top; and this front, pierced with a few windows in irregular relations and furnished with a stone bench lengthily adjusted to the base of the structure and useful as a lounging-place to one or two persons wearing more or less of that air of undervalued merit which in Italy, for some reason or other, always gracefully invests any one who confidently assumes a perfectly passive attitude--this antique, solid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommunicative character. It was the mask, not the face of the house. It had heavy lids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another way--looked off behind, into splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light. In that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the long valley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in the manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses and other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of the terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the ground declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not, however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on this bright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer the shady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you saw them from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremely architectural; but their function seemed less to offer communication with the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massively cross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on tiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by a row of three of these jealous apertures--one of the several distinct apartments into which the villa was divided and which were mainly occupied by foreigners of random race long resident in Florence--a gentleman was seated in company with a young girl and two good sisters from a religious house. The room was, however, less sombre than our indications may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, which now stood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall iron lattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italian sunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury, telling of arrangements subtly studied and refinements frankly proclaimed, and containing a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry, those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angular specimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, those perverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept terms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had been made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the chairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a writing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London and the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines and newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture in silence. Silence--absolute silence--had not fallen upon her companions; but their talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sisters had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitude expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner than her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which apparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her hat--an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her plain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must already have been "let out." The gentleman who might have been supposed to be entertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of his function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the very meek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly much occupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back to him his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man of forty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense, but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow, extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just this effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to which the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish, gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a gentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyes at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one. If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he was, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a special occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure, and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man dresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar things. "Well, my dear, what do you think of it?" he asked of the young girl. He used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would not have convinced you he was Italian. The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. "It's very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?" "Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?" "Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures." And she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and intensely sweet smile. "You should have brought me a specimen of your powers." "I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk." "She draws very--very carefully," the elder of the nuns remarked, speaking in French. "I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?" "Happily no," said the good sister, blushing a little. "Ce n'est pas ma partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've an excellent drawing-master, Mr.--Mr.--what is his name?" she asked of her companion. Her companion looked about at the carpet. "It's a German name," she said in Italian, as if it needed to be translated. "Yes," the other went on, "he's a German, and we've had him many years." The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden. "And you, my sister, are French," said the gentleman. "Yes, sir," the visitor gently replied. "I speak to the pupils in my own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other countries--English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper language." The gentleman gave a smile. "Has my daughter been under the care of one of the Irish ladies?" And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected a joke, though failing to understand it, "You're very complete," he instantly added. "Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of the best." "We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark. "But not dangerous." "I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?" A question which provoked much candid hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown. "Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain--not big," said the French sister. "I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books--very good and not too long. But I know," the gentleman said, "no particular reason why my child should be short." The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might be beyond our knowledge. "She's in very good health; that's the best thing." "Yes, she looks sound." And the young girl's father watched her a moment. "What do you see in the garden?" he asked in French. "I see many flowers," she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an accent as good as his own. "Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and gather some for ces dames." The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. "May I, truly?" "Ah, when I tell you," said her father. The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. "May I, truly, ma mere?" "Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister, blushing again. The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the threshold and was presently lost to sight. "You don't spoil them," said her father gaily. "For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is freely granted, but they must ask it." "Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent. I sent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith." "One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her spectacles. "Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?" The sister dropped her eyes a moment. "A good Christian, monsieur." Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement had in each case a different spring. "Yes, and what else?" He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she was not so crude as that. "A charming young lady--a real little woman--a daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment." "She seems to me very gentille," said the father. "She's really pretty." "She's perfect. She has no faults." "She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her none." "We love her too much," said the spectacled sister with dignity. "And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'est pas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say. We've had her since she was so small." "Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss most," the younger woman murmured deferentially. "Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shall hold her up to the new ones." And at this the good sister appeared to find her spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture. "It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet," their host rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. "We should be very happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us." "Oh," exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used, "it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her always!" "Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, "good as she is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera." "If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world get on?" her companion softly enquired, rising also. This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying comfortably: "Fortunately there are good people everywhere." "If you're going there will be two less here," her host remarked gallantly. For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion was speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large bunches of roses--one of them all white, the other red. "I give you your choice, mamman Catherine," said the child. "It's only the colour that's different, mamman Justine; there are just as many roses in one bunch as in the other." The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with "Which will you take?" and "No, it's for you to choose." "I'll take the red, thank you," said Catherine in the spectacles. "I'm so red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to Rome." "Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. "I wish I could give you something that would last!" "You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will last!" "I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads," the child went on. "And do you go back to Rome to-night?" her father enquired. "Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas." "Are you not tired?" "We are never tired." "Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress. "Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vous garde, ma fine." Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red tiles; and into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by a servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the apartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door, after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her no hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold she hesitated. "Is there any one?" she asked. "Some one you may see." She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little soft cry: "Ah, Madame Merle!" The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant was none the less gracious. "Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you home." And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this portion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer world. "These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return to the convent," the gentleman explained. "Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very lovely now," said Madame Merle. The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves, accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. "She came to see me at the convent," said the young girl before the lady addressed had time to reply. "I've been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle declared. "Am I not your great friend in Rome?" "I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you told me I should come away." "Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked. "I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me." "I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't know such things by inspiration--though I suppose one ought. You had better sit down." These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice--a tone half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. "You're going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in French, to the nuns, as if to dismiss them. "This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in her judgement, and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at the end of the holidays." "I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister in spectacles ventured to remark. "That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Madame Merle, but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a very good school, but Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant for the world." "That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered. "It's precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancing at Pansy, who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegant apparel. "Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world," said Pansy's father. The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "Am I not meant for you, papa?" Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the world, Pansy." "Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be good and wise and happy in any case, my daughter." "I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned, recommencing her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle. "Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takes the good ladies to the door." Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the operation of her fate. "May I not see mamman Catherine get into the carriage?" she nevertheless asked very gently. "It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Madame Merle, while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber. "Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle, surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of the window; her eyes had filled with tears. "I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle. "That's what good little girls should do." "Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then she gave a faint, just audible sigh. Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate; the child's small hand was delicate and fair. "I hope they always see that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little girls usually dislike them." "I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child made answer. "Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen." "I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded with interest. Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours." "But very pretty?" "Are you very fond of pretty things?" "Yes; but--but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of asceticism. "Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned with a laugh. She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which, looking at her a moment, "Shall you miss mother Catherine?" she went on. "Yes--when I think of her." "Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame Merle, "you'll have another mother." "I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little soft conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the convent." Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then, without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him as he moved about. Then at last she said: "I hoped you'd have come to Rome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansy away." "That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first time I've acted in defiance of your calculations." "Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse." Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room--there was plenty of space in it to move about--in the fashion of a man mechanically seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing. Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing left for him--unless he took up a book--but to stand with his hands behind him looking at Pansy. "Why didn't you come and see the last of mamman Catherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French. Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "I asked her to stay with me," said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place. "Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked. "She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy. "You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle observed. "You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to have everything she needs." "I should think she had had enough of the nuns." "If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the room." "Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something else." "If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appearance of candour which imposed conviction. "You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand," her father replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door, within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent, wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to his other companion. "You're looking particularly well." "I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle. "You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman." "Yes, I think I am." "You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return from England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present." "I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain." "That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your friends." Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less characteristic than your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however, make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what you say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself." "Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of every one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many other lives." "What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's appearance, one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?" "I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond. Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she understands that," she murmured. "You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two for Madame Merle," he went on in French. "That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of freedom which in another attitude might be wanting. "My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking up at him with a certain courage. "That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousand others. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish, what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?" "You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault." "I'm afraid it's really my best." "You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely. "No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that? My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome. But it was only one of them." "It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though I should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--which you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago. There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence." "Please remember my indolence," said Osmond. "I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll have both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new acquaintance?" "I don't think I've made any since I made yours." "It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine I want you to know." Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and was looking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine. "What good will it do me?" he asked with a sort of genial crudity. Madame Merle waited. "It will amuse you." There was nothing crude in this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered. "If you say that, you know, I believe it," said Osmond, coming toward her. "There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete. I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad." "Society is all bad." "Pardon me. That isn't--the knowledge I impute to you--a common sort of wisdom. You've gained it in the right way--experimentally; you've compared an immense number of more or less impossible people with each other." "Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge." "To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?" "It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induce you to make an effort!" "Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in the world--that's likely to turn up here--is worth an effort?" Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. "Don't be foolish, Osmond. No one knows better than you what IS worth an effort. Haven't I seen you in old days?" "I recognise some things. But they're none of them probable in this poor life." "It's the effort that makes them probable," said Madame Merle. "There's something in that. Who then is your friend?" "The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs. Touchett, whom you'll not have forgotten." "A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you're coming to." "Yes, she's young--twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of mine. I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don't do every day--I admire her. You'll do the same." "Not if I can help it." "Precisely. But you won't be able to help it." "Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and unprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I care to make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak to me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that description. I know plenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any more." "Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. She corresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to know her. She fills all your requirements." "More or less, of course." "No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for an American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable, and she has a handsome fortune." Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his mind with his eyes on his informant. "What do you want to do with her?" he asked at last. "What you see. Put her in your way." "Isn't she meant for something better than that?" "I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said Madame Merle. "I only know what I can do with them." "I'm sorry for Miss Archer!" Osmond declared. Madame Merle got up. "If that's a beginning of interest in her I take note of it." The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking down at it as she did so. "You're looking very well," Osmond repeated still less relevantly than before. "You have some idea. You're never so well as when you've got an idea; they're always becoming to you." In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any juncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, was something indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each other obliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of each appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off any embarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not on this occasion the form she would have liked to have--the perfect self-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point to be made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them, whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closely face to face than either ever was with any one else. This was what had happened now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on the whole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensation for the inconvenience--whatever it might be--of being known. "I wish very much you were not so heartless," Madame Merle quietly said. "It has always been against you, and it will be against you now." "I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touches me--as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are for me. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they should be. But it touches me, all the same." "You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are some things you'll never understand. There's no particular need you should." "You, after all, are the most remarkable of women," said Osmond. "You have more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think Mrs. Touchett's niece should matter very much to me, when--when--" But he paused a moment. "When I myself have mattered so little?" "That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known and appreciated such a woman as you." "Isabel Archer's better than I," said Madame Merle. Her companion gave a laugh. "How little you must think of her to say that!" "Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that." "With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't." "Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs. Touchett's--Palazzo Crescentini--and the girl will be there." "Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the girl?" said Osmond. "You could have had her there at any rate." Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he could ever put would find unprepared. "Do you wish to know why? Because I've spoken of you to her." Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not know that." Then in a moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour drawing. "Have you seen what's there--my last?" Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the Venetian Alps--one of your last year's sketches?" "Yes--but how you guess everything!" She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I don't care for your drawings." "I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much better than most people's." "That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's so little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were my ambitions." "Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible." "Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And then in quite a different tone: "In itself your little picture's very good." She looked about the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces of faded silk. "Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with that afresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand this sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste." "I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond. "You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told her about it." "I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots." "You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to particular advantage." Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?" "She has seventy thousand pounds." "En ecus bien comptes?" "There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may say." "Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see the mother?" "The mother? She has none--nor father either." "The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep her out of the way." "I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs. Touchett. She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivid identity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?" "He's there, but he won't trouble you." "He's a good deal of a donkey." "I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not fond of being about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me." "What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?" Osmond went on. "Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them. Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you." "A beginning of what?" Madame Merle was silent a little. "I want you of course to marry her." "The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you told her that?" "For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of machinery--nor am I." "Really," said Osmond after some meditation, "I don't understand your ambitions." "I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer. Suspend your judgement." Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the open door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. "Pansy has really grown pretty," she presently added. "So it seemed to me." "But she has had enough of the convent." "I don't know," said Osmond. "I like what they've made of her. It's very charming." "That's not the convent. It's the child's nature." "It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl." "Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?" Madame Merle asked. "She's not in a hurry." "We'll go and get them." "She doesn't like me," the visitor murmured as she raised her parasol and they passed into the garden.

Chapter 22

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Six months after Mr. Touchett's death, we are told about an exchange between Madame Merle and her friend Gilbert Osmond. Gilbert Osmond lives in his own house in Florence. The house is described as a "face" that seems to have heavy lids, but no eyes. It windows are described as defying the world to look inside, rather than being communicative. Inside, there is much padded furniture, tapestries, watercolor paintings, a gentleman named Gilbert Osmond, his daughter Pansy, and two nuns. Gilbert Osmond is described as having a studied look, with intelligent and observant eyes. His appearance suggests a "fine gold coin" but one that is not in the "general circulation". The child, Pansy, is studying a painting done by her father. The nuns report on the girl's education, describing the languages she has been exposed to, the drawing teacher, the sports she engages in, and so forth. He asks what they have made of her, and they respond that they have made her a Christian, and a "charming young lady" in whom there will be nothing but "contentment". Little Pansy is described as being perfect and very much loved by the sisters of the convent. She is 15 years old. Madame Merle arrives as the nuns are leaving to go back to Rome. Merle has apparently gone to see Pansy at the convent before, and will give some counsel as to how long Pansy will be educated in the convent. When the nuns leave, Osmond suggests that they send Pansy out while they discuss whether or not she will stay in the convent. Madame Merle says that they do not need to because the subject of their conversation will be something that Pansy does not understand. At the same time that Madame Merle brings up what is on her mind, Osmond notes that she is always doing things for her friends. Madame Merle declares that she cares greatly for her own self. Osmond retorts, "Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of everyone else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many others. Madame Merle retorts: "What do you call one's life. They end up sending Pansy away after this exchange. Madame Merle tells Osmond that she will introduce him to Isabel. She tells him that he will "profit" by her knowledge of Isabel. Osmond asks if he will indeed "profit". He asks if Isabel is "beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent, and unprecedentedly virtuous" , saying that he will only meet with her if that is the case. Madame Merle responds that Isabel is all of the above. He asks Merle what he means to "do" with Isabel. Madame Merle tells him that she will merely put Isabel in his way. I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," she says, "I only know what I can do with them". Osmond expresses sympathy for Isabel. He then compliments Merle for looking well; he knows that she has some "idea" and that it looks rather becoming on her. For once, Madame Merle loses her self-possession, and the two have a moment of looking each other face to face at an equal level. They both see it as an inconvenient to be known, but because it is mutual they are willing to accept this situation. Merle wishes to Osmond that he were not so heartless. She takes a look at Osmond's picture and notes that she does not care for it. He believes his drawings are better than others'. Merle wishes he had had other ambitions, and he says that this is impossible. Merle compliments him on the taste in his well-furnished rooms. Osmond asks once again if Miss Archer is rich, and Merle lets him know the exact number: she has seventy thousand pounds. Merle tells him that she wishes him to marry Isabel. Osmond says he does not understand her ambitions. Merle notes that Pansy has had enough of the convent. She also remarks that Pansy does not seem to like her, even though the child is as "pure as a pearl"

Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a "face" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a "coin" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can "do with them." She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she "knows" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/23.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_8_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 23

chapter 23

{"name": "Chapter 23", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-22-23", "summary": "At Mrs. Touchett's place, the Palazzo Crescenti in Florence, Merle comes to visit. She arranges for Isabel and Gilbert Osmond to meet. When Osmond visits the house, Isabel is uncharacteristically silent, finding it more important to get an accurate impression of him than she finds it important to produce her own impression of him. Osmond, in spite of Isabel's silence is interested in her. He invites her to visit his house with Madame Merle sometime. Isabel expects that Madame Merle will scold her for her silence and stupidity when Osmond leaves, but instead Merle tells her that she behaved just as she wished. Isabel feels displeasure at this comment, claiming that she is under no obligation to charm Mr. Osmond. Merle flushes at this. When Isabel asks Ralph about Osmond, Ralph only knows that he is a vague, unexplained American who has lived for thirty years in Italy. He knows that Osmond dreads the vulgar, but other than that he has no special talents. Isabel says that she wants to have more information about him because it is better to know about one's dangers. Ralph responds that knowing that much may actually make people more dangerous. He cautions her to judge for herself. Isabel has noticed that Ralph has something against Madame Merle. When she asks him what he thinks of her, he responds that he feels sorry for Madame Merle, that she was ambitious but unaccomplished. He finds her, in her overall aspect, to be an exaggerated person, never allowing others to have the chance to call her a fool. Ralph thinks to himself that Isabel's friendship with Madame Merle will not last forever, noting that neither person knew the other as well as she supposed. He believes that each will discover the true nature of the other", "analysis": "Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a \"face\" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a \"coin\" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can \"do with them.\" She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she \"knows\" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme."}

Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at the invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would find it well to "meet"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever in the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite another affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one, saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just exactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his perversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the men really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and dull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At any rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in Italy without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the country than any one except two or three German professors. And if they had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and taste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her friend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the deeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie binding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always somehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest created by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr. Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a great many men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as possible, so as to get used to them." "Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. "Why, I'm not afraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys." "Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you don't despise." This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle had promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery. She was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it a joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the treasures of Florence again and again and had always something else to do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of memory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it. She had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art, differing often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her interpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened to the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that she might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the advantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the clear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs. Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at the pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her, and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising tears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But the return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs. Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow street whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This vague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake. Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might have been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had the rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle appealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore any learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put dreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved she could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more important she should get an impression of him than that she should produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the first show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as one of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the Uffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its clearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with making her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak. "Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for she's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if you could know my daughter," he went on a moment afterwards. Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments, "You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you. You're never disappointing." A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange to say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I know of to charm Mr. Osmond." Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM." "I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters either." "Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle returned with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time another old friend's concerned." Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance for that. "Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well, but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained? Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he rather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here; I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great dread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly large. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself. He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than I." "I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said Isabel. "A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you care for that?" "Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more information one has about one's dangers the better." "I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths, are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself." "That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do that people call you conceited." "You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or your enemy." Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some things I can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I myself am praised." "Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them all!" "I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised to pay him a visit." "To pay him a visit?" "To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many ladies call on him." "Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said Ralph. "She knows none but the best people." Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. "It seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean, but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either mention them frankly or else say nothing at all." Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her: with an even exaggerated respect." "Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of." "I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated." "By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service." "No, no; by herself." "Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a woman who made small claims--!" "You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's exaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect right to make large ones." "Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself." "Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably blameless; a pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a chance." "A chance for what?" "Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but that one little fault." Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you; you're too paradoxical for my plain mind." "Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the vulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too far--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt about Aristides the Just." Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. "Do you wish Madame Merle to be banished?" "By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle," said Ralph Touchett simply. "You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend. "Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!" "That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head. "That is why I like her so much." "She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world you couldn't have a better guide." "I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?" "Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!" It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his mother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could have been nothing so "sustained" to attend to as the general performance of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training, but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle, the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in too-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not, without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of itself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable that Isabel would be injured.

Chapter 23

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At Mrs. Touchett's place, the Palazzo Crescenti in Florence, Merle comes to visit. She arranges for Isabel and Gilbert Osmond to meet. When Osmond visits the house, Isabel is uncharacteristically silent, finding it more important to get an accurate impression of him than she finds it important to produce her own impression of him. Osmond, in spite of Isabel's silence is interested in her. He invites her to visit his house with Madame Merle sometime. Isabel expects that Madame Merle will scold her for her silence and stupidity when Osmond leaves, but instead Merle tells her that she behaved just as she wished. Isabel feels displeasure at this comment, claiming that she is under no obligation to charm Mr. Osmond. Merle flushes at this. When Isabel asks Ralph about Osmond, Ralph only knows that he is a vague, unexplained American who has lived for thirty years in Italy. He knows that Osmond dreads the vulgar, but other than that he has no special talents. Isabel says that she wants to have more information about him because it is better to know about one's dangers. Ralph responds that knowing that much may actually make people more dangerous. He cautions her to judge for herself. Isabel has noticed that Ralph has something against Madame Merle. When she asks him what he thinks of her, he responds that he feels sorry for Madame Merle, that she was ambitious but unaccomplished. He finds her, in her overall aspect, to be an exaggerated person, never allowing others to have the chance to call her a fool. Ralph thinks to himself that Isabel's friendship with Madame Merle will not last forever, noting that neither person knew the other as well as she supposed. He believes that each will discover the true nature of the other

Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a "face" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a "coin" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can "do with them." She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she "knows" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/24.txt

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 24

chapter 24

{"name": "Chapter 24", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-24-26", "summary": "Isabel has the opportunity to visit Gilbert Osmond in his own home. Isabel meets Gilbert Osmond's sister, Countess Gemini and his daughter, Pansy there. She notes that Countess Gemini has features like that of a tropical bird and that she has a \"great deal of manner\". The Countess informs her that she has visited Gilbert in order to see Isabel, rather than to see her own brother. Mr. Osmond notes of his possessions that, \"I've a few good things. indeed I've nothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked\". He seems to hint that \"nothing but the right 'values' was of any consequence. Isabel notes that being simple is not the way of this particular family. She also realizes that the occasion \"signified more than lay on the surface\" and she feels ill equipped to understand what it is. She also feels like she ought to offer some sort of entertainment, but is too timid to do so. Mr. Osmond does much of the talking instead. Madame Merle and Countess Gemini seem to know each other quite well. Mr. Osmond speaks of living in Florence , in such a secluded house. He believes that he might have been a better man had he not lived in Florence, but that he declares that Florence is a place where one could get impressions unlike anywhere else. He admits himself to being \"rusty as key\" , as he has ceased to form attachments and social relations. Countess Gemini and Madame Merle go off into the garden, leaving Osmond and Isabel alone with Pansy for a few minutes. Osmond asks Isabel what she thinks of his sister, telling her his own opinion of Countess Gemini: he thinks that she is more honest than she seems, that she is unhappy especially with her horrible husband, but she shows this unhappiness comically. He then goes on to tell her about the objects in his salon. The narrator then focuses in on Isabel's thoughts during this scene, rather than describing exactly what is said. Isabel finds Osmond's talk interesting, but she finds him much more so, because he is unlike anyone else she has ever seen. She notes that he does not use any uncommon terms or idioms, but he is simply an original. She sees that he \"consulted his taste in everything\" , just as a sick man consults a lawyer. She thinks him similar to Ralph, but sees Osmond as more in harmony with his environment. She wonders what Osmond means when he refers to his own provincial mind, his tendency to be reclusive. She notes that he is shy, but realizes that this shyness is a sign of his own good breeding. She takes his question about Countess Gemini to be a sign of his own interest in Isabel herself. Isabel though finds it tiring to appear as intelligent as she thinks Madame Merle has described her. She carefully tries not to disagree with Osmond. Before they take afternoon tea with the rest of the party, Osmond asks Isabel if she will come back. She says she will, although she wonders if it will deter her from her natural mission if she ends up staying in Florence. Osmond retorts: \"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated\". Madame Merle, hearing this, says that Isabel has a plan to go around the world. Isabel confesses that she changes her plans every day, and she feels frivolous for it. Osmond declares that he himself made a plan many years ago, and continues to live by it: \"To resign myself. To be content with little\". Isabel wonders if this is really a simple way of living. He thinks it is simple because it is \"negative. He admits to having had no prospects, no talents. Isabel is surprised that he has shared some private information about himself. His own self-description would have been dry, but Isabel's own imagination supplies a \"human element\" to it. The chapter ends with Gilbert Osmond declaring how his daughter is his great happiness", "analysis": "In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the \"grave\" air of the place, as if one would \"need an act of energy to get out\" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about \"advancing\" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion \"signified more than lay on the surface\" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher \"value\" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: \"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated,\" he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond."}

It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top. Nothing could have been more charming than this occasion--a soft afternoon in the full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and wound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming orchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of the villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least a very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide, high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For Isabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out, but only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber--it was cold even in the month of May--and ushered her, with her conductress, into the apartment to which we have already been introduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a little, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two persons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated to Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. "And that's my little girl," he said, "who has just come out of her convent." Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles. She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed. The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird--a long beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin that receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman, and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself and made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate, bristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her attitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched upon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never known any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most affected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as an acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the violent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with fluttering streamers. "You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only because I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come and see my brother--I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible--I don't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my horses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to give me another pair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's very disagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in the carriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. But I've always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've always managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows a horse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according to his poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so it's all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you," she went on, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond doesn't often invite me; I don't think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming to-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. But don't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are some very good seats here, but there are also some horrors." These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of good English, or rather of good American, in adversity. "I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure you're invaluable." "I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking about her. "Everything seems to me beautiful and precious." "I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've nothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked." He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to hint that nothing but the right "values" was of any consequence. Isabel made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his family. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white dress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her, stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion, even Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not entirely artless. "You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti--that's what you'd have liked," said Madame Merle. "Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" the Countess Gemini exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made it and looked at her from head to foot. Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could say to Isabel. "Won't you have some tea?--you must be very tired," he at last bethought himself of remarking. "No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isabel felt a certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was something in the air, in her general impression of things--she could hardly have said what it was--that deprived her of all disposition to put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people, signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand--she would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless not aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to cover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her pride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms that excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours, to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the entertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered less observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less complacently than might have been expected. "What a fool I was to have let myself so needlessly in--!" she could fancy his exclaiming to himself. "You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and gives you a lecture on each," said the Countess Gemini. "I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have learned something." "Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of learning anything," said Mr. Osmond. "Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more--I know too much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are." "You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished her education," Madame Merle interposed with a smile. "Pansy will never know any harm," said the child's father. "Pansy's a little convent-flower." "Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with a flutter of her ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there; I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be good, but the nuns do. Don't you see what I mean?" she went on, appealing to Isabel. Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself detested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste--he would always discuss. "For me," she said, "one should like a thing or one shouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But one shouldn't attempt to reason it out--you never know where it may lead you. There are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know? And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons. Don't you see what I mean? I don't care anything about reasons, but I know what I like." "Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that would admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a rather hopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation to another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter, who had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended by drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees, leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The child fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have chosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat a little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the latter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks; the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world as all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the social failure--by which he meant the people who couldn't "realise," as they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there, in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an inconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything. Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character, didn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social and other "cheek" that flourished in Paris and London. "We're sweetly provincial," said Mr. Osmond, "and I'm perfectly aware that I myself am as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little to talk with you--not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll be going away before I've seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you after that. That's what it is to live in a country that people come to. When they're disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeable it's still worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've been deceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myself to feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be really comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she may be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an old one; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she must have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure she didn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one. Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope you don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea you don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there's no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular admirer of Mrs. Touchett." While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage. Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!" she exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "She has been brought quite into the family." "Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience. "I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer," the Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your bonnet." "I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," said Isabel, who had risen to her feet. The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation, pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other's Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio." "Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never so historical." "Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are Machiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!" "We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert Osmond resignedly sighed. Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited, with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed; she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?" She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your sister too little." "Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know how it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to say--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments, with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners, forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister. She's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's rather unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to show it tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid husband, though I'm not sure she makes the best of him. Of course, however, a horrid husband's an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her excellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary to learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't put them together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she's not grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was very right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take down that picture; you want more light." He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he gave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to a young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his medallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel felt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as they seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most of the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen specimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think for instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other people who were, relatively speaking, original--original, as one might say, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when one came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types already present to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural place to Mr. Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that she recognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into order before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this "new relation" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle had had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediately gained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did, but rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged in no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original without being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain. The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended to impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouched features, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness of structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers produce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal points struck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity, somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and critical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had governed him--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of vulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted, arranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He had consulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sick man consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was what made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something of this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything was in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding him completely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see what he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--which was exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a harmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very interesting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what then was the finish of the capital? And she could put this question in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness as his--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectly consistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure the vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance, who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; he was critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting a good deal of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical view of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not grossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected that gradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both what pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that he was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge of his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiring mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done. There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been received, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of ciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held his little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend, who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which she found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had ceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive eyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought her quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame Merle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in the end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real intelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel's fatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed Madame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with her) of exposing--not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively little--but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed her to express a liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment, would think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which the truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall into that grotesqueness--in which she had seen women (and it was a warning) serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was very careful therefore as to what she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more careful than she had ever been before. They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought out, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should take their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the servant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the golden light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that stretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richly as the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the landscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline, its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and classic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted to come back," Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the angles of the terrace. "I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of what you say about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one's natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I were to settle in Florence." "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated." "The point's to find out where that is." "Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People ought to make it very plain to her." "Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me," smiled Isabel. "I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world." "I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day." "I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of pleasures." "It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought to choose something very deliberately, and be faithful to that." "By that rule then, I've not been frivolous." "Have you never made plans?" "Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day." "It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted herself to observe. "It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible." "As quiet?" the girl repeated. "Not to worry--not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be content with little." He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor's with the conscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something. "Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony. "Yes, because it's negative." "Has your life been negative?" "Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference. Mind you, not my natural indifference--I HAD none. But my studied, my wilful renunciation." She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. "I don't see why you should have renounced," she said in a moment. "Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There were two or three people in the world I envied--the Emperor of Russia, for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I envied the Pope of Rome--for the consideration he enjoys. I should have been delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn't be I didn't care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go in for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself, and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in Italy--I couldn't even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it then was, to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here on that quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't mean to say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for have been definite--limited. The events of my life have been absolutely unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a bargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering, as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some inspired idiot." This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's career if Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been mingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn't expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now desired to be--would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to express a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preserved his independence. "That's a very pleasant life," she said, "to renounce everything but Correggio!" "Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm whining about it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy." This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Have you lived here always?" "No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in Rome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change, however; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. My daughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best for Pansy." "Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl." "Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of heaven! She is my great happiness!"

Chapter 24

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Isabel has the opportunity to visit Gilbert Osmond in his own home. Isabel meets Gilbert Osmond's sister, Countess Gemini and his daughter, Pansy there. She notes that Countess Gemini has features like that of a tropical bird and that she has a "great deal of manner". The Countess informs her that she has visited Gilbert in order to see Isabel, rather than to see her own brother. Mr. Osmond notes of his possessions that, "I've a few good things. indeed I've nothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked". He seems to hint that "nothing but the right 'values' was of any consequence. Isabel notes that being simple is not the way of this particular family. She also realizes that the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" and she feels ill equipped to understand what it is. She also feels like she ought to offer some sort of entertainment, but is too timid to do so. Mr. Osmond does much of the talking instead. Madame Merle and Countess Gemini seem to know each other quite well. Mr. Osmond speaks of living in Florence , in such a secluded house. He believes that he might have been a better man had he not lived in Florence, but that he declares that Florence is a place where one could get impressions unlike anywhere else. He admits himself to being "rusty as key" , as he has ceased to form attachments and social relations. Countess Gemini and Madame Merle go off into the garden, leaving Osmond and Isabel alone with Pansy for a few minutes. Osmond asks Isabel what she thinks of his sister, telling her his own opinion of Countess Gemini: he thinks that she is more honest than she seems, that she is unhappy especially with her horrible husband, but she shows this unhappiness comically. He then goes on to tell her about the objects in his salon. The narrator then focuses in on Isabel's thoughts during this scene, rather than describing exactly what is said. Isabel finds Osmond's talk interesting, but she finds him much more so, because he is unlike anyone else she has ever seen. She notes that he does not use any uncommon terms or idioms, but he is simply an original. She sees that he "consulted his taste in everything" , just as a sick man consults a lawyer. She thinks him similar to Ralph, but sees Osmond as more in harmony with his environment. She wonders what Osmond means when he refers to his own provincial mind, his tendency to be reclusive. She notes that he is shy, but realizes that this shyness is a sign of his own good breeding. She takes his question about Countess Gemini to be a sign of his own interest in Isabel herself. Isabel though finds it tiring to appear as intelligent as she thinks Madame Merle has described her. She carefully tries not to disagree with Osmond. Before they take afternoon tea with the rest of the party, Osmond asks Isabel if she will come back. She says she will, although she wonders if it will deter her from her natural mission if she ends up staying in Florence. Osmond retorts: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated". Madame Merle, hearing this, says that Isabel has a plan to go around the world. Isabel confesses that she changes her plans every day, and she feels frivolous for it. Osmond declares that he himself made a plan many years ago, and continues to live by it: "To resign myself. To be content with little". Isabel wonders if this is really a simple way of living. He thinks it is simple because it is "negative. He admits to having had no prospects, no talents. Isabel is surprised that he has shared some private information about himself. His own self-description would have been dry, but Isabel's own imagination supplies a "human element" to it. The chapter ends with Gilbert Osmond declaring how his daughter is his great happiness

In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the "grave" air of the place, as if one would "need an act of energy to get out" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about "advancing" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher "value" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated," he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 25

chapter 25

{"name": "Chapter 25", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-24-26", "summary": "Meanwhile, Madame Merle and Countess Gemini's conversation, occurring at the same time as Isabel and Osmond's conversation, is recounted. Countess Gemini declares that she does not approve of Madame Merle's plan. Madame Merle claims that she has no plan, and that she is not calculating. Countess Gemini declares that she will thwart Merle and Osmond's plan, warning Isabel of her brother's character. Merle warns her that this will simply backfire, and Isabel will dislike Gemini. Merle believes that Isabel has already fallen in love with Osmond, after only two meetings. Madame Merle has Pansy make some tea, and Pansy is very eager to please. Merle and Gemini continue the discussion. Countess Gemini asks Merle if she thinks Osmond will make Isabel happy, and Merle responds that he would at least behave like a gentleman. Merle informs the countess that Isabel has seventy thousand pounds, and Countess Gemini responds by saying that it is a pity that such a charming girl needs to be sacrificed", "analysis": "In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the \"grave\" air of the place, as if one would \"need an act of energy to get out\" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about \"advancing\" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion \"signified more than lay on the surface\" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher \"value\" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: \"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated,\" he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond."}

While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion, breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks. They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a more nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for would not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend from her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did. The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which point her eyes followed them. "My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me if I don't congratulate you!" "Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should." "Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the Countess nodded at the sequestered couple. Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very well," she smiled. "No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just now you DON'T wish." "You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle gravely, yet without bitterness. "You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such things?" "What your brother says has a point." "Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But it will be much better that you should understand me." "Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?" "If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to appreciate the danger of my interfering with it." Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think me more calculating than I am." "It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong. You've done so in this case." "You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that." "No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said the Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very much." "So do I," Madame Merle mentioned. "You've a strange way of showing it." "Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance." "That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that could happen to her!" Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. "My dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not to agitate yourself. The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose than yourself." "Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very strong of purpose?" "Quite as much so as we." "Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's her interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!" "Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed to compulsion or deception." "I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But together you're dangerous--like some chemical combination." "You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle. "I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl." "My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into your head." "I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like her." Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you." The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!" "If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her," said Madame Merle. "I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two interviews." Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house. He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view, persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment, while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced. The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently approached her aunt. "Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?" The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without answering her question. "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best frock?" "Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common occasions." "Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder." Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile. "I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I expose it beside your beautiful things?" "Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't dress you so well as they might." The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a good little dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would allow me?" "Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me, your father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better. Ask HER." Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty question--let me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful little daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of the house--when she grows up." "So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how well I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself at the table. "Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle, remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of your visitor." "Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's," Pansy objected. "Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle. "I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me." "Do you like her then?" the Countess asked. "She's charming--charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly." "And how do you think she pleases your father?" "Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and call them to tea," she went on to the child. "You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed to summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace. "If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know if the child likes her," said the Countess. "If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to need a husband rather than a stepmother." "And will you provide the husband as well?" "I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I imagine you'll do the same." "Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all women, set such a price on a husband?" "You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a husband I mean a good one." "There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one." Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really object either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help." "Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me. Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman." "It's much better that we should always act together," Madame Merle went on. "Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising. Madame Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed, you've not my coolness!" Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd make her happy?" the Countess demanded. "If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman." The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do you mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that. But does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen any one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who is he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything particularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior clay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But there's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally been said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's descended from the gods." "You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened to this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a fine race--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother, like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not had the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try." "I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little." "We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men." "I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he has done." "What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he has known how to wait." "To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?" "That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has seventy thousand pounds." "Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior." "If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must have the best." "Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her happiness!"

Chapter 25

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-24-26

Meanwhile, Madame Merle and Countess Gemini's conversation, occurring at the same time as Isabel and Osmond's conversation, is recounted. Countess Gemini declares that she does not approve of Madame Merle's plan. Madame Merle claims that she has no plan, and that she is not calculating. Countess Gemini declares that she will thwart Merle and Osmond's plan, warning Isabel of her brother's character. Merle warns her that this will simply backfire, and Isabel will dislike Gemini. Merle believes that Isabel has already fallen in love with Osmond, after only two meetings. Madame Merle has Pansy make some tea, and Pansy is very eager to please. Merle and Gemini continue the discussion. Countess Gemini asks Merle if she thinks Osmond will make Isabel happy, and Merle responds that he would at least behave like a gentleman. Merle informs the countess that Isabel has seventy thousand pounds, and Countess Gemini responds by saying that it is a pity that such a charming girl needs to be sacrificed

In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the "grave" air of the place, as if one would "need an act of energy to get out" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about "advancing" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher "value" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated," he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/26.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_9_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 26

chapter 26

{"name": "Chapter 26", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-24-26", "summary": "Gilbert Osmond goes to visit Isabel five times at Palazzo Crescentini, where she and her aunt are staying. Mrs. Touchett notices the anomaly: while Osmond has visited her before, he has never done so quite so often. Ralph enjoys Osmond's company, and he understands Osmond's attraction to Isabel. They both guess at his true motivation. They both though do not believe Isabel would want to marry him. Mrs. Touchett believes she will not marry Osmond because he does not correspond with any conception of success that she has. Ralph believes Isabel will turn him down, because she is \"studying human nature\" and busy retaining her liberty. Mrs. Touchett wants to tell Isabel that Osmond will probably propose marriage, and Madame Merle prevents her, claiming that she will speak to Osmond about the matter. Madame Merle tells Mrs. Touchett not to inflame Isabel's imagination. Mrs. Touchett retorts that she never did such a thing in her whole life. Meanwhile, Isabel has no idea that others are discussing her relationship to Osmond. She merely has a picture in her mind of Osmond -- described as a picture without \"flourishes\" a low tone, and an atmosphere of summer twilight. Countess Gemini visits the house as well. She is not well regarded by others, as apparently some of her improprieties have managed to circulate as gossip around town. Madame Merle defends Countess Gemini against Mrs. Touchett's annoyance. Merle explains to Isabel that one need only observe the condition of not believing a single thing Countess Gemini said and then she was quite tolerable. Of course, according to Madame Merle's description of Countess Gemini, she is not well liked by her brother, because Osmond likes women who find the truth sacred. Mr. Bantling and Henrietta also pay a visit to Isabel. They decide to go to Rome together, as Henrietta Stackpole is now devoting herself to studying the outer aspects of life in Continental Europe. When Isabel informs Osmond of her intentions , he says he would like to see it with her, although he declines her invitation to do so in a group with others. He claims he cannot leave Pansy. Madame Merle and Osmond have a conversation at Countess Gemini's, in private. Madame Merle counsels him to go to Rome. Osmond thinks it sounds like a lot of work and Madame Merle responds that he is ungrateful. Osmond says that Isabel is not disagreeable, but she has one fault. She has too many ideas\". He is glad, at the very least, that she has bad ideas, since they will have to be sacrificed", "analysis": "In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the \"grave\" air of the place, as if one would \"need an act of energy to get out\" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about \"advancing\" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion \"signified more than lay on the surface\" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher \"value\" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: \"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated,\" he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond."}

Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to Palazzo Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchett and Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former of these ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight he called five times, and compared it with another fact that she found no difficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constituted his regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she had never observed him select for such visits those moments, of almost periodical recurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Madame Merle that he came; these two were old friends and he never put himself out for her. He was not fond of Ralph--Ralph had told her so--and it was not supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son. Ralph was imperturbable--Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity that wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he never divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and was willing at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But he didn't flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice was the motive of their visitor's calls; he read the situation more clearly. Isabel was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one. Osmond was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he should be curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed to him that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied that he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back found a place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly by what art and what process--so negative and so wise as they were--he had everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never been an importunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive, and he was recommended to her by his appearance of being as well able to do without her as she was to do without him--a quality that always, oddly enough, affected her as providing ground for a relation with her. It gave her no satisfaction, however, to think that he had taken it into his head to marry her niece. Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an air of almost morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the girl had refused an English peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord Warburton had not successfully wrestled should content herself with an obscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child and an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's conception of success. She took, it will be observed, not the sentimental, but the political, view of matrimony--a view which has always had much to recommend it. "I trust she won't have the folly to listen to him," she said to her son; to which Ralph replied that Isabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another. He knew she had listened to several parties, as his father would have said, but had made them listen in return; and he found much entertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing her he should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to see life, and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of fine gentlemen going down on their knees to her would do as well as anything else. Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth besieger; he had no conviction she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar and open a parley; she would certainly not allow number three to come in. He expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother, who looked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful, pictorial way of saying things that he might as well address her in the deaf-mute's alphabet. "I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use too many figures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words in the language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr. Osmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone to find a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very little about the young man in America; I don't think she spends much of her time in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for her. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond if she only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very well; no one approves more than I of one's pleasing one's self. But she takes her pleasure in such odd things; she's capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for the beauty of his opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo. She wants to be disinterested: as if she were the only person who's in danger of not being so! Will HE be so disinterested when he has the spending of her money? That was her idea before your father's death, and it has acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one of whose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no such proof of that as his having a fortune of his own." "My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She's making fools of us all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by studying human nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She has started on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll change her course, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have slackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll be steaming away again. Excuse another metaphor." Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as to withhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. "You who know everything," she said, "you must know this: whether that curious creature's really making love to my niece." "Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full intelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed, "that's an idea!" "Hadn't it occurred to you?" "You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder," she added, "if it has occurred to Isabel." "Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The thing would be to ask Mr. Osmond." "I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him enquire of me--as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel's situation--what business it is of mine." "I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared. "But what business--for HIM--is it of yours?" "It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's so much less my business than any one's else that he can put me off with anything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall know." "Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits of your penetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can speak to Isabel." Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don't be too quick with her. Don't inflame her imagination." "I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'm always sure of her doing something--well, not of MY kind." "No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed without the point of interrogation. "Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solid to offer." Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her mouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. "Let us distinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a man who in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. He has made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once." "Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs; they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What you say's precisely why I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that I know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pert little daughter." "The early masters are now worth a good deal of money," said Madame Merle, "and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and very harmless person." "In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean? Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so that Isabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with a dowry." "Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she likes the poor child." "Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, a week hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her mission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself--and that, to prove it, she must first become one." "She would make a charming stepmother," smiled Madame Merle; "but I quite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission too hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as changing the shape of one's nose: there they are, each, in the middle of one's face and one's character--one has to begin too far back. But I'll investigate and report to you." All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions that her relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle had said nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly to him than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now arrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer's aunt. Isabel thought him interesting--she came back to that; she liked so to think of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to his hill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface and which put on for her a particular harmony with other supposed and divined things, histories within histories: the image of a quiet, clever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace above the sweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whose bell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picture had no flourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the atmosphere of summer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of the kind of personal issue that touched her most nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects, contacts--what might she call them?--of a thin and those of a rich association; of a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old sorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was perhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a care for beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that the career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and with the ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italian garden--allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews of a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini Mr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first--oh self-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which usually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, rather aggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured by the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficulty in believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs of strong conviction--as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciation of anything that might be said on his own side of the question, said perhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this young woman was that while he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as she had heard people, for "effect." He uttered his ideas as if, odd as they often appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; old polished knobs and heads and handles, of precious substance, that could be fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks--not switches plucked in destitution from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One day he brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew acquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be kissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue in a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern; American girls were very different--different too were the maidens of England. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the world, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and infantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine mantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given her--little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet of blank paper--the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that so fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text. The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was quite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had been written over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no means honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeable blots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to some discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor from Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritate people by always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enough of that large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freely as she practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity that this highly compromised character should have presented herself at such a time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so little as she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini. Isabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under that roof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so mismanaged her improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all--which was at the least what one asked of such matters--and had become the mere floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation. She had been married by her mother--a more administrative person, with an appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her justice, had probably by this time thrown off--to an Italian nobleman who had perhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousness of outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself outrageously, and the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of her adventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though the Countess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city; but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere. Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and wit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of a woman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong way. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one should draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would exclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had better shut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long as she remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make arbitrary differences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not been so clever as other women. She was a good creature, not clever at all; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the best society? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and there could be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways than her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabel could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patient attention; she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome to the unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit of being Mr. Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it proper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of things she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not received the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident. Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related the history of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member of an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been glad to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yet not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able to offer--a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her brother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however, had inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians went, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-lived brute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she had lost three within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristled with pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and corresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her mother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father, lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally rich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in Gilbert Osmond, Madame Merle held--see that he had been brought up by a woman; though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be called. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death, and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her arrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity of judgement on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond, approved of political marriages. The Countess was very good company and not really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was to observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said. Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake; he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be confessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name. Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism, her violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his nerves, she was not HIS sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh, the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be habitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times her visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almost exclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer; how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people in Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she should like to live somewhere else--in Paris, in London, in Washington; how impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little old lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life of suffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interest to Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feel exempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess, and she could afford to do what was altogether best--not to appear so. Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her back, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had left Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked her way down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the banks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her with a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang of despair determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delight in her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as a nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and Isabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to her friend's intelligence. Henrietta's arrival had been announced by Mr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and expecting to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached, called at Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment. Henrietta's own advent occurred two days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion amply accounted for by the fact that he had not seen her since the termination of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his situation was generally taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph Touchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked a cigar there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on the subject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentleman took the joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that he regarded the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He liked Miss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on her shoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was not perpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she did, how what they did--and they had done things!--would look. Miss Stackpole never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care, pray why should he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted awfully to see if she ever WOULD care. He was prepared to go as far as she--he didn't see why he should break down first. Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightened on her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of her copious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes with regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent, bristled with difficulties even more numerous than those she had encountered in England. But on the Continent there was the outer life, which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily convertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque islanders. Out of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously remarked, one seemed to see the right side of the tapestry; out of doors in England one seemed to see the wrong side, which gave one no notion of the figure. The admission costs her historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of more occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life. She had been studying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sent to the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza, the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chanted Tasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was at least seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome before the malaria should come on--she apparently supposed that it began on a fixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present but few days in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and she pointed out to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he was a military man and as he had had a classical education--he had been bred at Eton, where they study nothing but Latin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole--he would be a most useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At this juncture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also, under his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected to pass a portion of the next winter there--that was very well; but meantime there was no harm in surveying the field. There were ten days left of the beautiful month of May--the most precious month of all to the true Rome-lover. Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a foregone conclusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of her own sex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady's attention, would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remain with Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn't care to return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peace in Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to Palestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal, and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing to be despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of four arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, had resigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen that she now inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One of Isabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before she started and mentioning her intention to him. "I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "I should like to see you on that wonderful ground." She scarcely faltered. "You might come then." "But you'll have a lot of people with you." "Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone." For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went on at last. "They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it." "Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear--the Niobe of Nations, you know--it has been spoiled?" she asked. "No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled. "If I were to go, what should I do with my little girl?" "Can't you leave her at the villa?" "I don't know that I like that--though there's a very good old woman who looks after her. I can't afford a governess." "Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly. Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter, at her convent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure." "You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired. "No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world." "I was brought up on a different system." "You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you--you were exceptional." "I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was not some truth in the speech. Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it would make her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her there to-morrow." "Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her like herself." "I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. He had almost the air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his domestic matters with Miss Archer. "Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towards making her resemble me!" After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the Countess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess's drawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general, but after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman half-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair. "She wants me to go to Rome with her," he remarked in a low voice. "To go with her?" "To be there while she's there. She proposed it. "I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented." "Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging--she's very encouraging." "I rejoice to hear it--but don't cry victory too soon. Of course you'll go to Rome." "Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!" "Don't pretend you don't enjoy it--you're very ungrateful. You've not been so well occupied these many years." "The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to be grateful for that." "Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She talked with her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room. "You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself that you've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to oblige me." "The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded. Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips closed with a certain firmness. "Is that all you can find to say about that fine creature?" "All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?" She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to the room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. "I'm frightened at the abyss into which I shall have cast her." He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back--you've gone too far." "Very good; but you must do the rest yourself." "I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond. Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but when she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was awaiting her guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it he stood there detaining her. "You're very indiscreet," she said rather wearily; "you shouldn't have moved when I did." He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. "I always forget; I'm out of the habit." "You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up at the windows of the house, a modern structure in the new part of the town. He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. "She's really very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful." "It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the better for me." "I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the bargain capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault." "What's that?" "Too many ideas." "I warned you she was clever." "Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond. "Why is that fortunate?" "Dame, if they must be sacrificed!" Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke to the coachman. But her friend again detained her. "If I go to Rome what shall I do with Pansy?" "I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.

Chapter 26

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-24-26

Gilbert Osmond goes to visit Isabel five times at Palazzo Crescentini, where she and her aunt are staying. Mrs. Touchett notices the anomaly: while Osmond has visited her before, he has never done so quite so often. Ralph enjoys Osmond's company, and he understands Osmond's attraction to Isabel. They both guess at his true motivation. They both though do not believe Isabel would want to marry him. Mrs. Touchett believes she will not marry Osmond because he does not correspond with any conception of success that she has. Ralph believes Isabel will turn him down, because she is "studying human nature" and busy retaining her liberty. Mrs. Touchett wants to tell Isabel that Osmond will probably propose marriage, and Madame Merle prevents her, claiming that she will speak to Osmond about the matter. Madame Merle tells Mrs. Touchett not to inflame Isabel's imagination. Mrs. Touchett retorts that she never did such a thing in her whole life. Meanwhile, Isabel has no idea that others are discussing her relationship to Osmond. She merely has a picture in her mind of Osmond -- described as a picture without "flourishes" a low tone, and an atmosphere of summer twilight. Countess Gemini visits the house as well. She is not well regarded by others, as apparently some of her improprieties have managed to circulate as gossip around town. Madame Merle defends Countess Gemini against Mrs. Touchett's annoyance. Merle explains to Isabel that one need only observe the condition of not believing a single thing Countess Gemini said and then she was quite tolerable. Of course, according to Madame Merle's description of Countess Gemini, she is not well liked by her brother, because Osmond likes women who find the truth sacred. Mr. Bantling and Henrietta also pay a visit to Isabel. They decide to go to Rome together, as Henrietta Stackpole is now devoting herself to studying the outer aspects of life in Continental Europe. When Isabel informs Osmond of her intentions , he says he would like to see it with her, although he declines her invitation to do so in a group with others. He claims he cannot leave Pansy. Madame Merle and Osmond have a conversation at Countess Gemini's, in private. Madame Merle counsels him to go to Rome. Osmond thinks it sounds like a lot of work and Madame Merle responds that he is ungrateful. Osmond says that Isabel is not disagreeable, but she has one fault. She has too many ideas". He is glad, at the very least, that she has bad ideas, since they will have to be sacrificed

In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the "grave" air of the place, as if one would "need an act of energy to get out" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about "advancing" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher "value" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated," he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/27.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_10_part_1.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 27

chapter 27

{"name": "Chapter 27", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30", "summary": "Isabel visits Rome with Ralph, Henrietta, and Mr. Bantling. One day, they are visiting some old Roman ruins that are in the process of being excavated. Henrietta and Mr. Bantling wander off together, and Ralph goes to see an archaeological dig that is in process, leaving Isabel alone with her thoughts. She is distracted, thinking little about her outside surroundings, and very much preoccupied with her inner world. However, she has little time to herself because suddenly Lord Warburton appears. They are equally surprised to see one another. He explains that he is stopping in Rome after having travelled to Turkey and the Asia Minor for 6 months. He then cannot help but declare that he still loves her, and he has written her many letters during their time apart, which he has then burned before sending. Isabel is still firm: she wants to be friendly with him but does not want to encourage him. The next day, the group of four and Lord Warburton visit Saint Peter's Basilica. They have completed a walk around the church and are watching a choir singing at the entrance of the church, when Isabel suddenly discovers Gilbert Osmond has been watching her. He tells her that he decided to come, and that her hotel told him that he would find her here. Isabel blushes at the thought of what she had previously said to Lord Warburton when she rejected him, as she juxtaposes it with the image of Gilbert Osmond in Rome with herself. Gilbert Osmond meets the group, and Henrietta declares all of Isabel's companions in Europe to be unlikeable people. Osmond mentions that he thinks being in Saint Peter's makes one feel small. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton asks Ralph privately about Gilbert Osmond: does Ralph think Isabel will accept a marriage proposal from Osmond, if that is indeed his intention. Ralph replies that he thinks she will not accept so long as they do nothing to prevent the marriage", "analysis": "In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not \"to signify.\" This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning."}

I may not attempt to report in its fulness our young woman's response to the deep appeal of Rome, to analyse her feelings as she trod the pavement of the Forum or to number her pulsations as she crossed the threshold of Saint Peter's. It is enough to say that her impression was such as might have been expected of a person of her freshness and her eagerness. She had always been fond of history, and here was history in the stones of the street and the atoms of the sunshine. She had an imagination that kindled at the mention of great deeds, and wherever she turned some great deed had been acted. These things strongly moved her, but moved her all inwardly. It seemed to her companions that she talked less than usual, and Ralph Touchett, when he appeared to be looking listlessly and awkwardly over her head, was really dropping on her an intensity of observation. By her own measure she was very happy; she would even have been willing to take these hours for the happiest she was ever to know. The sense of the terrible human past was heavy to her, but that of something altogether contemporary would suddenly give it wings that it could wave in the blue. Her consciousness was so mixed that she scarcely knew where the different parts of it would lead her, and she went about in a repressed ecstasy of contemplation, seeing often in the things she looked at a great deal more than was there, and yet not seeing many of the items enumerated in her Murray. Rome, as Ralph said, confessed to the psychological moment. The herd of reechoing tourists had departed and most of the solemn places had relapsed into solemnity. The sky was a blaze of blue, and the plash of the fountains in their mossy niches had lost its chill and doubled its music. On the corners of the warm, bright streets one stumbled on bundles of flowers. Our friends had gone one afternoon--it was the third of their stay--to look at the latest excavations in the Forum, these labours having been for some time previous largely extended. They had descended from the modern street to the level of the Sacred Way, along which they wandered with a reverence of step which was not the same on the part of each. Henrietta Stackpole was struck with the fact that ancient Rome had been paved a good deal like New York, and even found an analogy between the deep chariot-ruts traceable in the antique street and the overjangled iron grooves which express the intensity of American life. The sun had begun to sink, the air was a golden haze, and the long shadows of broken column and vague pedestal leaned across the field of ruin. Henrietta wandered away with Mr. Bantling, whom it was apparently delightful to her to hear speak of Julius Caesar as a "cheeky old boy," and Ralph addressed such elucidations as he was prepared to offer to the attentive ear of our heroine. One of the humble archeologists who hover about the place had put himself at the disposal of the two, and repeated his lesson with a fluency which the decline of the season had done nothing to impair. A process of digging was on view in a remote corner of the Forum, and he presently remarked that if it should please the signori to go and watch it a little they might see something of interest. The proposal commended itself more to Ralph than to Isabel, weary with much wandering; so that she admonished her companion to satisfy his curiosity while she patiently awaited his return. The hour and the place were much to her taste--she should enjoy being briefly alone. Ralph accordingly went off with the cicerone while Isabel sat down on a prostrate column near the foundations of the Capitol. She wanted a short solitude, but she was not long to enjoy it. Keen as was her interest in the rugged relics of the Roman past that lay scattered about her and in which the corrosion of centuries had still left so much of individual life, her thoughts, after resting a while on these things, had wandered, by a concatenation of stages it might require some subtlety to trace, to regions and objects charged with a more active appeal. From the Roman past to Isabel Archer's future was a long stride, but her imagination had taken it in a single flight and now hovered in slow circles over the nearer and richer field. She was so absorbed in her thoughts, as she bent her eyes upon a row of cracked but not dislocated slabs covering the ground at her feet, that she had not heard the sound of approaching footsteps before a shadow was thrown across the line of her vision. She looked up and saw a gentleman--a gentleman who was not Ralph come back to say that the excavations were a bore. This personage was startled as she was startled; he stood there baring his head to her perceptibly pale surprise. "Lord Warburton!" Isabel exclaimed as she rose. "I had no idea it was you. I turned that corner and came upon you." She looked about her to explain. "I'm alone, but my companions have just left me. My cousin's gone to look at the work over there." "Ah yes; I see." And Lord Warburton's eyes wandered vaguely in the direction she had indicated. He stood firmly before her now; he had recovered his balance and seemed to wish to show it, though very kindly. "Don't let me disturb you," he went on, looking at her dejected pillar. "I'm afraid you're tired." "Yes, I'm rather tired." She hesitated a moment, but sat down again. "Don't let me interrupt you," she added. "Oh dear, I'm quite alone, I've nothing on earth to do. I had no idea you were in Rome. I've just come from the East. I'm only passing through." "You've been making a long journey," said Isabel, who had learned from Ralph that Lord Warburton was absent from England. "Yes, I came abroad for six months--soon after I saw you last. I've been in Turkey and Asia Minor; I came the other day from Athens." He managed not to be awkward, but he wasn't easy, and after a longer look at the girl he came down to nature. "Do you wish me to leave you, or will you let me stay a little?" She took it all humanely. "I don't wish you to leave me, Lord Warburton; I'm very glad to see you." "Thank you for saying that. May I sit down?" The fluted shaft on which she had taken her seat would have afforded a resting-place to several persons, and there was plenty of room even for a highly-developed Englishman. This fine specimen of that great class seated himself near our young lady, and in the course of five minutes he had asked her several questions, taken rather at random and to which, as he put some of them twice over, he apparently somewhat missed catching the answer; had given her too some information about himself which was not wasted upon her calmer feminine sense. He repeated more than once that he had not expected to meet her, and it was evident that the encounter touched him in a way that would have made preparation advisable. He began abruptly to pass from the impunity of things to their solemnity, and from their being delightful to their being impossible. He was splendidly sunburnt; even his multitudinous beard had been burnished by the fire of Asia. He was dressed in the loose-fitting, heterogeneous garments in which the English traveller in foreign lands is wont to consult his comfort and affirm his nationality; and with his pleasant steady eyes, his bronzed complexion, fresh beneath its seasoning, his manly figure, his minimising manner and his general air of being a gentleman and an explorer, he was such a representative of the British race as need not in any clime have been disavowed by those who have a kindness for it. Isabel noted these things and was glad she had always liked him. He had kept, evidently in spite of shocks, every one of his merits--properties these partaking of the essence of great decent houses, as one might put it; resembling their innermost fixtures and ornaments, not subject to vulgar shifting and removable only by some whole break-up. They talked of the matters naturally in order; her uncle's death, Ralph's state of health, the way she had passed her winter, her visit to Rome, her return to Florence, her plans for the summer, the hotel she was staying at; and then of Lord Warburton's own adventures, movements, intentions, impressions and present domicile. At last there was a silence, and it said so much more than either had said that it scarce needed his final words. "I've written to you several times." "Written to me? I've never had your letters." "I never sent them. I burned them up." "Ah," laughed Isabel, "it was better that you should do that than I!" "I thought you wouldn't care for them," he went on with a simplicity that touched her. "It seemed to me that after all I had no right to trouble you with letters." "I should have been very glad to have news of you. You know how I hoped that--that--" But she stopped; there would be such a flatness in the utterance of her thought. "I know what you're going to say. You hoped we should always remain good friends." This formula, as Lord Warburton uttered it, was certainly flat enough; but then he was interested in making it appear so. She found herself reduced simply to "Please don't talk of all that"; a speech which hardly struck her as improvement on the other. "It's a small consolation to allow me!" her companion exclaimed with force. "I can't pretend to console you," said the girl, who, all still as she sat there, threw herself back with a sort of inward triumph on the answer that had satisfied him so little six months before. He was pleasant, he was powerful, he was gallant; there was no better man than he. But her answer remained. "It's very well you don't try to console me; it wouldn't be in your power," she heard him say through the medium of her strange elation. "I hoped we should meet again, because I had no fear you would attempt to make me feel I had wronged you. But when you do that--the pain's greater than the pleasure." And she got up with a small conscious majesty, looking for her companions. "I don't want to make you feel that; of course I can't say that. I only just want you to know one or two things--in fairness to myself, as it were. I won't return to the subject again. I felt very strongly what I expressed to you last year; I couldn't think of anything else. I tried to forget--energetically, systematically. I tried to take an interest in somebody else. I tell you this because I want you to know I did my duty. I didn't succeed. It was for the same purpose I went abroad--as far away as possible. They say travelling distracts the mind, but it didn't distract mine. I've thought of you perpetually, ever since I last saw you. I'm exactly the same. I love you just as much, and everything I said to you then is just as true. This instant at which I speak to you shows me again exactly how, to my great misfortune, you just insuperably charm me. There--I can't say less. I don't mean, however, to insist; it's only for a moment. I may add that when I came upon you a few minutes since, without the smallest idea of seeing you, I was, upon my honour, in the very act of wishing I knew where you were." He had recovered his self-control, and while he spoke it became complete. He might have been addressing a small committee--making all quietly and clearly a statement of importance; aided by an occasional look at a paper of notes concealed in his hat, which he had not again put on. And the committee, assuredly, would have felt the point proved. "I've often thought of you, Lord Warburton," Isabel answered. "You may be sure I shall always do that." And she added in a tone of which she tried to keep up the kindness and keep down the meaning: "There's no harm in that on either side." They walked along together, and she was prompt to ask about his sisters and request him to let them know she had done so. He made for the moment no further reference to their great question, but dipped again into shallower and safer waters. But he wished to know when she was to leave Rome, and on her mentioning the limit of her stay declared he was glad it was still so distant. "Why do you say that if you yourself are only passing through?" she enquired with some anxiety. "Ah, when I said I was passing through I didn't mean that one would treat Rome as if it were Clapham Junction. To pass through Rome is to stop a week or two." "Say frankly that you mean to stay as long as I do!" His flushed smile, for a little, seemed to sound her. "You won't like that. You're afraid you'll see too much of me." "It doesn't matter what I like. I certainly can't expect you to leave this delightful place on my account. But I confess I'm afraid of you." "Afraid I'll begin again? I promise to be very careful." They had gradually stopped and they stood a moment face to face. "Poor Lord Warburton!" she said with a compassion intended to be good for both of them. "Poor Lord Warburton indeed! But I'll be careful." "You may be unhappy, but you shall not make ME so. That I can't allow." "If I believed I could make you unhappy I think I should try it." At this she walked in advance and he also proceeded. "I'll never say a word to displease you." "Very good. If you do, our friendship's at an end." "Perhaps some day--after a while--you'll give me leave." "Give you leave to make me unhappy?" He hesitated. "To tell you again--" But he checked himself. "I'll keep it down. I'll keep it down always." Ralph Touchett had been joined in his visit to the excavation by Miss Stackpole and her attendant, and these three now emerged from among the mounds of earth and stone collected round the aperture and came into sight of Isabel and her companion. Poor Ralph hailed his friend with joy qualified by wonder, and Henrietta exclaimed in a high voice "Gracious, there's that lord!" Ralph and his English neighbour greeted with the austerity with which, after long separations, English neighbours greet, and Miss Stackpole rested her large intellectual gaze upon the sunburnt traveller. But she soon established her relation to the crisis. "I don't suppose you remember me, sir." "Indeed I do remember you," said Lord Warburton. "I asked you to come and see me, and you never came." "I don't go everywhere I'm asked," Miss Stackpole answered coldly. "Ah well, I won't ask you again," laughed the master of Lockleigh. "If you do I'll go; so be sure!" Lord Warburton, for all his hilarity, seemed sure enough. Mr. Bantling had stood by without claiming a recognition, but he now took occasion to nod to his lordship, who answered him with a friendly "Oh, you here, Bantling?" and a hand-shake. "Well," said Henrietta, "I didn't know you knew him!" "I guess you don't know every one I know," Mr. Bantling rejoined facetiously. "I thought that when an Englishman knew a lord he always told you." "Ah, I'm afraid Bantling was ashamed of me," Lord Warburton laughed again. Isabel took pleasure in that note; she gave a small sigh of relief as they kept their course homeward. The next day was Sunday; she spent her morning over two long letters--one to her sister Lily, the other to Madame Merle; but in neither of these epistles did she mention the fact that a rejected suitor had threatened her with another appeal. Of a Sunday afternoon all good Romans (and the best Romans are often the northern barbarians) follow the custom of going to vespers at Saint Peter's; and it had been agreed among our friends that they would drive together to the great church. After lunch, an hour before the carriage came, Lord Warburton presented himself at the Hotel de Paris and paid a visit to the two ladies, Ralph Touchett and Mr. Bantling having gone out together. The visitor seemed to have wished to give Isabel a proof of his intention to keep the promise made her the evening before; he was both discreet and frank--not even dumbly importunate or remotely intense. He thus left her to judge what a mere good friend he could be. He talked about his travels, about Persia, about Turkey, and when Miss Stackpole asked him whether it would "pay" for her to visit those countries assured her they offered a great field to female enterprise. Isabel did him justice, but she wondered what his purpose was and what he expected to gain even by proving the superior strain of his sincerity. If he expected to melt her by showing what a good fellow he was, he might spare himself the trouble. She knew the superior strain of everything about him, and nothing he could now do was required to light the view. Moreover his being in Rome at all affected her as a complication of the wrong sort--she liked so complications of the right. Nevertheless, when, on bringing his call to a close, he said he too should be at Saint Peter's and should look out for her and her friends, she was obliged to reply that he must follow his convenience. In the church, as she strolled over its tesselated acres, he was the first person she encountered. She had not been one of the superior tourists who are "disappointed" in Saint Peter's and find it smaller than its fame; the first time she passed beneath the huge leathern curtain that strains and bangs at the entrance, the first time she found herself beneath the far-arching dome and saw the light drizzle down through the air thickened with incense and with the reflections of marble and gilt, of mosaic and bronze, her conception of greatness rose and dizzily rose. After this it never lacked space to soar. She gazed and wondered like a child or a peasant, she paid her silent tribute to the seated sublime. Lord Warburton walked beside her and talked of Saint Sophia of Constantinople; she feared for instance that he would end by calling attention to his exemplary conduct. The service had not yet begun, but at Saint Peter's there is much to observe, and as there is something almost profane in the vastness of the place, which seems meant as much for physical as for spiritual exercise, the different figures and groups, the mingled worshippers and spectators, may follow their various intentions without conflict or scandal. In that splendid immensity individual indiscretion carries but a short distance. Isabel and her companions, however, were guilty of none; for though Henrietta was obliged in candour to declare that Michael Angelo's dome suffered by comparison with that of the Capitol at Washington, she addressed her protest chiefly to Mr. Bantling's ear and reserved it in its more accentuated form for the columns of the Interviewer. Isabel made the circuit of the church with his lordship, and as they drew near the choir on the left of the entrance the voices of the Pope's singers were borne to them over the heads of the large number of persons clustered outside the doors. They paused a while on the skirts of this crowd, composed in equal measure of Roman cockneys and inquisitive strangers, and while they stood there the sacred concert went forward. Ralph, with Henrietta and Mr. Bantling, was apparently within, where Isabel, looking beyond the dense group in front of her, saw the afternoon light, silvered by clouds of incense that seemed to mingle with the splendid chant, slope through the embossed recesses of high windows. After a while the singing stopped and then Lord Warburton seemed disposed to move off with her. Isabel could only accompany him; whereupon she found herself confronted with Gilbert Osmond, who appeared to have been standing at a short distance behind her. He now approached with all the forms--he appeared to have multiplied them on this occasion to suit the place. "So you decided to come?" she said as she put out her hand. "Yes, I came last night and called this afternoon at your hotel. They told me you had come here, and I looked about for you." "The others are inside," she decided to say. "I didn't come for the others," he promptly returned. She looked away; Lord Warburton was watching them; perhaps he had heard this. Suddenly she remembered it to be just what he had said to her the morning he came to Gardencourt to ask her to marry him. Mr. Osmond's words had brought the colour to her cheek, and this reminiscence had not the effect of dispelling it. She repaired any betrayal by mentioning to each companion the name of the other, and fortunately at this moment Mr. Bantling emerged from the choir, cleaving the crowd with British valour and followed by Miss Stackpole and Ralph Touchett. I say fortunately, but this is perhaps a superficial view of the matter; since on perceiving the gentleman from Florence Ralph Touchett appeared to take the case as not committing him to joy. He didn't hang back, however, from civility, and presently observed to Isabel, with due benevolence, that she would soon have all her friends about her. Miss Stackpole had met Mr. Osmond in Florence, but she had already found occasion to say to Isabel that she liked him no better than her other admirers--than Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton, and even than little Mr. Rosier in Paris. "I don't know what it's in you," she had been pleased to remark, "but for a nice girl you do attract the most unnatural people. Mr. Goodwood's the only one I've any respect for, and he's just the one you don't appreciate." "What's your opinion of Saint Peter's?" Mr. Osmond was meanwhile enquiring of our young lady. "It's very large and very bright," she contented herself with replying. "It's too large; it makes one feel like an atom." "Isn't that the right way to feel in the greatest of human temples?" she asked with rather a liking for her phrase. "I suppose it's the right way to feel everywhere, when one IS nobody. But I like it in a church as little as anywhere else." "You ought indeed to be a Pope!" Isabel exclaimed, remembering something he had referred to in Florence. "Ah, I should have enjoyed that!" said Gilbert Osmond. Lord Warburton meanwhile had joined Ralph Touchett, and the two strolled away together. "Who's the fellow speaking to Miss Archer?" his lordship demanded. "His name's Gilbert Osmond--he lives in Florence," Ralph said. "What is he besides?" "Nothing at all. Oh yes, he's an American; but one forgets that--he's so little of one." "Has he known Miss Archer long?" "Three or four weeks." "Does she like him?" "She's trying to find out." "And will she?" "Find out--?" Ralph asked. "Will she like him?" "Do you mean will she accept him?" "Yes," said Lord Warburton after an instant; "I suppose that's what I horribly mean." "Perhaps not if one does nothing to prevent it," Ralph replied. His lordship stared a moment, but apprehended. "Then we must be perfectly quiet?" "As quiet as the grave. And only on the chance!" Ralph added. "The chance she may?" "The chance she may not?" Lord Warburton took this at first in silence, but he spoke again. "Is he awfully clever?" "Awfully," said Ralph. His companion thought. "And what else?" "What more do you want?" Ralph groaned. "Do you mean what more does SHE?" Ralph took him by the arm to turn him: they had to rejoin the others. "She wants nothing that WE can give her." "Ah well, if she won't have You--!" said his lordship handsomely as they went.

Chapter 27

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30

Isabel visits Rome with Ralph, Henrietta, and Mr. Bantling. One day, they are visiting some old Roman ruins that are in the process of being excavated. Henrietta and Mr. Bantling wander off together, and Ralph goes to see an archaeological dig that is in process, leaving Isabel alone with her thoughts. She is distracted, thinking little about her outside surroundings, and very much preoccupied with her inner world. However, she has little time to herself because suddenly Lord Warburton appears. They are equally surprised to see one another. He explains that he is stopping in Rome after having travelled to Turkey and the Asia Minor for 6 months. He then cannot help but declare that he still loves her, and he has written her many letters during their time apart, which he has then burned before sending. Isabel is still firm: she wants to be friendly with him but does not want to encourage him. The next day, the group of four and Lord Warburton visit Saint Peter's Basilica. They have completed a walk around the church and are watching a choir singing at the entrance of the church, when Isabel suddenly discovers Gilbert Osmond has been watching her. He tells her that he decided to come, and that her hotel told him that he would find her here. Isabel blushes at the thought of what she had previously said to Lord Warburton when she rejected him, as she juxtaposes it with the image of Gilbert Osmond in Rome with herself. Gilbert Osmond meets the group, and Henrietta declares all of Isabel's companions in Europe to be unlikeable people. Osmond mentions that he thinks being in Saint Peter's makes one feel small. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton asks Ralph privately about Gilbert Osmond: does Ralph think Isabel will accept a marriage proposal from Osmond, if that is indeed his intention. Ralph replies that he thinks she will not accept so long as they do nothing to prevent the marriage

In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/28.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_10_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 28

chapter 28

{"name": "Chapter 28", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30", "summary": "The next day Lord Warburton goes to the opera, where he knows he will find Isabel and the others. He spots Isabel in a box with Gilbert Osmond and decides to join her. Lord Warburton then glumly watches the two together during the opera. He feels angry and puzzled. Osmond later asks about Lord Warburton. Upon finding out about his character and his fortune, he declares that he would like to be Lord Warburton. Isabel jokes that he is always envying someone, and Osmond responds that his envy is not dangerous. A day later, Lord Warburton abruptly announces that he is leaving Rome, when he encounters them in the gallery of the Capitol. Isabel, then, left alone, in front of the statue of the Dying Gladiator, feeling the vividness of the past. Isabel wonders about these Greek sculptures around her, wondering what they would say if they were alive. After she is sitting alone for half an hour, Gilbert Osmond appears. Osmond notes that Isabel is quite cruel to Lord Warburton. We learn that Osmond, who is very fond of originals, takes a real liking from the idea that Lord Warburton desires Isabel. He likes the idea of taking a \"young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand\". In other words, he thinks of Isabel as a collector's object that he will hoard for himself. She has more value now that she has had the original idea of rejecting such an aristocratic figure as Lord Warburton", "analysis": "In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not \"to signify.\" This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning."}

On the morrow, in the evening, Lord Warburton went again to see his friends at their hotel, and at this establishment he learned that they had gone to the opera. He drove to the opera with the idea of paying them a visit in their box after the easy Italian fashion; and when he had obtained his admittance--it was one of the secondary theatres--looked about the large, bare, ill-lighted house. An act had just terminated and he was at liberty to pursue his quest. After scanning two or three tiers of boxes he perceived in one of the largest of these receptacles a lady whom he easily recognised. Miss Archer was seated facing the stage and partly screened by the curtain of the box; and beside her, leaning back in his chair, was Mr. Gilbert Osmond. They appeared to have the place to themselves, and Warburton supposed their companions had taken advantage of the recess to enjoy the relative coolness of the lobby. He stood a while with his eyes on the interesting pair; he asked himself if he should go up and interrupt the harmony. At last he judged that Isabel had seen him, and this accident determined him. There should be no marked holding off. He took his way to the upper regions and on the staircase met Ralph Touchett slowly descending, his hat at the inclination of ennui and his hands where they usually were. "I saw you below a moment since and was going down to you. I feel lonely and want company," was Ralph's greeting. "You've some that's very good which you've yet deserted." "Do you mean my cousin? Oh, she has a visitor and doesn't want me. Then Miss Stackpole and Bantling have gone out to a cafe to eat an ice--Miss Stackpole delights in an ice. I didn't think they wanted me either. The opera's very bad; the women look like laundresses and sing like peacocks. I feel very low." "You had better go home," Lord Warburton said without affectation. "And leave my young lady in this sad place? Ah no, I must watch over her." "She seems to have plenty of friends." "Yes, that's why I must watch," said Ralph with the same large mock-melancholy. "If she doesn't want you it's probable she doesn't want me." "No, you're different. Go to the box and stay there while I walk about." Lord Warburton went to the box, where Isabel's welcome was as to a friend so honourably old that he vaguely asked himself what queer temporal province she was annexing. He exchanged greetings with Mr. Osmond, to whom he had been introduced the day before and who, after he came in, sat blandly apart and silent, as if repudiating competence in the subjects of allusion now probable. It struck her second visitor that Miss Archer had, in operatic conditions, a radiance, even a slight exaltation; as she was, however, at all times a keenly-glancing, quickly-moving, completely animated young woman, he may have been mistaken on this point. Her talk with him moreover pointed to presence of mind; it expressed a kindness so ingenious and deliberate as to indicate that she was in undisturbed possession of her faculties. Poor Lord Warburton had moments of bewilderment. She had discouraged him, formally, as much as a woman could; what business had she then with such arts and such felicities, above all with such tones of reparation--preparation? Her voice had tricks of sweetness, but why play them on HIM? The others came back; the bare, familiar, trivial opera began again. The box was large, and there was room for him to remain if he would sit a little behind and in the dark. He did so for half an hour, while Mr. Osmond remained in front, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, just behind Isabel. Lord Warburton heard nothing, and from his gloomy corner saw nothing but the clear profile of this young lady defined against the dim illumination of the house. When there was another interval no one moved. Mr. Osmond talked to Isabel, and Lord Warburton kept his corner. He did so but for a short time, however; after which he got up and bade good-night to the ladies. Isabel said nothing to detain him, but it didn't prevent his being puzzled again. Why should she mark so one of his values--quite the wrong one--when she would have nothing to do with another, which was quite the right? He was angry with himself for being puzzled, and then angry for being angry. Verdi's music did little to comfort him, and he left the theatre and walked homeward, without knowing his way, through the tortuous, tragic streets of Rome, where heavier sorrows than his had been carried under the stars. "What's the character of that gentleman?" Osmond asked of Isabel after he had retired. "Irreproachable--don't you see it?" "He owns about half England; that's his character," Henrietta remarked. "That's what they call a free country!" "Ah, he's a great proprietor? Happy man!" said Gilbert Osmond. "Do you call that happiness--the ownership of wretched human beings?" cried Miss Stackpole. "He owns his tenants and has thousands of them. It's pleasant to own something, but inanimate objects are enough for me. I don't insist on flesh and blood and minds and consciences." "It seems to me you own a human being or two," Mr. Bantling suggested jocosely. "I wonder if Warburton orders his tenants about as you do me." "Lord Warburton's a great radical," Isabel said. "He has very advanced opinions." "He has very advanced stone walls. His park's enclosed by a gigantic iron fence, some thirty miles round," Henrietta announced for the information of Mr. Osmond. "I should like him to converse with a few of our Boston radicals." "Don't they approve of iron fences?" asked Mr. Bantling. "Only to shut up wicked conservatives. I always feel as if I were talking to YOU over something with a neat top-finish of broken glass." "Do you know him well, this unreformed reformer?" Osmond went on, questioning Isabel. "Well enough for all the use I have for him." "And how much of a use is that?" "Well, I like to like him." "'Liking to like'--why, it makes a passion!" said Osmond. "No"--she considered--"keep that for liking to DISlike." "Do you wish to provoke me then," Osmond laughed, "to a passion for HIM?" She said nothing for a moment, but then met the light question with a disproportionate gravity. "No, Mr. Osmond; I don't think I should ever dare to provoke you. Lord Warburton, at any rate," she more easily added, "is a very nice man." "Of great ability?" her friend enquired. "Of excellent ability, and as good as he looks." "As good as he's good-looking do you mean? He's very good-looking. How detestably fortunate!--to be a great English magnate, to be clever and handsome into the bargain, and, by way of finishing off, to enjoy your high favour! That's a man I could envy." Isabel considered him with interest. "You seem to me to be always envying some one. Yesterday it was the Pope; to-day it's poor Lord Warburton." "My envy's not dangerous; it wouldn't hurt a mouse. I don't want to destroy the people--I only want to BE them. You see it would destroy only myself." "You'd like to be the Pope?" said Isabel. "I should love it--but I should have gone in for it earlier. But why"--Osmond reverted--"do you speak of your friend as poor?" "Women--when they are very, very good sometimes pity men after they've hurt them; that's their great way of showing kindness," said Ralph, joining in the conversation for the first time and with a cynicism so transparently ingenious as to be virtually innocent. "Pray, have I hurt Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked, raising her eyebrows as if the idea were perfectly fresh. "It serves him right if you have," said Henrietta while the curtain rose for the ballet. Isabel saw no more of her attributive victim for the next twenty-four hours, but on the second day after the visit to the opera she encountered him in the gallery of the Capitol, where he stood before the lion of the collection, the statue of the Dying Gladiator. She had come in with her companions, among whom, on this occasion again, Gilbert Osmond had his place, and the party, having ascended the staircase, entered the first and finest of the rooms. Lord Warburton addressed her alertly enough, but said in a moment that he was leaving the gallery. "And I'm leaving Rome," he added. "I must bid you goodbye." Isabel, inconsequently enough, was now sorry to hear it. This was perhaps because she had ceased to be afraid of his renewing his suit; she was thinking of something else. She was on the point of naming her regret, but she checked herself and simply wished him a happy journey; which made him look at her rather unlightedly. "I'm afraid you'll think me very 'volatile.' I told you the other day I wanted so much to stop." "Oh no; you could easily change your mind." "That's what I have done." "Bon voyage then." "You're in a great hurry to get rid of me," said his lordship quite dismally. "Not in the least. But I hate partings." "You don't care what I do," he went on pitifully. Isabel looked at him a moment. "Ah," she said, "you're not keeping your promise!" He coloured like a boy of fifteen. "If I'm not, then it's because I can't; and that's why I'm going." "Good-bye then." "Good-bye." He lingered still, however. "When shall I see you again?" Isabel hesitated, but soon, as if she had had a happy inspiration: "Some day after you're married." "That will never be. It will be after you are." "That will do as well," she smiled. "Yes, quite as well. Good-bye." They shook hands, and he left her alone in the glorious room, among the shining antique marbles. She sat down in the centre of the circle of these presences, regarding them vaguely, resting her eyes on their beautiful blank faces; listening, as it were, to their eternal silence. It is impossible, in Rome at least, to look long at a great company of Greek sculptures without feeling the effect of their noble quietude; which, as with a high door closed for the ceremony, slowly drops on the spirit the large white mantle of peace. I say in Rome especially, because the Roman air is an exquisite medium for such impressions. The golden sunshine mingles with them, the deep stillness of the past, so vivid yet, though it is nothing but a void full of names, seems to throw a solemn spell upon them. The blinds were partly closed in the windows of the Capitol, and a clear, warm shadow rested on the figures and made them more mildly human. Isabel sat there a long time, under the charm of their motionless grace, wondering to what, of their experience, their absent eyes were open, and how, to our ears, their alien lips would sound. The dark red walls of the room threw them into relief; the polished marble floor reflected their beauty. She had seen them all before, but her enjoyment repeated itself, and it was all the greater because she was glad again, for the time, to be alone. At last, however, her attention lapsed, drawn off by a deeper tide of life. An occasional tourist came in, stopped and stared a moment at the Dying Gladiator, and then passed out of the other door, creaking over the smooth pavement. At the end of half an hour Gilbert Osmond reappeared, apparently in advance of his companions. He strolled toward her slowly, with his hands behind him and his usual enquiring, yet not quite appealing smile. "I'm surprised to find you alone, I thought you had company. "So I have--the best." And she glanced at the Antinous and the Faun. "Do you call them better company than an English peer?" "Ah, my English peer left me some time ago." She got up, speaking with intention a little dryly. Mr. Osmond noted her dryness, which contributed for him to the interest of his question. "I'm afraid that what I heard the other evening is true: you're rather cruel to that nobleman." Isabel looked a moment at the vanquished Gladiator. "It's not true. I'm scrupulously kind." "That's exactly what I mean!" Gilbert Osmond returned, and with such happy hilarity that his joke needs to be explained. We know that he was fond of originals, of rarities, of the superior and the exquisite; and now that he had seen Lord Warburton, whom he thought a very fine example of his race and order, he perceived a new attraction in the idea of taking to himself a young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand. Gilbert Osmond had a high appreciation of this particular patriciate; not so much for its distinction, which he thought easily surpassable, as for its solid actuality. He had never forgiven his star for not appointing him to an English dukedom, and he could measure the unexpectedness of such conduct as Isabel's. It would be proper that the woman he might marry should have done something of that sort.

Chapter 28

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30

The next day Lord Warburton goes to the opera, where he knows he will find Isabel and the others. He spots Isabel in a box with Gilbert Osmond and decides to join her. Lord Warburton then glumly watches the two together during the opera. He feels angry and puzzled. Osmond later asks about Lord Warburton. Upon finding out about his character and his fortune, he declares that he would like to be Lord Warburton. Isabel jokes that he is always envying someone, and Osmond responds that his envy is not dangerous. A day later, Lord Warburton abruptly announces that he is leaving Rome, when he encounters them in the gallery of the Capitol. Isabel, then, left alone, in front of the statue of the Dying Gladiator, feeling the vividness of the past. Isabel wonders about these Greek sculptures around her, wondering what they would say if they were alive. After she is sitting alone for half an hour, Gilbert Osmond appears. Osmond notes that Isabel is quite cruel to Lord Warburton. We learn that Osmond, who is very fond of originals, takes a real liking from the idea that Lord Warburton desires Isabel. He likes the idea of taking a "young lady who had qualified herself to figure in his collection of choice objects by declining so noble a hand". In other words, he thinks of Isabel as a collector's object that he will hoard for himself. She has more value now that she has had the original idea of rejecting such an aristocratic figure as Lord Warburton

In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/29.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_10_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 29

chapter 29

{"name": "Chapter 29", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30", "summary": "Ralph notes that Osmond is a very agreeable companion. We learn that Osmond thinks Isabel is a fine figure, but that she has the fault of being too ready, too precipitate. Osmond feels quite happy and he even writes Isabel a sonnet. He has a sense of success. He had never tried much for such success, but he definitely would have felt he would have earned it, if he had had it. He knew he had style, and he felt Isabel would help him show it to the world. Isabel receives a note from her aunt, with her aunt telling her she will take her to Bellagio. Before she leaves, Osmond tells her that she will probably go and travel the world; that she is under no obligation to come back. He tells her that he has no desire to see her while she is travelling, and would prefer it if she simply visit him once she has done travelling. Isabel accuses him of thinking her travels ridiculous. He replies that this is not true, and that he believes one should make one's life a work of art. He tells her to go out and do what she likes. He tells her that he loves her. Isabel feels herself retreat, shocked by the words. He says that he only tells her because he thinks it will not offend her, and he admits he has nothing to offer her. She will always be the most important woman in the world to him, he declares. The narrator tells her \"Isabel looked at herself in this character\". She likes the image, but she reacts otherwise. He asks her to just do him a small favor when she returns to her aunt's home: he would like her to visit his daughter, Pansy, whom he has left alone during his trip to Rome. Isabel says she will do him this favor, and she dismisses him. When he leaves her alone, Isabel realizes that her imagination had been going forward to meet this moment, but when it had come, she is entirely shocked. The narrator declares Isabel's reaction odd, mentioning that her imagination is a \"vague space\" that could not seem to breach dangerous territory", "analysis": "In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not \"to signify.\" This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning."}

Ralph Touchett, in talk with his excellent friend, had rather markedly qualified, as we know, his recognition of Gilbert Osmond's personal merits; but he might really have felt himself illiberal in the light of that gentleman's conduct during the rest of the visit to Rome. Osmond spent a portion of each day with Isabel and her companions, and ended by affecting them as the easiest of men to live with. Who wouldn't have seen that he could command, as it were, both tact and gaiety?--which perhaps was exactly why Ralph had made his old-time look of superficial sociability a reproach to him. Even Isabel's invidious kinsman was obliged to admit that he was just now a delightful associate. His good humour was imperturbable, his knowledge of the right fact, his production of the right word, as convenient as the friendly flicker of a match for your cigarette. Clearly he was amused--as amused as a man could be who was so little ever surprised, and that made him almost applausive. It was not that his spirits were visibly high--he would never, in the concert of pleasure, touch the big drum by so much as a knuckle: he had a mortal dislike to the high, ragged note, to what he called random ravings. He thought Miss Archer sometimes of too precipitate a readiness. It was pity she had that fault, because if she had not had it she would really have had none; she would have been as smooth to his general need of her as handled ivory to the palm. If he was not personally loud, however, he was deep, and during these closing days of the Roman May he knew a complacency that matched with slow irregular walks under the pines of the Villa Borghese, among the small sweet meadow-flowers and the mossy marbles. He was pleased with everything; he had never before been pleased with so many things at once. Old impressions, old enjoyments, renewed themselves; one evening, going home to his room at the inn, he wrote down a little sonnet to which he prefixed the title of "Rome Revisited." A day or two later he showed this piece of correct and ingenious verse to Isabel, explaining to her that it was an Italian fashion to commemorate the occasions of life by a tribute to the muse. He took his pleasures in general singly; he was too often--he would have admitted that--too sorely aware of something wrong, something ugly; the fertilising dew of a conceivable felicity too seldom descended on his spirit. But at present he was happy--happier than he had perhaps ever been in his life, and the feeling had a large foundation. This was simply the sense of success--the most agreeable emotion of the human heart. Osmond had never had too much of it; in this respect he had the irritation of satiety, as he knew perfectly well and often reminded himself. "Ah no, I've not been spoiled; certainly I've not been spoiled," he used inwardly to repeat. "If I do succeed before I die I shall thoroughly have earned it." He was too apt to reason as if "earning" this boon consisted above all of covertly aching for it and might be confined to that exercise. Absolutely void of it, also, his career had not been; he might indeed have suggested to a spectator here and there that he was resting on vague laurels. But his triumphs were, some of them, now too old; others had been too easy. The present one had been less arduous than might have been expected, but had been easy--that is had been rapid--only because he had made an altogether exceptional effort, a greater effort than he had believed it in him to make. The desire to have something or other to show for his "parts"--to show somehow or other--had been the dream of his youth; but as the years went on the conditions attached to any marked proof of rarity had affected him more and more as gross and detestable; like the swallowing of mugs of beer to advertise what one could "stand." If an anonymous drawing on a museum wall had been conscious and watchful it might have known this peculiar pleasure of being at last and all of a sudden identified--as from the hand of a great master--by the so high and so unnoticed fact of style. His "style" was what the girl had discovered with a little help; and now, beside herself enjoying it, she should publish it to the world without his having any of the trouble. She should do the thing FOR him, and he would not have waited in vain. Shortly before the time fixed in advance for her departure this young lady received from Mrs. Touchett a telegram running as follows: "Leave Florence 4th June for Bellaggio, and take you if you have not other views. But can't wait if you dawdle in Rome." The dawdling in Rome was very pleasant, but Isabel had different views, and she let her aunt know she would immediately join her. She told Gilbert Osmond that she had done so, and he replied that, spending many of his summers as well as his winters in Italy, he himself would loiter a little longer in the cool shadow of Saint Peter's. He would not return to Florence for ten days more, and in that time she would have started for Bellaggio. It might be months in this case before he should see her again. This exchange took place in the large decorated sitting-room occupied by our friends at the hotel; it was late in the evening, and Ralph Touchett was to take his cousin back to Florence on the morrow. Osmond had found the girl alone; Miss Stackpole had contracted a friendship with a delightful American family on the fourth floor and had mounted the interminable staircase to pay them a visit. Henrietta contracted friendships, in travelling, with great freedom, and had formed in railway-carriages several that were among her most valued ties. Ralph was making arrangements for the morrow's journey, and Isabel sat alone in a wilderness of yellow upholstery. The chairs and sofas were orange; the walls and windows were draped in purple and gilt. The mirrors, the pictures had great flamboyant frames; the ceiling was deeply vaulted and painted over with naked muses and cherubs. For Osmond the place was ugly to distress; the false colours, the sham splendour were like vulgar, bragging, lying talk. Isabel had taken in hand a volume of Ampere, presented, on their arrival in Rome, by Ralph; but though she held it in her lap with her finger vaguely kept in the place she was not impatient to pursue her study. A lamp covered with a drooping veil of pink tissue-paper burned on the table beside her and diffused a strange pale rosiness over the scene. "You say you'll come back; but who knows?" Gilbert Osmond said. "I think you're much more likely to start on your voyage round the world. You're under no obligation to come back; you can do exactly what you choose; you can roam through space." "Well, Italy's a part of space," Isabel answered. "I can take it on the way." "On the way round the world? No, don't do that. Don't put us in a parenthesis--give us a chapter to ourselves. I don't want to see you on your travels. I'd rather see you when they're over. I should like to see you when you're tired and satiated," Osmond added in a moment. "I shall prefer you in that state." Isabel, with her eyes bent, fingered the pages of M. Ampere. "You turn things into ridicule without seeming to do it, though not, I think, without intending it. You've no respect for my travels--you think them ridiculous." "Where do you find that?" She went on in the same tone, fretting the edge of her book with the paper-knife. "You see my ignorance, my blunders, the way I wander about as if the world belonged to me, simply because--because it has been put into my power to do so. You don't think a woman ought to do that. You think it bold and ungraceful." "I think it beautiful," said Osmond. "You know my opinions--I've treated you to enough of them. Don't you remember my telling you that one ought to make one's life a work of art? You looked rather shocked at first; but then I told you that it was exactly what you seemed to me to be trying to do with your own." She looked up from her book. "What you despise most in the world is bad, is stupid art." "Possibly. But yours seem to me very clear and very good." "If I were to go to Japan next winter you would laugh at me," she went on. Osmond gave a smile--a keen one, but not a laugh, for the tone of their conversation was not jocose. Isabel had in fact her solemnity; he had seen it before. "You have one!" "That's exactly what I say. You think such an idea absurd." "I would give my little finger to go to Japan; it's one of the countries I want most to see. Can't you believe that, with my taste for old lacquer?" "I haven't a taste for old lacquer to excuse me," said Isabel. "You've a better excuse--the means of going. You're quite wrong in your theory that I laugh at you. I don't know what has put it into your head." "It wouldn't be remarkable if you did think it ridiculous that I should have the means to travel when you've not; for you know everything and I know nothing." "The more reason why you should travel and learn," smiled Osmond. "Besides," he added as if it were a point to be made, "I don't know everything." Isabel was not struck with the oddity of his saying this gravely; she was thinking that the pleasantest incident of her life--so it pleased her to qualify these too few days in Rome, which she might musingly have likened to the figure of some small princess of one of the ages of dress overmuffled in a mantle of state and dragging a train that it took pages or historians to hold up--that this felicity was coming to an end. That most of the interest of the time had been owing to Mr. Osmond was a reflexion she was not just now at pains to make; she had already done the point abundant justice. But she said to herself that if there were a danger they should never meet again, perhaps after all it would be as well. Happy things don't repeat themselves, and her adventure wore already the changed, the seaward face of some romantic island from which, after feasting on purple grapes, she was putting off while the breeze rose. She might come back to Italy and find him different--this strange man who pleased her just as he was; and it would be better not to come than run the risk of that. But if she was not to come the greater the pity that the chapter was closed; she felt for a moment a pang that touched the source of tears. The sensation kept her silent, and Gilbert Osmond was silent too; he was looking at her. "Go everywhere," he said at last, in a low, kind voice; "do everything; get everything out of life. Be happy,--be triumphant." "What do you mean by being triumphant?" "Well, doing what you like." "To triumph, then, it seems to me, is to fail! Doing all the vain things one likes is often very tiresome." "Exactly," said Osmond with his quiet quickness. "As I intimated just now, you'll be tired some day." He paused a moment and then he went on: "I don't know whether I had better not wait till then for something I want to say to you." "Ah, I can't advise you without knowing what it is. But I'm horrid when I'm tired," Isabel added with due inconsequence. "I don't believe that. You're angry, sometimes--that I can believe, though I've never seen it. But I'm sure you're never 'cross.'" "Not even when I lose my temper?" "You don't lose it--you find it, and that must be beautiful." Osmond spoke with a noble earnestness. "They must be great moments to see." "If I could only find it now!" Isabel nervously cried. "I'm not afraid; I should fold my arms and admire you. I'm speaking very seriously." He leaned forward, a hand on each knee; for some moments he bent his eyes on the floor. "What I wish to say to you," he went on at last, looking up, "is that I find I'm in love with you." She instantly rose. "Ah, keep that till I am tired!" "Tired of hearing it from others?" He sat there raising his eyes to her. "No, you may heed it now or never, as you please. But after all I must say it now." She had turned away, but in the movement she had stopped herself and dropped her gaze upon him. The two remained a while in this situation, exchanging a long look--the large, conscious look of the critical hours of life. Then he got up and came near her, deeply respectful, as if he were afraid he had been too familiar. "I'm absolutely in love with you." He had repeated the announcement in a tone of almost impersonal discretion, like a man who expected very little from it but who spoke for his own needed relief. The tears came into her eyes: this time they obeyed the sharpness of the pang that suggested to her somehow the slipping of a fine bolt--backward, forward, she couldn't have said which. The words he had uttered made him, as he stood there, beautiful and generous, invested him as with the golden air of early autumn; but, morally speaking, she retreated before them--facing him still--as she had retreated in the other cases before a like encounter. "Oh don't say that, please," she answered with an intensity that expressed the dread of having, in this case too, to choose and decide. What made her dread great was precisely the force which, as it would seem, ought to have banished all dread--the sense of something within herself, deep down, that she supposed to be inspired and trustful passion. It was there like a large sum stored in a bank--which there was a terror in having to begin to spend. If she touched it, it would all come out. "I haven't the idea that it will matter much to you," said Osmond. "I've too little to offer you. What I have--it's enough for me; but it's not enough for you. I've neither fortune, nor fame, nor extrinsic advantages of any kind. So I offer nothing. I only tell you because I think it can't offend you, and some day or other it may give you pleasure. It gives me pleasure, I assure you," he went on, standing there before her, considerately inclined to her, turning his hat, which he had taken up, slowly round with a movement which had all the decent tremor of awkwardness and none of its oddity, and presenting to her his firm, refined, slightly ravaged face. "It gives me no pain, because it's perfectly simple. For me you'll always be the most important woman in the world." Isabel looked at herself in this character--looked intently, thinking she filled it with a certain grace. But what she said was not an expression of any such complacency. "You don't offend me; but you ought to remember that, without being offended, one may be incommoded, troubled." "Incommoded," she heard herself saying that, and it struck her as a ridiculous word. But it was what stupidly came to her. "I remember perfectly. Of course you're surprised and startled. But if it's nothing but that, it will pass away. And it will perhaps leave something that I may not be ashamed of." "I don't know what it may leave. You see at all events that I'm not overwhelmed," said Isabel with rather a pale smile. "I'm not too troubled to think. And I think that I'm glad I leave Rome to-morrow." "Of course I don't agree with you there." "I don't at all KNOW you," she added abruptly; and then she coloured as she heard herself saying what she had said almost a year before to Lord Warburton. "If you were not going away you'd know me better." "I shall do that some other time." "I hope so. I'm very easy to know." "No, no," she emphatically answered--"there you're not sincere. You're not easy to know; no one could be less so." "Well," he laughed, "I said that because I know myself. It may be a boast, but I do." "Very likely; but you're very wise." "So are you, Miss Archer!" Osmond exclaimed. "I don't feel so just now. Still, I'm wise enough to think you had better go. Good-night." "God bless you!" said Gilbert Osmond, taking the hand which she failed to surrender. After which he added: "If we meet again you'll find me as you leave me. If we don't I shall be so all the same." "Thank you very much. Good-bye." There was something quietly firm about Isabel's visitor; he might go of his own movement, but wouldn't be dismissed. "There's one thing more. I haven't asked anything of you--not even a thought in the future; you must do me that justice. But there's a little service I should like to ask. I shall not return home for several days; Rome's delightful, and it's a good place for a man in my state of mind. Oh, I know you're sorry to leave it; but you're right to do what your aunt wishes." "She doesn't even wish it!" Isabel broke out strangely. Osmond was apparently on the point of saying something that would match these words, but he changed his mind and rejoined simply: "Ah well, it's proper you should go with her, very proper. Do everything that's proper; I go in for that. Excuse my being so patronising. You say you don't know me, but when you do you'll discover what a worship I have for propriety." "You're not conventional?" Isabel gravely asked. "I like the way you utter that word! No, I'm not conventional: I'm convention itself. You don't understand that?" And he paused a moment, smiling. "I should like to explain it." Then with a sudden, quick, bright naturalness, "Do come back again," he pleaded. "There are so many things we might talk about." She stood there with lowered eyes. "What service did you speak of just now?" "Go and see my little daughter before you leave Florence. She's alone at the villa; I decided not to send her to my sister, who hasn't at all my ideas. Tell her she must love her poor father very much," said Gilbert Osmond gently. "It will be a great pleasure to me to go," Isabel answered. "I'll tell her what you say. Once more good-bye." On this he took a rapid, respectful leave. When he had gone she stood a moment looking about her and seated herself slowly and with an air of deliberation. She sat there till her companions came back, with folded hands, gazing at the ugly carpet. Her agitation--for it had not diminished--was very still, very deep. What had happened was something that for a week past her imagination had been going forward to meet; but here, when it came, she stopped--that sublime principle somehow broke down. The working of this young lady's spirit was strange, and I can only give it to you as I see it, not hoping to make it seem altogether natural. Her imagination, as I say, now hung back: there was a last vague space it couldn't cross--a dusky, uncertain tract which looked ambiguous and even slightly treacherous, like a moorland seen in the winter twilight. But she was to cross it yet.

Chapter 29

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30

Ralph notes that Osmond is a very agreeable companion. We learn that Osmond thinks Isabel is a fine figure, but that she has the fault of being too ready, too precipitate. Osmond feels quite happy and he even writes Isabel a sonnet. He has a sense of success. He had never tried much for such success, but he definitely would have felt he would have earned it, if he had had it. He knew he had style, and he felt Isabel would help him show it to the world. Isabel receives a note from her aunt, with her aunt telling her she will take her to Bellagio. Before she leaves, Osmond tells her that she will probably go and travel the world; that she is under no obligation to come back. He tells her that he has no desire to see her while she is travelling, and would prefer it if she simply visit him once she has done travelling. Isabel accuses him of thinking her travels ridiculous. He replies that this is not true, and that he believes one should make one's life a work of art. He tells her to go out and do what she likes. He tells her that he loves her. Isabel feels herself retreat, shocked by the words. He says that he only tells her because he thinks it will not offend her, and he admits he has nothing to offer her. She will always be the most important woman in the world to him, he declares. The narrator tells her "Isabel looked at herself in this character". She likes the image, but she reacts otherwise. He asks her to just do him a small favor when she returns to her aunt's home: he would like her to visit his daughter, Pansy, whom he has left alone during his trip to Rome. Isabel says she will do him this favor, and she dismisses him. When he leaves her alone, Isabel realizes that her imagination had been going forward to meet this moment, but when it had come, she is entirely shocked. The narrator declares Isabel's reaction odd, mentioning that her imagination is a "vague space" that could not seem to breach dangerous territory

In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/30.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_10_part_4.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 30

chapter 30

{"name": "Chapter 30", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-27-30", "summary": "Isabel announces her intention to visit Pansy to Madame Merle, but Merle cautions her that it might not look appropriate, since Gilbert Osmond is a bachelor. Isabel wonders what it matters, as Osmond is not there currently. Merle responds, \"They don't know he's away, you see. Isabel asks whom she means. She responds, \"Everyone. But perhaps it doesn't signify\". Isabel goes to visit Pansy anyway. She is extremely impressed by the young creature, noting how innocent she is. She wonders if perhaps the natural mannerism of the child is really the \"perfection of self-consciousness\". The narrator thinks that Pansy is really a blank page, which really has no will and could be easily mystified. Pansy mentions to Isabel how a friend of hers has been withdrawn from the convent in order to save money for her dowry. She wonders if that is the reason why she is being withdrawn from the convent. She notes that it costs much money to marry, but she wishes really only to stay with her father for her whole life. Pansy says she lives for her father, to make him happy. Isabel leaves, feeling like she would have liked to tell Pansy something about her father, but that she will have ruined Pansy's innocence if she does", "analysis": "In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not \"to signify.\" This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning."}

She returned on the morrow to Florence, under her cousin's escort, and Ralph Touchett, though usually restive under railway discipline, thought very well of the successive hours passed in the train that hurried his companion away from the city now distinguished by Gilbert Osmond's preference--hours that were to form the first stage in a larger scheme of travel. Miss Stackpole had remained behind; she was planning a little trip to Naples, to be carried out with Mr. Bantling's aid. Isabel was to have three days in Florence before the 4th of June, the date of Mrs. Touchett's departure, and she determined to devote the last of these to her promise to call on Pansy Osmond. Her plan, however, seemed for a moment likely to modify itself in deference to an idea of Madame Merle's. This lady was still at Casa Touchett; but she too was on the point of leaving Florence, her next station being an ancient castle in the mountains of Tuscany, the residence of a noble family of that country, whose acquaintance (she had known them, as she said, "forever") seemed to Isabel, in the light of certain photographs of their immense crenellated dwelling which her friend was able to show her, a precious privilege. She mentioned to this fortunate woman that Mr. Osmond had asked her to take a look at his daughter, but didn't mention that he had also made her a declaration of love. "Ah, comme cela se trouve!" Madame Merle exclaimed. "I myself have been thinking it would be a kindness to pay the child a little visit before I go off." "We can go together then," Isabel reasonably said: "reasonably" because the proposal was not uttered in the spirit of enthusiasm. She had prefigured her small pilgrimage as made in solitude; she should like it better so. She was nevertheless prepared to sacrifice this mystic sentiment to her great consideration for her friend. That personage finely meditated. "After all, why should we both go; having, each of us, so much to do during these last hours?" "Very good; I can easily go alone." "I don't know about your going alone--to the house of a handsome bachelor. He has been married--but so long ago!" Isabel stared. "When Mr. Osmond's away what does it matter?" "They don't know he's away, you see." "They? Whom do you mean?" "Every one. But perhaps it doesn't signify." "If you were going why shouldn't I?" Isabel asked. "Because I'm an old frump and you're a beautiful young woman." "Granting all that, you've not promised." "How much you think of your promises!" said the elder woman in mild mockery. "I think a great deal of my promises. Does that surprise you?" "You're right," Madame Merle audibly reflected. "I really think you wish to be kind to the child." "I wish very much to be kind to her." "Go and see her then; no one will be the wiser. And tell her I'd have come if you hadn't. Or rather," Madame Merle added, "DON'T tell her. She won't care." As Isabel drove, in the publicity of an open vehicle, along the winding way which led to Mr. Osmond's hill-top, she wondered what her friend had meant by no one's being the wiser. Once in a while, at large intervals, this lady, whose voyaging discretion, as a general thing, was rather of the open sea than of the risky channel, dropped a remark of ambiguous quality, struck a note that sounded false. What cared Isabel Archer for the vulgar judgements of obscure people? and did Madame Merle suppose that she was capable of doing a thing at all if it had to be sneakingly done? Of course not: she must have meant something else--something which in the press of the hours that preceded her departure she had not had time to explain. Isabel would return to this some day; there were sorts of things as to which she liked to be clear. She heard Pansy strumming at the piano in another place as she herself was ushered into Mr. Osmond's drawing-room; the little girl was "practising," and Isabel was pleased to think she performed this duty with rigour. She immediately came in, smoothing down her frock, and did the honours of her father's house with a wide-eyed earnestness of courtesy. Isabel sat there half an hour, and Pansy rose to the occasion as the small, winged fairy in the pantomime soars by the aid of the dissimulated wire--not chattering, but conversing, and showing the same respectful interest in Isabel's affairs that Isabel was so good as to take in hers. Isabel wondered at her; she had never had so directly presented to her nose the white flower of cultivated sweetness. How well the child had been taught, said our admiring young woman; how prettily she had been directed and fashioned; and yet how simple, how natural, how innocent she had been kept! Isabel was fond, ever, of the question of character and quality, of sounding, as who should say, the deep personal mystery, and it had pleased her, up to this time, to be in doubt as to whether this tender slip were not really all-knowing. Was the extremity of her candour but the perfection of self-consciousness? Was it put on to please her father's visitor, or was it the direct expression of an unspotted nature? The hour that Isabel spent in Mr. Osmond's beautiful empty, dusky rooms--the windows had been half-darkened, to keep out the heat, and here and there, through an easy crevice, the splendid summer day peeped in, lighting a gleam of faded colour or tarnished gilt in the rich gloom--her interview with the daughter of the house, I say, effectually settled this question. Pansy was really a blank page, a pure white surface, successfully kept so; she had neither art, nor guile, nor temper, nor talent--only two or three small exquisite instincts: for knowing a friend, for avoiding a mistake, for taking care of an old toy or a new frock. Yet to be so tender was to be touching withal, and she could be felt as an easy victim of fate. She would have no will, no power to resist, no sense of her own importance; she would easily be mystified, easily crushed: her force would be all in knowing when and where to cling. She moved about the place with her visitor, who had asked leave to walk through the other rooms again, where Pansy gave her judgement on several works of art. She spoke of her prospects, her occupations, her father's intentions; she was not egotistical, but felt the propriety of supplying the information so distinguished a guest would naturally expect. "Please tell me," she said, "did papa, in Rome, go to see Madame Catherine? He told me he would if he had time. Perhaps he had not time. Papa likes a great deal of time. He wished to speak about my education; it isn't finished yet, you know. I don't know what they can do with me more; but it appears it's far from finished. Papa told me one day he thought he would finish it himself; for the last year or two, at the convent, the masters that teach the tall girls are so very dear. Papa's not rich, and I should be very sorry if he were to pay much money for me, because I don't think I'm worth it. I don't learn quickly enough, and I have no memory. For what I'm told, yes--especially when it's pleasant; but not for what I learn in a book. There was a young girl who was my best friend, and they took her away from the convent, when she was fourteen, to make--how do you say it in English?--to make a dot. You don't say it in English? I hope it isn't wrong; I only mean they wished to keep the money to marry her. I don't know whether it is for that that papa wishes to keep the money--to marry me. It costs so much to marry!" Pansy went on with a sigh; "I think papa might make that economy. At any rate I'm too young to think about it yet, and I don't care for any gentleman; I mean for any but him. If he were not my papa I should like to marry him; I would rather be his daughter than the wife of--of some strange person. I miss him very much, but not so much as you might think, for I've been so much away from him. Papa has always been principally for holidays. I miss Madame Catherine almost more; but you must not tell him that. You shall not see him again? I'm very sorry, and he'll be sorry too. Of everyone who comes here I like you the best. That's not a great compliment, for there are not many people. It was very kind of you to come to-day--so far from your house; for I'm really as yet only a child. Oh, yes, I've only the occupations of a child. When did YOU give them up, the occupations of a child? I should like to know how old you are, but I don't know whether it's right to ask. At the convent they told us that we must never ask the age. I don't like to do anything that's not expected; it looks as if one had not been properly taught. I myself--I should never like to be taken by surprise. Papa left directions for everything. I go to bed very early. When the sun goes off that side I go into the garden. Papa left strict orders that I was not to get scorched. I always enjoy the view; the mountains are so graceful. In Rome, from the convent, we saw nothing but roofs and bell-towers. I practise three hours. I don't play very well. You play yourself? I wish very much you'd play something for me; papa has the idea that I should hear good music. Madame Merle has played for me several times; that's what I like best about Madame Merle; she has great facility. I shall never have facility. And I've no voice--just a small sound like the squeak of a slate-pencil making flourishes." Isabel gratified this respectful wish, drew off her gloves and sat down to the piano, while Pansy, standing beside her, watched her white hands move quickly over the keys. When she stopped she kissed the child good-bye, held her close, looked at her long. "Be very good," she said; "give pleasure to your father." "I think that's what I live for," Pansy answered. "He has not much pleasure; he's rather a sad man." Isabel listened to this assertion with an interest which she felt it almost a torment to be obliged to conceal. It was her pride that obliged her, and a certain sense of decency; there were still other things in her head which she felt a strong impulse, instantly checked, to say to Pansy about her father; there were things it would have given her pleasure to hear the child, to make the child, say. But she no sooner became conscious of these things than her imagination was hushed with horror at the idea of taking advantage of the little girl--it was of this she would have accused herself--and of exhaling into that air where he might still have a subtle sense for it any breath of her charmed state. She had come--she had come; but she had stayed only an hour. She rose quickly from the music-stool; even then, however, she lingered a moment, still holding her small companion, drawing the child's sweet slimness closer and looking down at her almost in envy. She was obliged to confess it to herself--she would have taken a passionate pleasure in talking of Gilbert Osmond to this innocent, diminutive creature who was so near him. But she said no other word; she only kissed Pansy once again. They went together through the vestibule, to the door that opened on the court; and there her young hostess stopped, looking rather wistfully beyond. "I may go no further. I've promised papa not to pass this door." "You're right to obey him; he'll never ask you anything unreasonable." "I shall always obey him. But when will you come again?" "Not for a long time, I'm afraid." "As soon as you can, I hope. I'm only a little girl," said Pansy, "but I shall always expect you." And the small figure stood in the high, dark doorway, watching Isabel cross the clear, grey court and disappear into the brightness beyond the big portone, which gave a wider dazzle as it opened.

Chapter 30

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Isabel announces her intention to visit Pansy to Madame Merle, but Merle cautions her that it might not look appropriate, since Gilbert Osmond is a bachelor. Isabel wonders what it matters, as Osmond is not there currently. Merle responds, "They don't know he's away, you see. Isabel asks whom she means. She responds, "Everyone. But perhaps it doesn't signify". Isabel goes to visit Pansy anyway. She is extremely impressed by the young creature, noting how innocent she is. She wonders if perhaps the natural mannerism of the child is really the "perfection of self-consciousness". The narrator thinks that Pansy is really a blank page, which really has no will and could be easily mystified. Pansy mentions to Isabel how a friend of hers has been withdrawn from the convent in order to save money for her dowry. She wonders if that is the reason why she is being withdrawn from the convent. She notes that it costs much money to marry, but she wishes really only to stay with her father for her whole life. Pansy says she lives for her father, to make him happy. Isabel leaves, feeling like she would have liked to tell Pansy something about her father, but that she will have ruined Pansy's innocence if she does

In these chapters, we start to see the significance of one person's view of oneself for determining one's actions and preferences in the world. Isabel likes how she herself is seen by Gilbert Osmond; Gilbert Osmond likes how Lord Warburton sees Isabel, and decides that Isabel is worthy of being admired because of it; and Ralph believes that if he and Lord Warburton do not suggest Isabel that Gilbert Osmond is not a good suitor, that she will not act the contrary part and end up marrying him. Isabel seems to be an original because she likes to act contrary to how people expect her to, so Ralph believes that if they do not want her to marry Gilbert Osmond, she will do the opposite. Yet, Isabel also likes how she is seen from the eyes of Gilbert Osmond -- but she is here trying to act contrary to this vision, as if she wanted to continue asserting her liberty. However, the problem is that Gilbert Osmond does not give her something very concrete to react against: it is instead a vague image, as he does not even propose marriage to her. This allows for her imagination to grow enormously. If he had proposed marriage, it seems that she would have had an immediate reaction to the contrary. It is interesting to consider the growth of Isabel's imagination in the context of the sudden appearances of Lord Warburton and Gilbert Osmond, which are juxtaposed against each other. Lord Warburton interrupts her inner world, as if he is a daydream come alive. He admits that she has appeared to him as if he had wished her into existence, but the set up of the scene implies to us that Isabel herself has wished him into existence. Yet, it is almost as if this exact correspondence to her imagination is something that Isabel cannot accept: she is too ambitious to be satisfied with the concrete reality of any of her ideas, and thus she rejects him. Notably, the background references the buried past: she is in a site where they have archaeological digs. It is as if something real and concrete has been dug up from her past life and appeared here in Rome -- Lord Warburton himself. In contrast, Gilbert Osmond appears in Saint Peter's basilica, described as a place where most people are disappointed. Isabel though is not disappointed, because she is capable of imagining something that is not there, while also ignoring that which is actually present before her eyes. We are led to believe that this is how she sees Osmond: she can imagine a lot of vague things about him, because she is blind to what is right before her eyes, and because she is not able to concretely grasp what he is about. Osmond's vague declaration of love serves to further this pattern. Because he is not concretely offering his hand in marriage, she is instead allowed to imagine further possibilities as to where their relationship might go, to have her own original idea about them, rather than slotting them into a conventional social form. Isabel's imagination works best when it is vague or when it is working against something concrete. But when something corresponds to her imagination, it is as if she is scared of something -- perhaps disappointment of how pathetic reality actually is. Pansy's characterization in Chapter 30 gives plenty of room for Isabel's imagination, but it has little substance in itself. She is described as a blank page, so that Isabel can project what she wishes to upon her. It seems that this might be the seed for Isabel's later acceptance of Osmond's proposal of marriage. Isabel would like to do something for the child - she would like to give Pansy the choice to marry or not. This could be one interpretation of Isabel's psychological motivations for marrying Gilbert Osmond. In Chapter 30, we get an indication of what the social mores were at the time. It was inappropriate for young women to visit unmarried men alone. This is evidence of the Victorian prudery of the time. Isabel makes a good point in noting that Merle has visited Osmond alone and it has not mattered. There is a suggestion though that Merle has made a point of allowing her visits not "to signify." This is an interesting theme throughout the work: what do social conventions signify, and how do they signify? For example, what does it mean when someone acts inappropriately - does it mean that this person is vulgar? Merle hints that she is a master of manipulating the signs of social conventions: she can control how things signify, rather than simply accepting that they signify something obvious. See Sharon Cameron's work for more on how characters manipulate social signs and meaning.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/31.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_11_part_1.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 31

chapter 31

{"name": "Chapter 31", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35", "summary": "The chapter opens with Isabel sitting at a window of Mrs. Touchett's Palazzo Crescentini, waiting for someone. A year has passed since she had left Florence: during this time, her sister and her sister's husband, the Ludlows, have visited her and toured Switzerland, Paris, and London with her. When they left, she felt free to act: she goes on a trip to the East with Madame Merle. She visits Turkey, Greece, and Egypt. Then she returns to Rome, and Gilbert Osmond comes down to visit her for a few weeks. The narrator has described all of this in the course of a few pages, all as background to the scene in which Isabel is waiting for a mysterious someone to arrive", "analysis": ". It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. \"If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures,\" the narrator tells us. This again is called \"hypothetical discourse\" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. \"His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her,\" the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great \"idea\" she would actualize in the world only in the \"negative\" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel \"served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself.\" Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a \"silver plate.\" Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself."}

Isabel came back to Florence, but only after several months; an interval sufficiently replete with incident. It is not, however, during this interval that we are closely concerned with her; our attention is engaged again on a certain day in the late spring-time, shortly after her return to Palazzo Crescentini and a year from the date of the incidents just narrated. She was alone on this occasion, in one of the smaller of the numerous rooms devoted by Mrs. Touchett to social uses, and there was that in her expression and attitude which would have suggested that she was expecting a visitor. The tall window was open, and though its green shutters were partly drawn the bright air of the garden had come in through a broad interstice and filled the room with warmth and perfume. Our young woman stood near it for some time, her hands clasped behind her; she gazed abroad with the vagueness of unrest. Too troubled for attention she moved in a vain circle. Yet it could not be in her thought to catch a glimpse of her visitor before he should pass into the house, since the entrance to the palace was not through the garden, in which stillness and privacy always reigned. She wished rather to forestall his arrival by a process of conjecture, and to judge by the expression of her face this attempt gave her plenty to do. Grave she found herself, and positively more weighted, as by the experience of the lapse of the year she had spent in seeing the world. She had ranged, she would have said, through space and surveyed much of mankind, and was therefore now, in her own eyes, a very different person from the frivolous young woman from Albany who had begun to take the measure of Europe on the lawn at Gardencourt a couple of years before. She flattered herself she had harvested wisdom and learned a great deal more of life than this light-minded creature had even suspected. If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures. These pictures would have been both landscapes and figure-pieces; the latter, however, would have been the more numerous. With several of the images that might have been projected on such a field we are already acquainted. There would be for instance the conciliatory Lily, our heroine's sister and Edmund Ludlow's wife, who had come out from New York to spend five months with her relative. She had left her husband behind her, but had brought her children, to whom Isabel now played with equal munificence and tenderness the part of maiden-aunt. Mr. Ludlow, toward the last, had been able to snatch a few weeks from his forensic triumphs and, crossing the ocean with extreme rapidity, had spent a month with the two ladies in Paris before taking his wife home. The little Ludlows had not yet, even from the American point of view, reached the proper tourist-age; so that while her sister was with her Isabel had confined her movements to a narrow circle. Lily and the babies had joined her in Switzerland in the month of July, and they had spent a summer of fine weather in an Alpine valley where the flowers were thick in the meadows and the shade of great chestnuts made a resting-place for such upward wanderings as might be undertaken by ladies and children on warm afternoons. They had afterwards reached the French capital, which was worshipped, and with costly ceremonies, by Lily, but thought of as noisily vacant by Isabel, who in these days made use of her memory of Rome as she might have done, in a hot and crowded room, of a phial of something pungent hidden in her handkerchief. Mrs. Ludlow sacrificed, as I say, to Paris, yet had doubts and wonderments not allayed at that altar; and after her husband had joined her found further chagrin in his failure to throw himself into these speculations. They all had Isabel for subject; but Edmund Ludlow, as he had always done before, declined to be surprised, or distressed, or mystified, or elated, at anything his sister-in-law might have done or have failed to do. Mrs. Ludlow's mental motions were sufficiently various. At one moment she thought it would be so natural for that young woman to come home and take a house in New York--the Rossiters', for instance, which had an elegant conservatory and was just round the corner from her own; at another she couldn't conceal her surprise at the girl's not marrying some member of one of the great aristocracies. On the whole, as I have said, she had fallen from high communion with the probabilities. She had taken more satisfaction in Isabel's accession of fortune than if the money had been left to herself; it had seemed to her to offer just the proper setting for her sister's slightly meagre, but scarce the less eminent figure. Isabel had developed less, however, than Lily had thought likely--development, to Lily's understanding, being somehow mysteriously connected with morning-calls and evening-parties. Intellectually, doubtless, she had made immense strides; but she appeared to have achieved few of those social conquests of which Mrs. Ludlow had expected to admire the trophies. Lily's conception of such achievements was extremely vague; but this was exactly what she had expected of Isabel--to give it form and body. Isabel could have done as well as she had done in New York; and Mrs. Ludlow appealed to her husband to know whether there was any privilege she enjoyed in Europe which the society of that city might not offer her. We know ourselves that Isabel had made conquests--whether inferior or not to those she might have effected in her native land it would be a delicate matter to decide; and it is not altogether with a feeling of complacency that I again mention that she had not rendered these honourable victories public. She had not told her sister the history of Lord Warburton, nor had she given her a hint of Mr. Osmond's state of mind; and she had had no better reason for her silence than that she didn't wish to speak. It was more romantic to say nothing, and, drinking deep, in secret, of romance, she was as little disposed to ask poor Lily's advice as she would have been to close that rare volume forever. But Lily knew nothing of these discriminations, and could only pronounce her sister's career a strange anti-climax--an impression confirmed by the fact that Isabel's silence about Mr. Osmond, for instance, was in direct proportion to the frequency with which he occupied her thoughts. As this happened very often it sometimes appeared to Mrs. Ludlow that she had lost her courage. So uncanny a result of so exhilarating an incident as inheriting a fortune was of course perplexing to the cheerful Lily; it added to her general sense that Isabel was not at all like other people. Our young lady's courage, however, might have been taken as reaching its height after her relations had gone home. She could imagine braver things than spending the winter in Paris--Paris had sides by which it so resembled New York, Paris was like smart, neat prose--and her close correspondence with Madame Merle did much to stimulate such flights. She had never had a keener sense of freedom, of the absolute boldness and wantonness of liberty, than when she turned away from the platform at the Euston Station on one of the last days of November, after the departure of the train that was to convey poor Lily, her husband and her children to their ship at Liverpool. It had been good for her to regale; she was very conscious of that; she was very observant, as we know, of what was good for her, and her effort was constantly to find something that was good enough. To profit by the present advantage till the latest moment she had made the journey from Paris with the unenvied travellers. She would have accompanied them to Liverpool as well, only Edmund Ludlow had asked her, as a favour, not to do so; it made Lily so fidgety and she asked such impossible questions. Isabel watched the train move away; she kissed her hand to the elder of her small nephews, a demonstrative child who leaned dangerously far out of the window of the carriage and made separation an occasion of violent hilarity, and then she walked back into the foggy London street. The world lay before her--she could do whatever she chose. There was a deep thrill in it all, but for the present her choice was tolerably discreet; she chose simply to walk back from Euston Square to her hotel. The early dusk of a November afternoon had already closed in; the street-lamps, in the thick, brown air, looked weak and red; our heroine was unattended and Euston Square was a long way from Piccadilly. But Isabel performed the journey with a positive enjoyment of its dangers and lost her way almost on purpose, in order to get more sensations, so that she was disappointed when an obliging policeman easily set her right again. She was so fond of the spectacle of human life that she enjoyed even the aspect of gathering dusk in the London streets--the moving crowds, the hurrying cabs, the lighted shops, the flaring stalls, the dark, shining dampness of everything. That evening, at her hotel, she wrote to Madame Merle that she should start in a day or two for Rome. She made her way down to Rome without touching at Florence--having gone first to Venice and then proceeded southward by Ancona. She accomplished this journey without other assistance than that of her servant, for her natural protectors were not now on the ground. Ralph Touchett was spending the winter at Corfu, and Miss Stackpole, in the September previous, had been recalled to America by a telegram from the Interviewer. This journal offered its brilliant correspondent a fresher field for her genius than the mouldering cities of Europe, and Henrietta was cheered on her way by a promise from Mr. Bantling that he would soon come over to see her. Isabel wrote to Mrs. Touchett to apologise for not presenting herself just yet in Florence, and her aunt replied characteristically enough. Apologies, Mrs. Touchett intimated, were of no more use to her than bubbles, and she herself never dealt in such articles. One either did the thing or one didn't, and what one "would" have done belonged to the sphere of the irrelevant, like the idea of a future life or of the origin of things. Her letter was frank, but (a rare case with Mrs. Touchett) not so frank as it pretended. She easily forgave her niece for not stopping at Florence, because she took it for a sign that Gilbert Osmond was less in question there than formerly. She watched of course to see if he would now find a pretext for going to Rome, and derived some comfort from learning that he had not been guilty of an absence. Isabel, on her side, had not been a fortnight in Rome before she proposed to Madame Merle that they should make a little pilgrimage to the East. Madame Merle remarked that her friend was restless, but she added that she herself had always been consumed with the desire to visit Athens and Constantinople. The two ladies accordingly embarked on this expedition, and spent three months in Greece, in Turkey, in Egypt. Isabel found much to interest her in these countries, though Madame Merle continued to remark that even among the most classic sites, the scenes most calculated to suggest repose and reflexion, a certain incoherence prevailed in her. Isabel travelled rapidly and recklessly; she was like a thirsty person draining cup after cup. Madame Merle meanwhile, as lady-in-waiting to a princess circulating incognita, panted a little in her rear. It was on Isabel's invitation she had come, and she imparted all due dignity to the girl's uncountenanced state. She played her part with the tact that might have been expected of her, effacing herself and accepting the position of a companion whose expenses were profusely paid. The situation, however, had no hardships, and people who met this reserved though striking pair on their travels would not have been able to tell you which was patroness and which client. To say that Madame Merle improved on acquaintance states meagrely the impression she made on her friend, who had found her from the first so ample and so easy. At the end of an intimacy of three months Isabel felt she knew her better; her character had revealed itself, and the admirable woman had also at last redeemed her promise of relating her history from her own point of view--a consummation the more desirable as Isabel had already heard it related from the point of view of others. This history was so sad a one (in so far as it concerned the late M. Merle, a positive adventurer, she might say, though originally so plausible, who had taken advantage, years before, of her youth and of an inexperience in which doubtless those who knew her only now would find it difficult to believe); it abounded so in startling and lamentable incidents that her companion wondered a person so eprouvee could have kept so much of her freshness, her interest in life. Into this freshness of Madame Merle's she obtained a considerable insight; she seemed to see it as professional, as slightly mechanical, carried about in its case like the fiddle of the virtuoso, or blanketed and bridled like the "favourite" of the jockey. She liked her as much as ever, but there was a corner of the curtain that never was lifted; it was as if she had remained after all something of a public performer, condemned to emerge only in character and in costume. She had once said that she came from a distance, that she belonged to the "old, old" world, and Isabel never lost the impression that she was the product of a different moral or social clime from her own, that she had grown up under other stars. She believed then that at bottom she had a different morality. Of course the morality of civilised persons has always much in common; but our young woman had a sense in her of values gone wrong or, as they said at the shops, marked down. She considered, with the presumption of youth, that a morality differing from her own must be inferior to it; and this conviction was an aid to detecting an occasional flash of cruelty, an occasional lapse from candour, in the conversation of a person who had raised delicate kindness to an art and whose pride was too high for the narrow ways of deception. Her conception of human motives might, in certain lights, have been acquired at the court of some kingdom in decadence, and there were several in her list of which our heroine had not even heard. She had not heard of everything, that was very plain; and there were evidently things in the world of which it was not advantageous to hear. She had once or twice had a positive scare; since it so affected her to have to exclaim, of her friend, "Heaven forgive her, she doesn't understand me!" Absurd as it may seem this discovery operated as a shock, left her with a vague dismay in which there was even an element of foreboding. The dismay of course subsided, in the light of some sudden proof of Madame Merle's remarkable intelligence; but it stood for a high-water-mark in the ebb and flow of confidence. Madame Merle had once declared her belief that when a friendship ceases to grow it immediately begins to decline--there being no point of equilibrium between liking more and liking less. A stationary affection, in other words, was impossible--it must move one way or the other. However that might be, the girl had in these days a thousand uses for her sense of the romantic, which was more active than it had ever been. I do not allude to the impulse it received as she gazed at the Pyramids in the course of an excursion from Cairo, or as she stood among the broken columns of the Acropolis and fixed her eyes upon the point designated to her as the Strait of Salamis; deep and memorable as these emotions had remained. She came back by the last of March from Egypt and Greece and made another stay in Rome. A few days after her arrival Gilbert Osmond descended from Florence and remained three weeks, during which the fact of her being with his old friend Madame Merle, in whose house she had gone to lodge, made it virtually inevitable that he should see her every day. When the last of April came she wrote to Mrs. Touchett that she should now rejoice to accept an invitation given long before, and went to pay a visit at Palazzo Crescentini, Madame Merle on this occasion remaining in Rome. She found her aunt alone; her cousin was still at Corfu. Ralph, however, was expected in Florence from day to day, and Isabel, who had not seen him for upwards of a year, was prepared to give him the most affectionate welcome.

Chapter 31

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35

The chapter opens with Isabel sitting at a window of Mrs. Touchett's Palazzo Crescentini, waiting for someone. A year has passed since she had left Florence: during this time, her sister and her sister's husband, the Ludlows, have visited her and toured Switzerland, Paris, and London with her. When they left, she felt free to act: she goes on a trip to the East with Madame Merle. She visits Turkey, Greece, and Egypt. Then she returns to Rome, and Gilbert Osmond comes down to visit her for a few weeks. The narrator has described all of this in the course of a few pages, all as background to the scene in which Isabel is waiting for a mysterious someone to arrive

. It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/32.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_11_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 32

chapter 32

{"name": "Chapter 32", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35", "summary": "We learn that Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. Isabel tells her that she wishes he had not come. Mr. Goodwood tells her that after what she has done to him he shall never feel anything for the rest of his life - just what she has done to him. Isabel notes that she will have to prepare for Henrietta arriving, and Goodwood asks if Henrietta knows of Mr. Osmond. Isabel says that she does not marry to please Henrietta. Isabel claims that she does not marry for any of her friends, and that she is marrying a \"perfect nonentity\". Isabel feels agitation upon seeing Caspar Goodwood in his misery. But as he is leaving, she is afraid he will not utter the word that will give her the opportunity to defend herself. Although, the narrator wonders, if she has done nothing wrong, why is she so eager to defend herself. The narrator concludes that she is being generous to Goodwood. She claims she never deceived him, and that she was perfectly free. Caspar tells her he came to see for himself. He admits that he is selfish and would want her to be married to no one if she would not marry him. When he leaves, she breaks into a fit of weeping", "analysis": ". It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. \"If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures,\" the narrator tells us. This again is called \"hypothetical discourse\" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. \"His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her,\" the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great \"idea\" she would actualize in the world only in the \"negative\" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel \"served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself.\" Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a \"silver plate.\" Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself."}

It was not of him, nevertheless, that she was thinking while she stood at the window near which we found her a while ago, and it was not of any of the matters I have rapidly sketched. She was not turned to the past, but to the immediate, impending hour. She had reason to expect a scene, and she was not fond of scenes. She was not asking herself what she should say to her visitor; this question had already been answered. What he would say to her--that was the interesting issue. It could be nothing in the least soothing--she had warrant for this, and the conviction doubtless showed in the cloud on her brow. For the rest, however, all clearness reigned in her; she had put away her mourning and she walked in no small shimmering splendour. She only, felt older--ever so much, and as if she were "worth more" for it, like some curious piece in an antiquary's collection. She was not at any rate left indefinitely to her apprehensions, for a servant at last stood before her with a card on his tray. "Let the gentleman come in," she said, and continued to gaze out of the window after the footman had retired. It was only when she had heard the door close behind the person who presently entered that she looked round. Caspar Goodwood stood there--stood and received a moment, from head to foot, the bright, dry gaze with which she rather withheld than offered a greeting. Whether his sense of maturity had kept pace with Isabel's we shall perhaps presently ascertain; let me say meanwhile that to her critical glance he showed nothing of the injury of time. Straight, strong and hard, there was nothing in his appearance that spoke positively either of youth or of age; if he had neither innocence nor weakness, so he had no practical philosophy. His jaw showed the same voluntary cast as in earlier days; but a crisis like the present had in it of course something grim. He had the air of a man who had travelled hard; he said nothing at first, as if he had been out of breath. This gave Isabel time to make a reflexion: "Poor fellow, what great things he's capable of, and what a pity he should waste so dreadfully his splendid force! What a pity too that one can't satisfy everybody!" It gave her time to do more to say at the end of a minute: "I can't tell you how I hoped you wouldn't come!" "I've no doubt of that." And he looked about him for a seat. Not only had he come, but he meant to settle. "You must be very tired," said Isabel, seating herself, and generously, as she thought, to give him his opportunity. "No, I'm not at all tired. Did you ever know me to be tired?" "Never; I wish I had! When did you arrive?" "Last night, very late; in a kind of snail-train they call the express. These Italian trains go at about the rate of an American funeral." "That's in keeping--you must have felt as if you were coming to bury me!" And she forced a smile of encouragement to an easy view of their situation. She had reasoned the matter well out, making it perfectly clear that she broke no faith and falsified no contract; but for all this she was afraid of her visitor. She was ashamed of her fear; but she was devoutly thankful there was nothing else to be ashamed of. He looked at her with his stiff insistence, an insistence in which there was such a want of tact; especially when the dull dark beam in his eye rested on her as a physical weight. "No, I didn't feel that; I couldn't think of you as dead. I wish I could!" he candidly declared. "I thank you immensely." "I'd rather think of you as dead than as married to another man." "That's very selfish of you!" she returned with the ardour of a real conviction. "If you're not happy yourself others have yet a right to be." "Very likely it's selfish; but I don't in the least mind your saying so. I don't mind anything you can say now--I don't feel it. The cruellest things you could think of would be mere pin-pricks. After what you've done I shall never feel anything--I mean anything but that. That I shall feel all my life." Mr. Goodwood made these detached assertions with dry deliberateness, in his hard, slow American tone, which flung no atmospheric colour over propositions intrinsically crude. The tone made Isabel angry rather than touched her; but her anger perhaps was fortunate, inasmuch as it gave her a further reason for controlling herself. It was under the pressure of this control that she became, after a little, irrelevant. "When did you leave New York?" He threw up his head as if calculating. "Seventeen days ago." "You must have travelled fast in spite of your slow trains." "I came as fast as I could. I'd have come five days ago if I had been able." "It wouldn't have made any difference, Mr. Goodwood," she coldly smiled. "Not to you--no. But to me." "You gain nothing that I see." "That's for me to judge!" "Of course. To me it seems that you only torment yourself." And then, to change the subject, she asked him if he had seen Henrietta Stackpole. He looked as if he had not come from Boston to Florence to talk of Henrietta Stackpole; but he answered, distinctly enough, that this young lady had been with him just before he left America. "She came to see you?" Isabel then demanded. "Yes, she was in Boston, and she called at my office. It was the day I had got your letter." "Did you tell her?" Isabel asked with a certain anxiety. "Oh no," said Caspar Goodwood simply; "I didn't want to do that. She'll hear it quick enough; she hears everything." "I shall write to her, and then she'll write to me and scold me," Isabel declared, trying to smile again. Caspar, however, remained sternly grave. "I guess she'll come right out," he said. "On purpose to scold me?" "I don't know. She seemed to think she had not seen Europe thoroughly." "I'm glad you tell me that," Isabel said. "I must prepare for her." Mr. Goodwood fixed his eyes for a moment on the floor; then at last, raising them, "Does she know Mr. Osmond?" he enquired. "A little. And she doesn't like him. But of course I don't marry to please Henrietta," she added. It would have been better for poor Caspar if she had tried a little more to gratify Miss Stackpole; but he didn't say so; he only asked, presently, when her marriage would take place. To which she made answer that she didn't know yet. "I can only say it will be soon. I've told no one but yourself and one other person--an old friend of Mr. Osmond's." "Is it a marriage your friends won't like?" he demanded. "I really haven't an idea. As I say, I don't marry for my friends." He went on, making no exclamation, no comment, only asking questions, doing it quite without delicacy. "Who and what then is Mr. Gilbert Osmond?" "Who and what? Nobody and nothing but a very good and very honourable man. He's not in business," said Isabel. "He's not rich; he's not known for anything in particular." She disliked Mr. Goodwood's questions, but she said to herself that she owed it to him to satisfy him as far as possible. The satisfaction poor Caspar exhibited was, however, small; he sat very upright, gazing at her. "Where does he come from? Where does he belong?" She had never been so little pleased with the way he said "belawng." "He comes from nowhere. He has spent most of his life in Italy." "You said in your letter he was American. Hasn't he a native place?" "Yes, but he has forgotten it. He left it as a small boy." "Has he never gone back?" "Why should he go back?" Isabel asked, flushing all defensively. "He has no profession." "He might have gone back for his pleasure. Doesn't he like the United States?" "He doesn't know them. Then he's very quiet and very simple--he contents himself with Italy." "With Italy and with you," said Mr. Goodwood with gloomy plainness and no appearance of trying to make an epigram. "What has he ever done?" he added abruptly. "That I should marry him? Nothing at all," Isabel replied while her patience helped itself by turning a little to hardness. "If he had done great things would you forgive me any better? Give me up, Mr. Goodwood; I'm marrying a perfect nonentity. Don't try to take an interest in him. You can't." "I can't appreciate him; that's what you mean. And you don't mean in the least that he's a perfect nonentity. You think he's grand, you think he's great, though no one else thinks so." Isabel's colour deepened; she felt this really acute of her companion, and it was certainly a proof of the aid that passion might render perceptions she had never taken for fine. "Why do you always come back to what others think? I can't discuss Mr. Osmond with you." "Of course not," said Caspar reasonably. And he sat there with his air of stiff helplessness, as if not only this were true, but there were nothing else that they might discuss. "You see how little you gain," she accordingly broke out--"how little comfort or satisfaction I can give you." "I didn't expect you to give me much." "I don't understand then why you came." "I came because I wanted to see you once more--even just as you are." "I appreciate that; but if you had waited a while, sooner or later we should have been sure to meet, and our meeting would have been pleasanter for each of us than this." "Waited till after you're married? That's just what I didn't want to do. You'll be different then." "Not very. I shall still be a great friend of yours. You'll see." "That will make it all the worse," said Mr. Goodwood grimly. "Ah, you're unaccommodating! I can't promise to dislike you in order to help you to resign yourself." "I shouldn't care if you did!" Isabel got up with a movement of repressed impatience and walked to the window, where she remained a moment looking out. When she turned round her visitor was still motionless in his place. She came toward him again and stopped, resting her hand on the back of the chair she had just quitted. "Do you mean you came simply to look at me? That's better for you perhaps than for me." "I wished to hear the sound of your voice," he said. "You've heard it, and you see it says nothing very sweet." "It gives me pleasure, all the same." And with this he got up. She had felt pain and displeasure on receiving early that day the news he was in Florence and by her leave would come within an hour to see her. She had been vexed and distressed, though she had sent back word by his messenger that he might come when he would. She had not been better pleased when she saw him; his being there at all was so full of heavy implications. It implied things she could never assent to--rights, reproaches, remonstrance, rebuke, the expectation of making her change her purpose. These things, however, if implied, had not been expressed; and now our young lady, strangely enough, began to resent her visitor's remarkable self-control. There was a dumb misery about him that irritated her; there was a manly staying of his hand that made her heart beat faster. She felt her agitation rising, and she said to herself that she was angry in the way a woman is angry when she has been in the wrong. She was not in the wrong; she had fortunately not that bitterness to swallow; but, all the same, she wished he would denounce her a little. She had wished his visit would be short; it had no purpose, no propriety; yet now that he seemed to be turning away she felt a sudden horror of his leaving her without uttering a word that would give her an opportunity to defend herself more than she had done in writing to him a month before, in a few carefully chosen words, to announce her engagement. If she were not in the wrong, however, why should she desire to defend herself? It was an excess of generosity on Isabel's part to desire that Mr. Goodwood should be angry. And if he had not meanwhile held himself hard it might have made him so to hear the tone in which she suddenly exclaimed, as if she were accusing him of having accused her: "I've not deceived you! I was perfectly free!" "Yes, I know that," said Caspar. "I gave you full warning that I'd do as I chose." "You said you'd probably never marry, and you said it with such a manner that I pretty well believed it." She considered this an instant. "No one can be more surprised than myself at my present intention." "You told me that if I heard you were engaged I was not to believe it," Caspar went on. "I heard it twenty days ago from yourself, but I remembered what you had said. I thought there might be some mistake, and that's partly why I came." "If you wish me to repeat it by word of mouth, that's soon done. There's no mistake whatever." "I saw that as soon as I came into the room." "What good would it do you that I shouldn't marry?" she asked with a certain fierceness. "I should like it better than this." "You're very selfish, as I said before." "I know that. I'm selfish as iron." "Even iron sometimes melts! If you'll be reasonable I'll see you again." "Don't you call me reasonable now?" "I don't know what to say to you," she answered with sudden humility. "I shan't trouble you for a long time," the young man went on. He made a step towards the door, but he stopped. "Another reason why I came was that I wanted to hear what you would say in explanation of your having changed your mind." Her humbleness as suddenly deserted her. "In explanation? Do you think I'm bound to explain?" He gave her one of his long dumb looks. "You were very positive. I did believe it." "So did I. Do you think I could explain if I would?" "No, I suppose not. Well," he added, "I've done what I wished. I've seen you." "How little you make of these terrible journeys," she felt the poverty of her presently replying. "If you're afraid I'm knocked up--in any such way as that--you may be at your ease about it." He turned away, this time in earnest, and no hand-shake, no sign of parting, was exchanged between them. At the door he stopped with his hand on the knob. "I shall leave Florence to-morrow," he said without a quaver. "I'm delighted to hear it!" she answered passionately. Five minutes after he had gone out she burst into tears.

Chapter 32

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35

We learn that Isabel is waiting for Caspar Goodwood. Isabel tells her that she wishes he had not come. Mr. Goodwood tells her that after what she has done to him he shall never feel anything for the rest of his life - just what she has done to him. Isabel notes that she will have to prepare for Henrietta arriving, and Goodwood asks if Henrietta knows of Mr. Osmond. Isabel says that she does not marry to please Henrietta. Isabel claims that she does not marry for any of her friends, and that she is marrying a "perfect nonentity". Isabel feels agitation upon seeing Caspar Goodwood in his misery. But as he is leaving, she is afraid he will not utter the word that will give her the opportunity to defend herself. Although, the narrator wonders, if she has done nothing wrong, why is she so eager to defend herself. The narrator concludes that she is being generous to Goodwood. She claims she never deceived him, and that she was perfectly free. Caspar tells her he came to see for himself. He admits that he is selfish and would want her to be married to no one if she would not marry him. When he leaves, she breaks into a fit of weeping

. It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/33.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_11_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 33

chapter 33

{"name": "Chapter 33", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35", "summary": "Isabel breaks the news of her engagement to Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett though, already seems to know. She blames Madame Merle, telling Isabel she now realizes that Merle only pretended to her that she would interfere if there were a danger that Isabel would marry Osmond. She thinks Merle has done something grand for Osmond, in giving him Isabel. Isabel does not think Merle had anything to do with her engagement. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Osmond has no name, no importance, and no fortune, so she has no idea why Isabel would marry him. Isabel hesitantly suggests that she should like to give Osmond some money. Mrs. Touchett wonders if Isabel marries Osmond for charity, and Isabel responds that she does not have to explain herself to Mrs. Touchett", "analysis": ". It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. \"If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures,\" the narrator tells us. This again is called \"hypothetical discourse\" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. \"His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her,\" the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great \"idea\" she would actualize in the world only in the \"negative\" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel \"served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself.\" Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a \"silver plate.\" Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself."}

Her fit of weeping, however, was soon smothered, and the signs of it had vanished when, an hour later, she broke the news to her aunt. I use this expression because she had been sure Mrs. Touchett would not be pleased; Isabel had only waited to tell her till she had seen Mr. Goodwood. She had an odd impression that it would not be honourable to make the fact public before she should have heard what Mr. Goodwood would say about it. He had said rather less than she expected, and she now had a somewhat angry sense of having lost time. But she would lose no more; she waited till Mrs. Touchett came into the drawing-room before the mid-day breakfast, and then she began. "Aunt Lydia, I've something to tell you." Mrs. Touchett gave a little jump and looked at her almost fiercely. "You needn't tell me; I know what it is." "I don't know how you know." "The same way that I know when the window's open--by feeling a draught. You're going to marry that man." "What man do you mean?" Isabel enquired with great dignity. "Madame Merle's friend--Mr. Osmond." "I don't know why you call him Madame Merle's friend. Is that the principal thing he's known by?" "If he's not her friend he ought to be--after what she has done for him!" cried Mrs. Touchett. "I shouldn't have expected it of her; I'm disappointed." "If you mean that Madame Merle has had anything to do with my engagement you're greatly mistaken," Isabel declared with a sort of ardent coldness. "You mean that your attractions were sufficient, without the gentleman's having had to be lashed up? You're quite right. They're immense, your attractions, and he would never have presumed to think of you if she hadn't put him up to it. He has a very good opinion of himself, but he was not a man to take trouble. Madame Merle took the trouble for him." "He has taken a great deal for himself!" cried Isabel with a voluntary laugh. Mrs. Touchett gave a sharp nod. "I think he must, after all, to have made you like him so much." "I thought he even pleased YOU." "He did, at one time; and that's why I'm angry with him." "Be angry with me, not with him," said the girl. "Oh, I'm always angry with you; that's no satisfaction! Was it for this that you refused Lord Warburton?" "Please don't go back to that. Why shouldn't I like Mr. Osmond, since others have done so?" "Others, at their wildest moments, never wanted to marry him. There's nothing OF him," Mrs. Touchett explained. "Then he can't hurt me," said Isabel. "Do you think you're going to be happy? No one's happy, in such doings, you should know." "I shall set the fashion then. What does one marry for?" "What YOU will marry for, heaven only knows. People usually marry as they go into partnership--to set up a house. But in your partnership you'll bring everything." "Is it that Mr. Osmond isn't rich? Is that what you're talking about?" Isabel asked. "He has no money; he has no name; he has no importance. I value such things and I have the courage to say it; I think they're very precious. Many other people think the same, and they show it. But they give some other reason." Isabel hesitated a little. "I think I value everything that's valuable. I care very much for money, and that's why I wish Mr. Osmond to have a little." "Give it to him then; but marry some one else." "His name's good enough for me," the girl went on. "It's a very pretty name. Have I such a fine one myself?" "All the more reason you should improve on it. There are only a dozen American names. Do you marry him out of charity?" "It was my duty to tell you, Aunt Lydia, but I don't think it's my duty to explain to you. Even if it were I shouldn't be able. So please don't remonstrate; in talking about it you have me at a disadvantage. I can't talk about it." "I don't remonstrate, I simply answer you: I must give some sign of intelligence. I saw it coming, and I said nothing. I never meddle." "You never do, and I'm greatly obliged to you. You've been very considerate." "It was not considerate--it was convenient," said Mrs. Touchett. "But I shall talk to Madame Merle." "I don't see why you keep bringing her in. She has been a very good friend to me." "Possibly; but she has been a poor one to me." "What has she done to you?" "She has deceived me. She had as good as promised me to prevent your engagement." "She couldn't have prevented it." "She can do anything; that's what I've always liked her for. I knew she could play any part; but I understood that she played them one by one. I didn't understand that she would play two at the same time." "I don't know what part she may have played to you," Isabel said; "that's between yourselves. To me she has been honest and kind and devoted." "Devoted, of course; she wished you to marry her candidate. She told me she was watching you only in order to interpose." "She said that to please you," the girl answered; conscious, however, of the inadequacy of the explanation. "To please me by deceiving me? She knows me better. Am I pleased to-day?" "I don't think you're ever much pleased," Isabel was obliged to reply. "If Madame Merle knew you would learn the truth what had she to gain by insincerity?" "She gained time, as you see. While I waited for her to interfere you were marching away, and she was really beating the drum." "That's very well. But by your own admission you saw I was marching, and even if she had given the alarm you wouldn't have tried to stop me." "No, but some one else would." "Whom do you mean?" Isabel asked, looking very hard at her aunt. Mrs. Touchett's little bright eyes, active as they usually were, sustained her gaze rather than returned it. "Would you have listened to Ralph?" "Not if he had abused Mr. Osmond." "Ralph doesn't abuse people; you know that perfectly. He cares very much for you." "I know he does," said Isabel; "and I shall feel the value of it now, for he knows that whatever I do I do with reason." "He never believed you would do this. I told him you were capable of it, and he argued the other way." "He did it for the sake of argument," the girl smiled. "You don't accuse him of having deceived you; why should you accuse Madame Merle?" "He never pretended he'd prevent it." "I'm glad of that!" cried Isabel gaily. "I wish very much," she presently added, "that when he comes you'd tell him first of my engagement." "Of course I'll mention it," said Mrs. Touchett. "I shall say nothing more to you about it, but I give you notice I shall talk to others." "That's as you please. I only meant that it's rather better the announcement should come from you than from me." "I quite agree with you; it's much more proper!" And on this the aunt and the niece went to breakfast, where Mrs. Touchett, as good as her word, made no allusion to Gilbert Osmond. After an interval of silence, however, she asked her companion from whom she had received a visit an hour before. "From an old friend--an American gentleman," Isabel said with a colour in her cheek. "An American gentleman of course. It's only an American gentleman who calls at ten o'clock in the morning." "It was half-past ten; he was in a great hurry; he goes away this evening." "Couldn't he have come yesterday, at the usual time?" "He only arrived last night." "He spends but twenty-four hours in Florence?" Mrs. Touchett cried. "He's an American gentleman truly." "He is indeed," said Isabel, thinking with perverse admiration of what Caspar Goodwood had done for her. Two days afterward Ralph arrived; but though Isabel was sure that Mrs. Touchett had lost no time in imparting to him the great fact, he showed at first no open knowledge of it. Their prompted talk was naturally of his health; Isabel had many questions to ask about Corfu. She had been shocked by his appearance when he came into the room; she had forgotten how ill he looked. In spite of Corfu he looked very ill to-day, and she wondered if he were really worse or if she were simply disaccustomed to living with an invalid. Poor Ralph made no nearer approach to conventional beauty as he advanced in life, and the now apparently complete loss of his health had done little to mitigate the natural oddity of his person. Blighted and battered, but still responsive and still ironic, his face was like a lighted lantern patched with paper and unsteadily held; his thin whisker languished upon a lean cheek; the exorbitant curve of his nose defined itself more sharply. Lean he was altogether, lean and long and loose-jointed; an accidental cohesion of relaxed angles. His brown velvet jacket had become perennial; his hands had fixed themselves in his pockets; he shambled and stumbled and shuffled in a manner that denoted great physical helplessness. It was perhaps this whimsical gait that helped to mark his character more than ever as that of the humorous invalid--the invalid for whom even his own disabilities are part of the general joke. They might well indeed with Ralph have been the chief cause of the want of seriousness marking his view of a world in which the reason for his own continued presence was past finding out. Isabel had grown fond of his ugliness; his awkwardness had become dear to her. They had been sweetened by association; they struck her as the very terms on which it had been given him to be charming. He was so charming that her sense of his being ill had hitherto had a sort of comfort in it; the state of his health had seemed not a limitation, but a kind of intellectual advantage; it absolved him from all professional and official emotions and left him the luxury of being exclusively personal. The personality so resulting was delightful; he had remained proof against the staleness of disease; he had had to consent to be deplorably ill, yet had somehow escaped being formally sick. Such had been the girl's impression of her cousin; and when she had pitied him it was only on reflection. As she reflected a good deal she had allowed him a certain amount of compassion; but she always had a dread of wasting that essence--a precious article, worth more to the giver than to any one else. Now, however, it took no great sensibility to feel that poor Ralph's tenure of life was less elastic than it should be. He was a bright, free, generous spirit, he had all the illumination of wisdom and none of its pedantry, and yet he was distressfully dying. Isabel noted afresh that life was certainly hard for some people, and she felt a delicate glow of shame as she thought how easy it now promised to become for herself. She was prepared to learn that Ralph was not pleased with her engagement; but she was not prepared, in spite of her affection for him, to let this fact spoil the situation. She was not even prepared, or so she thought, to resent his want of sympathy; for it would be his privilege--it would be indeed his natural line--to find fault with any step she might take toward marriage. One's cousin always pretended to hate one's husband; that was traditional, classical; it was a part of one's cousin's always pretending to adore one. Ralph was nothing if not critical; and though she would certainly, other things being equal, have been as glad to marry to please him as to please any one, it would be absurd to regard as important that her choice should square with his views. What were his views after all? He had pretended to believe she had better have married Lord Warburton; but this was only because she had refused that excellent man. If she had accepted him Ralph would certainly have taken another tone; he always took the opposite. You could criticise any marriage; it was the essence of a marriage to be open to criticism. How well she herself, should she only give her mind to it, might criticise this union of her own! She had other employment, however, and Ralph was welcome to relieve her of the care. Isabel was prepared to be most patient and most indulgent. He must have seen that, and this made it the more odd he should say nothing. After three days had elapsed without his speaking our young woman wearied of waiting; dislike it as he would, he might at least go through the form. We, who know more about poor Ralph than his cousin, may easily believe that during the hours that followed his arrival at Palazzo Crescentini he had privately gone through many forms. His mother had literally greeted him with the great news, which had been even more sensibly chilling than Mrs. Touchett's maternal kiss. Ralph was shocked and humiliated; his calculations had been false and the person in the world in whom he was most interested was lost. He drifted about the house like a rudderless vessel in a rocky stream, or sat in the garden of the palace on a great cane chair, his long legs extended, his head thrown back and his hat pulled over his eyes. He felt cold about the heart; he had never liked anything less. What could he do, what could he say? If the girl were irreclaimable could he pretend to like it? To attempt to reclaim her was permissible only if the attempt should succeed. To try to persuade her of anything sordid or sinister in the man to whose deep art she had succumbed would be decently discreet only in the event of her being persuaded. Otherwise he should simply have damned himself. It cost him an equal effort to speak his thought and to dissemble; he could neither assent with sincerity nor protest with hope. Meanwhile he knew--or rather he supposed--that the affianced pair were daily renewing their mutual vows. Osmond at this moment showed himself little at Palazzo Crescentini; but Isabel met him every day elsewhere, as she was free to do after their engagement had been made public. She had taken a carriage by the month, so as not to be indebted to her aunt for the means of pursuing a course of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved, and she drove in the morning to the Cascine. This suburban wilderness, during the early hours, was void of all intruders, and our young lady, joined by her lover in its quietest part, strolled with him a while through the grey Italian shade and listened to the nightingales.

Chapter 33

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35

Isabel breaks the news of her engagement to Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett though, already seems to know. She blames Madame Merle, telling Isabel she now realizes that Merle only pretended to her that she would interfere if there were a danger that Isabel would marry Osmond. She thinks Merle has done something grand for Osmond, in giving him Isabel. Isabel does not think Merle had anything to do with her engagement. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Osmond has no name, no importance, and no fortune, so she has no idea why Isabel would marry him. Isabel hesitantly suggests that she should like to give Osmond some money. Mrs. Touchett wonders if Isabel marries Osmond for charity, and Isabel responds that she does not have to explain herself to Mrs. Touchett

. It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/34.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_11_part_4.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 34

chapter 34

{"name": "Chapter 34", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35", "summary": "Isabel and Mrs. Touchett agree that Mrs. Touchett will be the one to announce the engagement to the others. Ralph arrives two days after this discussion with Mrs. Touchett. Isabel knows he has been informed of the engagement, and prepares herself to meet with his resistance. But he is silent on the subject for several days, and she can only be patient and expectant. The narrator informs us though that Ralph indeed was displeased with the engagement, and he feels humiliated. He had miscalculated what Isabel would do. Isabel happens upon Ralph in the garden. He seems to be sleeping - but when Isabel approaches him, he says he is just thinking of her. They finally broach the subject of her engagement. He tells her that he can only say what he thinks of Osmond if she ends up not going through with the engagement, because otherwise he will have spoken ill of her husband to be. This is offensive already to her, but she says she is not angry because she knows his opinion is disinterested. He says she has been trapped, and that she will be put into a cage. She asks what the harm is, if she likes her cage. He finally admits to thinking that Osmond is small. She considers this - the word seems large to her. Ralph says that he thinks Osmond has taste, and only taste - he does nothing, he only judges. He does not really feel his relation to others, according to Ralph. He of course has no proof that Osmond is a sinister character, but he nevertheless has guessed that he is a selfish person. He had thought of Isabel as a soaring creature, high up in the air, and he feels that she has fallen. Isabel does not know what she means about being high in the sky. Ralph accidentally lets slip that he loves Isabel, and Isabel is annoyed - is he too on that tiresome list. She wishes to strike him off that list. Ralph quickly realizes his mistake and tells her he is still disinterested in the matter because he loves without hope. Isabel says that she likes what Osmond has and what he represents. She believes that Osmond is a man to whom being important is not a big deal - and she finds that large. Would Ralph prefer it, she asks, if she made a marriage of ambition, so that she herself could become more important for being with someone important. She likes it that Mr. Osmond is not rich. She thinks Ralph is making a mistake in his judgment of Mr. Osmond's character. Osmond wants to teach her about the world, and she believes he knows everything, understands everything. Ralph realizes how ardently Isabel believes what she says -- he finds her \"dismally consistent\". He realizes that she \"loved him not for what he possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as honours. Ralph felt sick, realizing that he had wanted Isabel to be able to meet her imagination with the financial means to do so - he realizes that his act of beneficence has resulted in her ability to do so by Isabel feels more resolved by the end of their conversation, and Ralph realizes he can do nothing. He says that he feels bad, because she is in trouble. Isabel says she will never complain to him if she is in trouble", "analysis": ". It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. \"If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures,\" the narrator tells us. This again is called \"hypothetical discourse\" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. \"His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her,\" the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great \"idea\" she would actualize in the world only in the \"negative\" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel \"served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself.\" Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a \"silver plate.\" Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself."}

One morning, on her return from her drive, some half-hour before luncheon, she quitted her vehicle in the court of the palace and, instead of ascending the great staircase, crossed the court, passed beneath another archway and entered the garden. A sweeter spot at this moment could not have been imagined. The stillness of noontide hung over it, and the warm shade, enclosed and still, made bowers like spacious caves. Ralph was sitting there in the clear gloom, at the base of a statue of Terpsichore--a dancing nymph with taper fingers and inflated draperies in the manner of Bernini; the extreme relaxation of his attitude suggested at first to Isabel that he was asleep. Her light footstep on the grass had not roused him, and before turning away she stood for a moment looking at him. During this instant he opened his eyes; upon which she sat down on a rustic chair that matched with his own. Though in her irritation she had accused him of indifference she was not blind to the fact that he had visibly had something to brood over. But she had explained his air of absence partly by the languor of his increased weakness, partly by worries connected with the property inherited from his father--the fruit of eccentric arrangements of which Mrs. Touchett disapproved and which, as she had told Isabel, now encountered opposition from the other partners in the bank. He ought to have gone to England, his mother said, instead of coming to Florence; he had not been there for months, and took no more interest in the bank than in the state of Patagonia. "I'm sorry I waked you," Isabel said; "you look too tired." "I feel too tired. But I was not asleep. I was thinking of you." "Are you tired of that?" "Very much so. It leads to nothing. The road's long and I never arrive." "What do you wish to arrive at?" she put to him, closing her parasol. "At the point of expressing to myself properly what I think of your engagement." "Don't think too much of it," she lightly returned. "Do you mean that it's none of my business?" "Beyond a certain point, yes." "That's the point I want to fix. I had an idea you may have found me wanting in good manners. I've never congratulated you." "Of course I've noticed that. I wondered why you were silent." "There have been a good many reasons. I'll tell you now," Ralph said. He pulled off his hat and laid it on the ground; then he sat looking at her. He leaned back under the protection of Bernini, his head against his marble pedestal, his arms dropped on either side of him, his hands laid upon the rests of his wide chair. He looked awkward, uncomfortable; he hesitated long. Isabel said nothing; when people were embarrassed she was usually sorry for them, but she was determined not to help Ralph to utter a word that should not be to the honour of her high decision. "I think I've hardly got over my surprise," he went on at last. "You were the last person I expected to see caught." "I don't know why you call it caught." "Because you're going to be put into a cage." "If I like my cage, that needn't trouble you," she answered. "That's what I wonder at; that's what I've been thinking of." "If you've been thinking you may imagine how I've thought! I'm satisfied that I'm doing well." "You must have changed immensely. A year ago you valued your liberty beyond everything. You wanted only to see life." "I've seen it," said Isabel. "It doesn't look to me now, I admit, such an inviting expanse." "I don't pretend it is; only I had an idea that you took a genial view of it and wanted to survey the whole field." "I've seen that one can't do anything so general. One must choose a corner and cultivate that." "That's what I think. And one must choose as good a corner as possible. I had no idea, all winter, while I read your delightful letters, that you were choosing. You said nothing about it, and your silence put me off my guard." "It was not a matter I was likely to write to you about. Besides, I knew nothing of the future. It has all come lately. If you had been on your guard, however," Isabel asked, "what would you have done?" "I should have said 'Wait a little longer.'" "Wait for what?" "Well, for a little more light," said Ralph with rather an absurd smile, while his hands found their way into his pockets. "Where should my light have come from? From you?" "I might have struck a spark or two." Isabel had drawn off her gloves; she smoothed them out as they lay upon her knee. The mildness of this movement was accidental, for her expression was not conciliatory. "You're beating about the bush, Ralph. You wish to say you don't like Mr. Osmond, and yet you're afraid." "Willing to wound and yet afraid to strike? I'm willing to wound HIM, yes--but not to wound you. I'm afraid of you, not of him. If you marry him it won't be a fortunate way for me to have spoken." "IF I marry him! Have you had any expectation of dissuading me?" "Of course that seems to you too fatuous." "No," said Isabel after a little; "it seems to me too touching." "That's the same thing. It makes me so ridiculous that you pity me." She stroked out her long gloves again. "I know you've a great affection for me. I can't get rid of that." "For heaven's sake don't try. Keep that well in sight. It will convince you how intensely I want you to do well." "And how little you trust me!" There was a moment's silence; the warm noontide seemed to listen. "I trust you, but I don't trust him," said Ralph. She raised her eyes and gave him a wide, deep look. "You've said it now, and I'm glad you've made it so clear. But you'll suffer by it." "Not if you're just." "I'm very just," said Isabel. "What better proof of it can there be than that I'm not angry with you? I don't know what's the matter with me, but I'm not. I was when you began, but it has passed away. Perhaps I ought to be angry, but Mr. Osmond wouldn't think so. He wants me to know everything; that's what I like him for. You've nothing to gain, I know that. I've never been so nice to you, as a girl, that you should have much reason for wishing me to remain one. You give very good advice; you've often done so. No, I'm very quiet; I've always believed in your wisdom," she went on, boasting of her quietness, yet speaking with a kind of contained exaltation. It was her passionate desire to be just; it touched Ralph to the heart, affected him like a caress from a creature he had injured. He wished to interrupt, to reassure her; for a moment he was absurdly inconsistent; he would have retracted what he had said. But she gave him no chance; she went on, having caught a glimpse, as she thought, of the heroic line and desiring to advance in that direction. "I see you've some special idea; I should like very much to hear it. I'm sure it's disinterested; I feel that. It seems a strange thing to argue about, and of course I ought to tell you definitely that if you expect to dissuade me you may give it up. You'll not move me an inch; it's too late. As you say, I'm caught. Certainly it won't be pleasant for you to remember this, but your pain will be in your own thoughts. I shall never reproach you." "I don't think you ever will," said Ralph. "It's not in the least the sort of marriage I thought you'd make." "What sort of marriage was that, pray?" "Well, I can hardly say. I hadn't exactly a positive view of it, but I had a negative. I didn't think you'd decide for--well, for that type." "What's the matter with Mr. Osmond's type, if it be one? His being so independent, so individual, is what I most see in him," the girl declared. "What do you know against him? You know him scarcely at all." "Yes," Ralph said, "I know him very little, and I confess I haven't facts and items to prove him a villain. But all the same I can't help feeling that you're running a grave risk." "Marriage is always a grave risk, and his risk's as grave as mine." "That's his affair! If he's afraid, let him back out. I wish to God he would." Isabel reclined in her chair, folding her arms and gazing a while at her cousin. "I don't think I understand you," she said at last coldly. "I don't know what you're talking about." "I believed you'd marry a man of more importance." Cold, I say, her tone had been, but at this a colour like a flame leaped into her face. "Of more importance to whom? It seems to me enough that one's husband should be of importance to one's self!" Ralph blushed as well; his attitude embarrassed him. Physically speaking he proceeded to change it; he straightened himself, then leaned forward, resting a hand on each knee. He fixed his eyes on the ground; he had an air of the most respectful deliberation. "I'll tell you in a moment what I mean," he presently said. He felt agitated, intensely eager; now that he had opened the discussion he wished to discharge his mind. But he wished also to be superlatively gentle. Isabel waited a little--then she went on with majesty. "In everything that makes one care for people Mr. Osmond is pre-eminent. There may be nobler natures, but I've never had the pleasure of meeting one. Mr. Osmond's is the finest I know; he's good enough for me, and interesting enough, and clever enough. I'm far more struck with what he has and what he represents than with what he may lack." "I had treated myself to a charming vision of your future," Ralph observed without answering this; "I had amused myself with planning out a high destiny for you. There was to be nothing of this sort in it. You were not to come down so easily or so soon." "Come down, you say?" "Well, that renders my sense of what has happened to you. You seemed to me to be soaring far up in the blue--to be, sailing in the bright light, over the heads of men. Suddenly some one tosses up a faded rosebud--a missile that should never have reached you--and straight you drop to the ground. It hurts me," said Ralph audaciously, "hurts me as if I had fallen myself!" The look of pain and bewilderment deepened in his companion's face. "I don't understand you in the least," she repeated. "You say you amused yourself with a project for my career--I don't understand that. Don't amuse yourself too much, or I shall think you're doing it at my expense." Ralph shook his head. "I'm not afraid of your not believing that I've had great ideas for you." "What do you mean by my soaring and sailing?" she pursued. "I've never moved on a higher plane than I'm moving on now. There's nothing higher for a girl than to marry a--a person she likes," said poor Isabel, wandering into the didactic. "It's your liking the person we speak of that I venture to criticise, my dear cousin. I should have said that the man for you would have been a more active, larger, freer sort of nature." Ralph hesitated, then added: "I can't get over the sense that Osmond is somehow--well, small." He had uttered the last word with no great assurance; he was afraid she would flash out again. But to his surprise she was quiet; she had the air of considering. "Small?" She made it sound immense. "I think he's narrow, selfish. He takes himself so seriously!" "He has a great respect for himself; I don't blame him for that," said Isabel. "It makes one more sure to respect others." Ralph for a moment felt almost reassured by her reasonable tone. "Yes, but everything is relative; one ought to feel one's relation to things--to others. I don't think Mr. Osmond does that." "I've chiefly to do with his relation to me. In that he's excellent." "He's the incarnation of taste," Ralph went on, thinking hard how he could best express Gilbert Osmond's sinister attributes without putting himself in the wrong by seeming to describe him coarsely. He wished to describe him impersonally, scientifically. "He judges and measures, approves and condemns, altogether by that." "It's a happy thing then that his taste should be exquisite." "It's exquisite, indeed, since it has led him to select you as his bride. But have you ever seen such a taste--a really exquisite one--ruffled?" "I hope it may never be my fortune to fail to gratify my husband's." At these words a sudden passion leaped to Ralph's lips. "Ah, that's wilful, that's unworthy of you! You were not meant to be measured in that way--you were meant for something better than to keep guard over the sensibilities of a sterile dilettante!" Isabel rose quickly and he did the same, so that they stood for a moment looking at each other as if he had flung down a defiance or an insult. But "You go too far," she simply breathed. "I've said what I had on my mind--and I've said it because I love you!" Isabel turned pale: was he too on that tiresome list? She had a sudden wish to strike him off. "Ah then, you're not disinterested!" "I love you, but I love without hope," said Ralph quickly, forcing a smile and feeling that in that last declaration he had expressed more than he intended. Isabel moved away and stood looking into the sunny stillness of the garden; but after a little she turned back to him. "I'm afraid your talk then is the wildness of despair! I don't understand it--but it doesn't matter. I'm not arguing with you; it's impossible I should; I've only tried to listen to you. I'm much obliged to you for attempting to explain," she said gently, as if the anger with which she had just sprung up had already subsided. "It's very good of you to try to warn me, if you're really alarmed; but I won't promise to think of what you've said: I shall forget it as soon as possible. Try and forget it yourself; you've done your duty, and no man can do more. I can't explain to you what I feel, what I believe, and I wouldn't if I could." She paused a moment and then went on with an inconsequence that Ralph observed even in the midst of his eagerness to discover some symptom of concession. "I can't enter into your idea of Mr. Osmond; I can't do it justice, because I see him in quite another way. He's not important--no, he's not important; he's a man to whom importance is supremely indifferent. If that's what you mean when you call him 'small,' then he's as small as you please. I call that large--it's the largest thing I know. I won't pretend to argue with you about a person I'm going to marry," Isabel repeated. "I'm not in the least concerned to defend Mr. Osmond; he's not so weak as to need my defence. I should think it would seem strange even to yourself that I should talk of him so quietly and coldly, as if he were any one else. I wouldn't talk of him at all to any one but you; and you, after what you've said--I may just answer you once for all. Pray, would you wish me to make a mercenary marriage--what they call a marriage of ambition? I've only one ambition--to be free to follow out a good feeling. I had others once, but they've passed away. Do you complain of Mr. Osmond because he's not rich? That's just what I like him for. I've fortunately money enough; I've never felt so thankful for it as to-day. There have been moments when I should like to go and kneel down by your father's grave: he did perhaps a better thing than he knew when he put it into my power to marry a poor man--a man who has borne his poverty with such dignity, with such indifference. Mr. Osmond has never scrambled nor struggled--he has cared for no worldly prize. If that's to be narrow, if that's to be selfish, then it's very well. I'm not frightened by such words, I'm not even displeased; I'm only sorry that you should make a mistake. Others might have done so, but I'm surprised that you should. You might know a gentleman when you see one--you might know a fine mind. Mr. Osmond makes no mistakes! He knows everything, he understands everything, he has the kindest, gentlest, highest spirit. You've got hold of some false idea. It's a pity, but I can't help it; it regards you more than me." Isabel paused a moment, looking at her cousin with an eye illumined by a sentiment which contradicted the careful calmness of her manner--a mingled sentiment, to which the angry pain excited by his words and the wounded pride of having needed to justify a choice of which she felt only the nobleness and purity, equally contributed. Though she paused Ralph said nothing; he saw she had more to say. She was grand, but she was highly solicitous; she was indifferent, but she was all in a passion. "What sort of a person should you have liked me to marry?" she asked suddenly. "You talk about one's soaring and sailing, but if one marries at all one touches the earth. One has human feelings and needs, one has a heart in one's bosom, and one must marry a particular individual. Your mother has never forgiven me for not having come to a better understanding with Lord Warburton, and she's horrified at my contenting myself with a person who has none of his great advantages--no property, no title, no honours, no houses, nor lands, nor position, nor reputation, nor brilliant belongings of any sort. It's the total absence of all these things that pleases me. Mr. Osmond's simply a very lonely, a very cultivated and a very honest man--he's not a prodigious proprietor." Ralph had listened with great attention, as if everything she said merited deep consideration; but in truth he was only half thinking of the things she said, he was for the rest simply accommodating himself to the weight of his total impression--the impression of her ardent good faith. She was wrong, but she believed; she was deluded, but she was dismally consistent. It was wonderfully characteristic of her that, having invented a fine theory, about Gilbert Osmond, she loved him not for what he really possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as honours. Ralph remembered what he had said to his father about wishing to put it into her power to meet the requirements of her imagination. He had done so, and the girl had taken full advantage of the luxury. Poor Ralph felt sick; he felt ashamed. Isabel had uttered her last words with a low solemnity of conviction which virtually terminated the discussion, and she closed it formally by turning away and walking back to the house. Ralph walked beside her, and they passed into the court together and reached the big staircase. Here he stopped and Isabel paused, turning on him a face of elation--absolutely and perversely of gratitude. His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her. "Shall you not come up to breakfast?" she asked. "No; I want no breakfast; I'm not hungry." "You ought to eat," said the girl; "you live on air." "I do, very much, and I shall go back into the garden and take another mouthful. I came thus far simply to say this. I told you last year that if you were to get into trouble I should feel terribly sold. That's how I feel to-day." "Do you think I'm in trouble?" "One's in trouble when one's in error." "Very well," said Isabel; "I shall never complain of my trouble to you!" And she moved up the staircase. Ralph, standing there with his hands in his pockets, followed her with his eyes; then the lurking chill of the high-walled court struck him and made him shiver, so that he returned to the garden to breakfast on the Florentine sunshine.

Chapter 34

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35

Isabel and Mrs. Touchett agree that Mrs. Touchett will be the one to announce the engagement to the others. Ralph arrives two days after this discussion with Mrs. Touchett. Isabel knows he has been informed of the engagement, and prepares herself to meet with his resistance. But he is silent on the subject for several days, and she can only be patient and expectant. The narrator informs us though that Ralph indeed was displeased with the engagement, and he feels humiliated. He had miscalculated what Isabel would do. Isabel happens upon Ralph in the garden. He seems to be sleeping - but when Isabel approaches him, he says he is just thinking of her. They finally broach the subject of her engagement. He tells her that he can only say what he thinks of Osmond if she ends up not going through with the engagement, because otherwise he will have spoken ill of her husband to be. This is offensive already to her, but she says she is not angry because she knows his opinion is disinterested. He says she has been trapped, and that she will be put into a cage. She asks what the harm is, if she likes her cage. He finally admits to thinking that Osmond is small. She considers this - the word seems large to her. Ralph says that he thinks Osmond has taste, and only taste - he does nothing, he only judges. He does not really feel his relation to others, according to Ralph. He of course has no proof that Osmond is a sinister character, but he nevertheless has guessed that he is a selfish person. He had thought of Isabel as a soaring creature, high up in the air, and he feels that she has fallen. Isabel does not know what she means about being high in the sky. Ralph accidentally lets slip that he loves Isabel, and Isabel is annoyed - is he too on that tiresome list. She wishes to strike him off that list. Ralph quickly realizes his mistake and tells her he is still disinterested in the matter because he loves without hope. Isabel says that she likes what Osmond has and what he represents. She believes that Osmond is a man to whom being important is not a big deal - and she finds that large. Would Ralph prefer it, she asks, if she made a marriage of ambition, so that she herself could become more important for being with someone important. She likes it that Mr. Osmond is not rich. She thinks Ralph is making a mistake in his judgment of Mr. Osmond's character. Osmond wants to teach her about the world, and she believes he knows everything, understands everything. Ralph realizes how ardently Isabel believes what she says -- he finds her "dismally consistent". He realizes that she "loved him not for what he possessed, but for his very poverties dressed out as honours. Ralph felt sick, realizing that he had wanted Isabel to be able to meet her imagination with the financial means to do so - he realizes that his act of beneficence has resulted in her ability to do so by Isabel feels more resolved by the end of their conversation, and Ralph realizes he can do nothing. He says that he feels bad, because she is in trouble. Isabel says she will never complain to him if she is in trouble

. It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/35.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_11_part_5.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 35

chapter 35

{"name": "Chapter 35", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35", "summary": "Isabel feels isolated now that she knows how her friends disapprove of her marriage. The narrator tells us: \"the chief impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from everyone but the loved object\". She knew Henrietta would come out to disapprove of her, and she thinks also of the disapproval that Caspar Goodwood had and that Lord Warburton would undoubtedly have. Her sisters have written to her out of duty, but they also wonder why she did not make a better match. Osmond is satisfied - the narrator describes him as full of self-control, and capable thus of acting tender and kind. He does think that Madame Merle has made him a wonderful \"present\". He is glad that Isabel is not dull; he thinks of her as a \"silver plate\" that reflects back to him his own thoughts in an original form, making them seem all the more splendid. He knows though that their relations do not approve, and he tells Isabel that he thinks they disapprove because of their difference in fortune. He defends himself by saying that he has shown himself to never care for money, insofar as he has never tried to earn it. He tells her they will get on very well. Isabel meanwhile feels that she is surrendering to Osmond in an act of humility - rather than simply taking in the act of marriage, she has something to give. She is tired of observing - after a year of traveling abroad - and now wants to engage in the \"act of living\" even more. No longer did she feel she could never marry - she has a more primitive need to be beneficent. She is glad to have a private duty \"that might gather one's energies to a point\". Pansy is glad the two will marry. She thinks that Isabel and her father suit each other well. When they are discussing the matter though, Isabel has a strange fear that she will one day have to protect Pansy from harm. Countess Gemini tells Isabel that she is glad for herself that Isabel and Osmond will marry, but she cannot be glad for Isabel. She declares that she only tells fibs if she has something to gain from it, and therefore she is being honest with Isabel when she tells her that she and Osmond have fallen quite low in status. She predicts that Isabel and herself will never be quite intimate with each other. She makes some declarations as to marriage in general, how she sees them as a \"steel trap\" for women", "analysis": ". It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. \"If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures,\" the narrator tells us. This again is called \"hypothetical discourse\" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. \"His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her,\" the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great \"idea\" she would actualize in the world only in the \"negative\" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel \"served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself.\" Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a \"silver plate.\" Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself."}

Isabel, when she strolled in the Cascine with her lover, felt no impulse to tell him how little he was approved at Palazzo Crescentini. The discreet opposition offered to her marriage by her aunt and her cousin made on the whole no great impression upon her; the moral of it was simply that they disliked Gilbert Osmond. This dislike was not alarming to Isabel; she scarcely even regretted it; for it served mainly to throw into higher relief the fact, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself. One did other things to please other people; one did this for a more personal satisfaction; and Isabel's satisfaction was confirmed by her lover's admirable good conduct. Gilbert Osmond was in love, and he had never deserved less than during these still, bright days, each of them numbered, which preceded the fulfilment of his hopes, the harsh criticism passed upon him by Ralph Touchett. The chief impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from every one but the loved object. She felt herself disjoined from every one she had ever known before--from her two sisters, who wrote to express a dutiful hope that she would be happy, and a surprise, somewhat more vague, at her not having chosen a consort who was the hero of a richer accumulation of anecdote; from Henrietta, who, she was sure, would come out, too late, on purpose to remonstrate; from Lord Warburton, who would certainly console himself, and from Caspar Goodwood, who perhaps would not; from her aunt, who had cold, shallow ideas about marriage, for which she was not sorry to display her contempt; and from Ralph, whose talk about having great views for her was surely but a whimsical cover for a personal disappointment. Ralph apparently wished her not to marry at all--that was what it really meant--because he was amused with the spectacle of her adventures as a single woman. His disappointment made him say angry things about the man she had preferred even to him: Isabel flattered herself that she believed Ralph had been angry. It was the more easy for her to believe this because, as I say, she had now little free or unemployed emotion for minor needs, and accepted as an incident, in fact quite as an ornament, of her lot the idea that to prefer Gilbert Osmond as she preferred him was perforce to break all other ties. She tasted of the sweets of this preference, and they made her conscious, almost with awe, of the invidious and remorseless tide of the charmed and possessed condition, great as was the traditional honour and imputed virtue of being in love. It was the tragic part of happiness; one's right was always made of the wrong of some one else. The elation of success, which surely now flamed high in Osmond, emitted meanwhile very little smoke for so brilliant a blaze. Contentment, on his part, took no vulgar form; excitement, in the most self-conscious of men, was a kind of ecstasy of self-control. This disposition, however, made him an admirable lover; it gave him a constant view of the smitten and dedicated state. He never forgot himself, as I say; and so he never forgot to be graceful and tender, to wear the appearance--which presented indeed no difficulty--of stirred senses and deep intentions. He was immensely pleased with his young lady; Madame Merle had made him a present of incalculable value. What could be a finer thing to live with than a high spirit attuned to softness? For would not the softness be all for one's self, and the strenuousness for society, which admired the air of superiority? What could be a happier gift in a companion than a quick, fanciful mind which saved one repetitions and reflected one's thought on a polished, elegant surface? Osmond hated to see his thought reproduced literally--that made it look stale and stupid; he preferred it to be freshened in the reproduction even as "words" by music. His egotism had never taken the crude form of desiring a dull wife; this lady's intelligence was to be a silver plate, not an earthen one--a plate that he might heap up with ripe fruits, to which it would give a decorative value, so that talk might become for him a sort of served dessert. He found the silver quality in this perfection in Isabel; he could tap her imagination with his knuckle and make it ring. He knew perfectly, though he had not been told, that their union enjoyed little favour with the girl's relations; but he had always treated her so completely as an independent person that it hardly seemed necessary to express regret for the attitude of her family. Nevertheless, one morning, he made an abrupt allusion to it. "It's the difference in our fortune they don't like," he said. "They think I'm in love with your money." "Are you speaking of my aunt--of my cousin?" Isabel asked. "How do you know what they think?" "You've not told me they're pleased, and when I wrote to Mrs. Touchett the other day she never answered my note. If they had been delighted I should have had some sign of it, and the fact of my being poor and you rich is the most obvious explanation of their reserve. But of course when a poor man marries a rich girl he must be prepared for imputations. I don't mind them; I only care for one thing--for your not having the shadow of a doubt. I don't care what people of whom I ask nothing think--I'm not even capable perhaps of wanting to know. I've never so concerned myself, God forgive me, and why should I begin to-day, when I have taken to myself a compensation for everything? I won't pretend I'm sorry you're rich; I'm delighted. I delight in everything that's yours--whether it be money or virtue. Money's a horrid thing to follow, but a charming thing to meet. It seems to me, however, that I've sufficiently proved the limits of my itch for it: I never in my life tried to earn a penny, and I ought to be less subject to suspicion than most of the people one sees grubbing and grabbing. I suppose it's their business to suspect--that of your family; it's proper on the whole they should. They'll like me better some day; so will you, for that matter. Meanwhile my business is not to make myself bad blood, but simply to be thankful for life and love." "It has made me better, loving you," he said on another occasion; "it has made me wiser and easier and--I won't pretend to deny--brighter and nicer and even stronger. I used to want a great many things before and to be angry I didn't have them. Theoretically I was satisfied, as I once told you. I flattered myself I had limited my wants. But I was subject to irritation; I used to have morbid, sterile, hateful fits of hunger, of desire. Now I'm really satisfied, because I can't think of anything better. It's just as when one has been trying to spell out a book in the twilight and suddenly the lamp comes in. I had been putting out my eyes over the book of life and finding nothing to reward me for my pains; but now that I can read it properly I see it's a delightful story. My dear girl, I can't tell you how life seems to stretch there before us--what a long summer afternoon awaits us. It's the latter half of an Italian day--with a golden haze, and the shadows just lengthening, and that divine delicacy in the light, the air, the landscape, which I have loved all my life and which you love to-day. Upon my honour, I don't see why we shouldn't get on. We've got what we like--to say nothing of having each other. We've the faculty of admiration and several capital convictions. We're not stupid, we're not mean, we're not under bonds to any kind of ignorance or dreariness. You're remarkably fresh, and I'm remarkably well-seasoned. We've my poor child to amuse us; we'll try and make up some little life for her. It's all soft and mellow--it has the Italian colouring." They made a good many plans, but they left themselves also a good deal of latitude; it was a matter of course, however, that they should live for the present in Italy. It was in Italy that they had met, Italy had been a party to their first impressions of each other, and Italy should be a party to their happiness. Osmond had the attachment of old acquaintance and Isabel the stimulus of new, which seemed to assure her a future at a high level of consciousness of the beautiful. The desire for unlimited expansion had been succeeded in her soul by the sense that life was vacant without some private duty that might gather one's energies to a point. She had told Ralph she had "seen life" in a year or two and that she was already tired, not of the act of living, but of that of observing. What had become of all her ardours, her aspirations, her theories, her high estimate of her independence and her incipient conviction that she should never marry? These things had been absorbed in a more primitive need--a need the answer to which brushed away numberless questions, yet gratified infinite desires. It simplified the situation at a stroke, it came down from above like the light of the stars, and it needed no explanation. There was explanation enough in the fact that he was her lover, her own, and that she should be able to be of use to him. She could surrender to him with a kind of humility, she could marry him with a kind of pride; she was not only taking, she was giving. He brought Pansy with him two or three times to the Cascine--Pansy who was very little taller than a year before, and not much older. That she would always be a child was the conviction expressed by her father, who held her by the hand when she was in her sixteenth year and told her to go and play while he sat down a little with the pretty lady. Pansy wore a short dress and a long coat; her hat always seemed too big for her. She found pleasure in walking off, with quick, short steps, to the end of the alley, and then in walking back with a smile that seemed an appeal for approbation. Isabel approved in abundance, and the abundance had the personal touch that the child's affectionate nature craved. She watched her indications as if for herself also much depended on them--Pansy already so represented part of the service she could render, part of the responsibility she could face. Her father took so the childish view of her that he had not yet explained to her the new relation in which he stood to the elegant Miss Archer. "She doesn't know," he said to Isabel; "she doesn't guess; she thinks it perfectly natural that you and I should come and walk here together simply as good friends. There seems to me something enchantingly innocent in that; it's the way I like her to be. No, I'm not a failure, as I used to think; I've succeeded in two things. I'm to marry the woman I adore, and I've brought up my child, as I wished, in the old way." He was very fond, in all things, of the "old way"; that had struck Isabel as one of his fine, quiet, sincere notes. "It occurs to me that you'll not know whether you've succeeded until you've told her," she said. "You must see how she takes your news, She may be horrified--she may be jealous." "I'm not afraid of that; she's too fond of you on her own account. I should like to leave her in the dark a little longer--to see if it will come into her head that if we're not engaged we ought to be." Isabel was impressed by Osmond's artistic, the plastic view, as it somehow appeared, of Pansy's innocence--her own appreciation of it being more anxiously moral. She was perhaps not the less pleased when he told her a few days later that he had communicated the fact to his daughter, who had made such a pretty little speech--"Oh, then I shall have a beautiful sister!" She was neither surprised nor alarmed; she had not cried, as he expected. "Perhaps she had guessed it," said Isabel. "Don't say that; I should be disgusted if I believed that. I thought it would be just a little shock; but the way she took it proves that her good manners are paramount. That's also what I wished. You shall see for yourself; to-morrow she shall make you her congratulations in person." The meeting, on the morrow, took place at the Countess Gemini's, whither Pansy had been conducted by her father, who knew that Isabel was to come in the afternoon to return a visit made her by the Countess on learning that they were to become sisters-in-law. Calling at Casa Touchett the visitor had not found Isabel at home; but after our young woman had been ushered into the Countess's drawing-room Pansy arrived to say that her aunt would presently appear. Pansy was spending the day with that lady, who thought her of an age to begin to learn how to carry herself in company. It was Isabel's view that the little girl might have given lessons in deportment to her relative, and nothing could have justified this conviction more than the manner in which Pansy acquitted herself while they waited together for the Countess. Her father's decision, the year before, had finally been to send her back to the convent to receive the last graces, and Madame Catherine had evidently carried out her theory that Pansy was to be fitted for the great world. "Papa has told me that you've kindly consented to marry him," said this excellent woman's pupil. "It's very delightful; I think you'll suit very well." "You think I shall suit YOU?" "You'll suit me beautifully; but what I mean is that you and papa will suit each other. You're both so quiet and so serious. You're not so quiet as he--or even as Madame Merle; but you're more quiet than many others. He should not for instance have a wife like my aunt. She's always in motion, in agitation--to-day especially; you'll see when she comes in. They told us at the convent it was wrong to judge our elders, but I suppose there's no harm if we judge them favourably. You'll be a delightful companion for papa." "For you too, I hope," Isabel said. "I speak first of him on purpose. I've told you already what I myself think of you; I liked you from the first. I admire you so much that I think it will be a good fortune to have you always before me. You'll be my model; I shall try to imitate you though I'm afraid it will be very feeble. I'm very glad for papa--he needed something more than me. Without you I don't see how he could have got it. You'll be my stepmother, but we mustn't use that word. They're always said to be cruel; but I don't think you'll ever so much as pinch or even push me. I'm not afraid at all." "My good little Pansy," said Isabel gently, "I shall be ever so kind to you." A vague, inconsequent vision of her coming in some odd way to need it had intervened with the effect of a chill. "Very well then, I've nothing to fear," the child returned with her note of prepared promptitude. What teaching she had had, it seemed to suggest--or what penalties for non-performance she dreaded! Her description of her aunt had not been incorrect; the Countess Gemini was further than ever from having folded her wings. She entered the room with a flutter through the air and kissed Isabel first on the forehead and then on each cheek as if according to some ancient prescribed rite. She drew the visitor to a sofa and, looking at her with a variety of turns of the head, began to talk very much as if, seated brush in hand before an easel, she were applying a series of considered touches to a composition of figures already sketched in. "If you expect me to congratulate you I must beg you to excuse me. I don't suppose you care if I do or not; I believe you're supposed not to care--through being so clever--for all sorts of ordinary things. But I care myself if I tell fibs; I never tell them unless there's something rather good to be gained. I don't see what's to be gained with you--especially as you wouldn't believe me. I don't make professions any more than I make paper flowers or flouncey lampshades--I don't know how. My lampshades would be sure to take fire, my roses and my fibs to be larger than life. I'm very glad for my own sake that you're to marry Osmond; but I won't pretend I'm glad for yours. You're very brilliant--you know that's the way you're always spoken of; you're an heiress and very good-looking and original, not banal; so it's a good thing to have you in the family. Our family's very good, you know; Osmond will have told you that; and my mother was rather distinguished--she was called the American Corinne. But we're dreadfully fallen, I think, and perhaps you'll pick us up. I've great confidence in you; there are ever so many things I want to talk to you about. I never congratulate any girl on marrying; I think they ought to make it somehow not quite so awful a steel trap. I suppose Pansy oughtn't to hear all this; but that's what she has come to me for--to acquire the tone of society. There's no harm in her knowing what horrors she may be in for. When first I got an idea that my brother had designs on you I thought of writing to you, to recommend you, in the strongest terms, not to listen to him. Then I thought it would be disloyal, and I hate anything of that kind. Besides, as I say, I was enchanted for myself; and after all I'm very selfish. By the way, you won't respect me, not one little mite, and we shall never be intimate. I should like it, but you won't. Some day, all the same, we shall be better friends than you will believe at first. My husband will come and see you, though, as you probably know, he's on no sort of terms with Osmond. He's very fond of going to see pretty women, but I'm not afraid of you. In the first place I don't care what he does. In the second, you won't care a straw for him; he won't be a bit, at any time, your affair, and, stupid as he is, he'll see you're not his. Some day, if you can stand it, I'll tell you all about him. Do you think my niece ought to go out of the room? Pansy, go and practise a little in my boudoir." "Let her stay, please," said Isabel. "I would rather hear nothing that Pansy may not!"

Chapter 35

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-31-35

Isabel feels isolated now that she knows how her friends disapprove of her marriage. The narrator tells us: "the chief impression produced on Isabel's spirit by this criticism was that the passion of love separated its victim terribly from everyone but the loved object". She knew Henrietta would come out to disapprove of her, and she thinks also of the disapproval that Caspar Goodwood had and that Lord Warburton would undoubtedly have. Her sisters have written to her out of duty, but they also wonder why she did not make a better match. Osmond is satisfied - the narrator describes him as full of self-control, and capable thus of acting tender and kind. He does think that Madame Merle has made him a wonderful "present". He is glad that Isabel is not dull; he thinks of her as a "silver plate" that reflects back to him his own thoughts in an original form, making them seem all the more splendid. He knows though that their relations do not approve, and he tells Isabel that he thinks they disapprove because of their difference in fortune. He defends himself by saying that he has shown himself to never care for money, insofar as he has never tried to earn it. He tells her they will get on very well. Isabel meanwhile feels that she is surrendering to Osmond in an act of humility - rather than simply taking in the act of marriage, she has something to give. She is tired of observing - after a year of traveling abroad - and now wants to engage in the "act of living" even more. No longer did she feel she could never marry - she has a more primitive need to be beneficent. She is glad to have a private duty "that might gather one's energies to a point". Pansy is glad the two will marry. She thinks that Isabel and her father suit each other well. When they are discussing the matter though, Isabel has a strange fear that she will one day have to protect Pansy from harm. Countess Gemini tells Isabel that she is glad for herself that Isabel and Osmond will marry, but she cannot be glad for Isabel. She declares that she only tells fibs if she has something to gain from it, and therefore she is being honest with Isabel when she tells her that she and Osmond have fallen quite low in status. She predicts that Isabel and herself will never be quite intimate with each other. She makes some declarations as to marriage in general, how she sees them as a "steel trap" for women

. It is notable too, that this reminiscence of Isabel's travels is contextualized in her mind's eye -- she is awaiting Caspar Goodwood, and thinking about how much she herself has changed since she last saw him. This is a common technique that Henry James employs: the narrator lends some more concrete words for the very vague reminiscences of a character, allowing that character to reflect upon their own experiences, but also allowing the reader to reap the benefit of a more objective, summary view of certain events. "If her thoughts just now had inclined themselves to retrospect, instead of fluttering their wings nervously about the present, they would have evoked a multitude of interesting pictures," the narrator tells us. This again is called "hypothetical discourse" as coined by scholar Arlene Young . Isabel's reaction in Chapter 32 to Caspar Goodwood is curiously physical and emotional. Is she really as disinterested in him as she claims to be? The novel itself deals very little with strong, physical outbursts of emotions: Isabel's scenes with Caspar Goodwood are an exception to the rule. One theory is that Isabel is sexually attracted to Goodwood, but her Victorian prudery makes her repress this idea; she wants to escape her own sexuality in his presence. It is important to notice the reactions of others to Isabel's engagement, and how Isabel's resolution becomes more concrete in the face of their opposition. In her conversation with Mrs. Touchett, she does not quite know why she wants to marry Osmond, and she can barely articulate it. When she discusses her motivations with Ralph, her own conviction becomes more concrete. "His opposition had made her own conception of her conduct clearer to her," the narrator tells us. Ralph says that he had thought of the great "idea" she would actualize in the world only in the "negative" -- but we should notice that her marrying Osmond is actually an articulation of a negative idea -- of an idea that exists only as one in opposition to others' opinions. In other words, she feels like she freely chooses her marriage to Osmond mostly because no one in her circle seems to approve of the engagement. So the narrator tells us, the disapproval of others for Isabel "served mainly to throw into higher relief, in every way so honourable, that she married to please herself." Osmond's narcissism becomes apparent in Chapter 35. It is notable how he thinks of Isabel as a fine object, a present made to him by Madame Merle, rather than seeming to really be in love with her. Again, there is a comparison between a person and a commodity: he thinks of Isabel as a "silver plate." Consider the coldness of this extended metaphor - he continues to think of how he will heap fruits onto this plate. His conception of a good relationship is that the other person reflects one's own thoughts back to oneself -- it seems that he will give very little room for Isabel to have ideas of her own. He has the attitude of a connoisseur or collector to a commodity of value. It does not quite fit a more romantic conception of love - of loving Isabel for herself.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/36.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_12_part_1.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 36

chapter 36

{"name": "Chapter 36", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39", "summary": "In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier visits Madame Merle. The reader will remember that Edward Rosier had met Isabel's acquaintance briefly in Paris. He was part of the American circle there. He is visiting Madame Merle because he had met Pansy in Saint Moritz, where he fell in love with her. He knows Madame Merle is close with the family and wants her to advise him. He thinks of Pansy as \"admirably finished,\" a \"consummate piece\". It will be remembered that Edward Rosier is quite a collector. He immediately appreciates all of Madame Merle's fine things as he waits for her to greet him. He declares to Madame Merle that he cares more for Pansy Osmond than \"all the bibelots in Europe. He has come to ask for advice, and to be counseled on his prospects as a suitor for Pansy. Madame Merle agrees to help him, although she asks him what else he has to offer in marriage. He tells her he has a fortune of forty thousand francs a year. Merle thinks one might live sufficiently on such a sum, but not beautifully. She mentions that Pansy will bring little to a marriage, and that she does not think that Isabel will give her a dowry. Merle makes fun of Edward Rosier a bit, for being naive about money. We learn that Isabel and Osmond do not yet have children, and that they have opposite opinions in everything. Merle thinks that Osmond will be inclined to think he can do better for Pansy. Rosier thinks though that Pansy is in love with him. Madame Merle points out that he does not know this - he has not asked Pansy. Merle says she will find out for him though. He wants to speak to Isabel as well about the matter, but Merle cautions him that this would set Osmond against him. Edward Rosier nevertheless goes to see Isabel, realizing that there is no real reason that Madame Merle would really help him. Pansy is now living in a massive structure in the heart of Rome with Isabel and Osmond. Mr. Rosier thinks of this house as an evil omen, a dungeon. He thought of the palace as fully of Osmond's own taste, and not at all of Isabel's. He had learned from Isabel that her husband had added a lot to his collection after their marriage. Rosier thinks of Osmond as a good collector - he had been patient in marriage, and thus had landed the great prizes once he had finally married. Edward Rosier goes to visit Isabel who is now Mrs. Osmond", "analysis": "Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the \"ficelle\" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, \"Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so\" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a \"representative\" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an \"intrinsic value\" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from \"using\" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of \"intrinsic value\" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?"}

One afternoon of the autumn of 1876, toward dusk, a young man of pleasing appearance rang at the door of a small apartment on the third floor of an old Roman house. On its being opened he enquired for Madame Merle; whereupon the servant, a neat, plain woman, with a French face and a lady's maid's manner, ushered him into a diminutive drawing-room and requested the favour of his name. "Mr. Edward Rosier," said the young man, who sat down to wait till his hostess should appear. The reader will perhaps not have forgotten that Mr. Rosier was an ornament of the American circle in Paris, but it may also be remembered that he sometimes vanished from its horizon. He had spent a portion of several winters at Pau, and as he was a gentleman of constituted habits he might have continued for years to pay his annual visit to this charming resort. In the summer of 1876, however, an incident befell him which changed the current not only of his thoughts, but of his customary sequences. He passed a month in the Upper Engadine and encountered at Saint Moritz a charming young girl. To this little person he began to pay, on the spot, particular attention: she struck him as exactly the household angel he had long been looking for. He was never precipitate, he was nothing if not discreet, so he forbore for the present to declare his passion; but it seemed to him when they parted--the young lady to go down into Italy and her admirer to proceed to Geneva, where he was under bonds to join other friends--that he should be romantically wretched if he were not to see her again. The simplest way to do so was to go in the autumn to Rome, where Miss Osmond was domiciled with her family. Mr. Rosier started on his pilgrimage to the Italian capital and reached it on the first of November. It was a pleasant thing to do, but for the young man there was a strain of the heroic in the enterprise. He might expose himself, unseasoned, to the poison of the Roman air, which in November lay, notoriously, much in wait. Fortune, however, favours the brave; and this adventurer, who took three grains of quinine a day, had at the end of a month no cause to deplore his temerity. He had made to a certain extent good use of his time; he had devoted it in vain to finding a flaw in Pansy Osmond's composition. She was admirably finished; she had had the last touch; she was really a consummate piece. He thought of her in amorous meditation a good deal as he might have thought of a Dresden-china shepherdess. Miss Osmond, indeed, in the bloom of her juvenility, had a hint of the rococo which Rosier, whose taste was predominantly for that manner, could not fail to appreciate. That he esteemed the productions of comparatively frivolous periods would have been apparent from the attention he bestowed upon Madame Merle's drawing-room, which, although furnished with specimens of every style, was especially rich in articles of the last two centuries. He had immediately put a glass into one eye and looked round; and then "By Jove, she has some jolly good things!" he had yearningly murmured. The room was small and densely filled with furniture; it gave an impression of faded silk and little statuettes which might totter if one moved. Rosier got up and wandered about with his careful tread, bending over the tables charged with knick-knacks and the cushions embossed with princely arms. When Madame Merle came in she found him standing before the fireplace with his nose very close to the great lace flounce attached to the damask cover of the mantel. He had lifted it delicately, as if he were smelling it. "It's old Venetian," she said; "it's rather good." "It's too good for this; you ought to wear it." "They tell me you have some better in Paris, in the same situation." "Ah, but I can't wear mine," smiled the visitor. "I don't see why you shouldn't! I've better lace than that to wear." His eyes wandered, lingeringly, round the room again. "You've some very good things." "Yes, but I hate them." "Do you want to get rid of them?" the young man quickly asked. "No, it's good to have something to hate: one works it off!" "I love my things," said Mr. Rosier as he sat there flushed with all his recognitions. "But it's not about them, nor about yours, that I came to talk to you." He paused a moment and then, with greater softness: "I care more for Miss Osmond than for all the bibelots in Europe!" Madame Merle opened wide eyes. "Did you come to tell me that?" "I came to ask your advice." She looked at him with a friendly frown, stroking her chin with her large white hand. "A man in love, you know, doesn't ask advice." "Why not, if he's in a difficult position? That's often the case with a man in love. I've been in love before, and I know. But never so much as this time--really never so much. I should like particularly to know what you think of my prospects. I'm afraid that for Mr. Osmond I'm not--well, a real collector's piece." "Do you wish me to intercede?" Madame Merle asked with her fine arms folded and her handsome mouth drawn up to the left. "If you could say a good word for me I should be greatly obliged. There will be no use in my troubling Miss Osmond unless I have good reason to believe her father will consent." "You're very considerate; that's in your favour. But you assume in rather an off-hand way that I think you a prize." "You've been very kind to me," said the young man. "That's why I came." "I'm always kind to people who have good Louis Quatorze. It's very rare now, and there's no telling what one may get by it." With which the left-hand corner of Madame Merle's mouth gave expression to the joke. But he looked, in spite of it, literally apprehensive and consistently strenuous. "Ah, I thought you liked me for myself!" "I like you very much; but, if you please, we won't analyse. Pardon me if I seem patronising, but I think you a perfect little gentleman. I must tell you, however, that I've not the marrying of Pansy Osmond." "I didn't suppose that. But you've seemed to me intimate with her family, and I thought you might have influence." Madame Merle considered. "Whom do you call her family?" "Why, her father; and--how do you say it in English?--her belle-mere." "Mr. Osmond's her father, certainly; but his wife can scarcely be termed a member of her family. Mrs. Osmond has nothing to do with marrying her." "I'm sorry for that," said Rosier with an amiable sigh of good faith. "I think Mrs. Osmond would favour me." "Very likely--if her husband doesn't." He raised his eyebrows. "Does she take the opposite line from him?" "In everything. They think quite differently." "Well," said Rosier, "I'm sorry for that; but it's none of my business. She's very fond of Pansy." "Yes, she's very fond of Pansy." "And Pansy has a great affection for her. She has told me how she loves her as if she were her own mother." "You must, after all, have had some very intimate talk with the poor child," said Madame Merle. "Have you declared your sentiments?" "Never!" cried Rosier, lifting his neatly-gloved hand. "Never till I've assured myself of those of the parents." "You always wait for that? You've excellent principles; you observe the proprieties." "I think you're laughing at me," the young man murmured, dropping back in his chair and feeling his small moustache. "I didn't expect that of you, Madame Merle." She shook her head calmly, like a person who saw things as she saw them. "You don't do me justice. I think your conduct in excellent taste and the best you could adopt. Yes, that's what I think." "I wouldn't agitate her--only to agitate her; I love her too much for that," said Ned Rosier. "I'm glad, after all, that you've told me," Madame Merle went on. "Leave it to me a little; I think I can help you." "I said you were the person to come to!" her visitor cried with prompt elation. "You were very clever," Madame Merle returned more dryly. "When I say I can help you I mean once assuming your cause to be good. Let us think a little if it is." "I'm awfully decent, you know," said Rosier earnestly. "I won't say I've no faults, but I'll say I've no vices." "All that's negative, and it always depends, also, on what people call vices. What's the positive side? What's the virtuous? What have you got besides your Spanish lace and your Dresden teacups?" "I've a comfortable little fortune--about forty thousand francs a year. With the talent I have for arranging, we can live beautifully on such an income." "Beautifully, no. Sufficiently, yes. Even that depends on where you live." "Well, in Paris. I would undertake it in Paris." Madame Merle's mouth rose to the left. "It wouldn't be famous; you'd have to make use of the teacups, and they'd get broken." "We don't want to be famous. If Miss Osmond should have everything pretty it would be enough. When one's as pretty as she one can afford--well, quite cheap faience. She ought never to wear anything but muslin--without the sprig," said Rosier reflectively. "Wouldn't you even allow her the sprig? She'd be much obliged to you at any rate for that theory." "It's the correct one, I assure you; and I'm sure she'd enter into it. She understands all that; that's why I love her." "She's a very good little girl, and most tidy--also extremely graceful. But her father, to the best of my belief, can give her nothing." Rosier scarce demurred. "I don't in the least desire that he should. But I may remark, all the same, that he lives like a rich man." "The money's his wife's; she brought him a large fortune." "Mrs. Osmond then is very fond of her stepdaughter; she may do something." "For a love-sick swain you have your eyes about you!" Madame Merle exclaimed with a laugh. "I esteem a dot very much. I can do without it, but I esteem it." "Mrs. Osmond," Madame Merle went on, "will probably prefer to keep her money for her own children." "Her own children? Surely she has none." "She may have yet. She had a poor little boy, who died two years ago, six months after his birth. Others therefore may come." "I hope they will, if it will make her happy. She's a splendid woman." Madame Merle failed to burst into speech. "Ah, about her there's much to be said. Splendid as you like! We've not exactly made out that you're a parti. The absence of vices is hardly a source of income. "Pardon me, I think it may be," said Rosier quite lucidly. "You'll be a touching couple, living on your innocence!" "I think you underrate me." "You're not so innocent as that? Seriously," said Madame Merle, "of course forty thousand francs a year and a nice character are a combination to be considered. I don't say it's to be jumped at, but there might be a worse offer. Mr. Osmond, however, will probably incline to believe he can do better." "HE can do so perhaps; but what can his daughter do? She can't do better than marry the man she loves. For she does, you know," Rosier added eagerly. "She does--I know it." "Ah," cried the young man, "I said you were the person to come to." "But I don't know how you know it, if you haven't asked her," Madame Merle went on. "In such a case there's no need of asking and telling; as you say, we're an innocent couple. How did YOU know it?" "I who am not innocent? By being very crafty. Leave it to me; I'll find out for you." Rosier got up and stood smoothing his hat. "You say that rather coldly. Don't simply find out how it is, but try to make it as it should be." "I'll do my best. I'll try to make the most of your advantages." "Thank you so very much. Meanwhile then I'll say a word to Mrs. Osmond." "Gardez-vous-en bien!" And Madame Merle was on her feet. "Don't set her going, or you'll spoil everything." Rosier gazed into his hat; he wondered whether his hostess HAD been after all the right person to come to. "I don't think I understand you. I'm an old friend of Mrs. Osmond, and I think she would like me to succeed." "Be an old friend as much as you like; the more old friends she has the better, for she doesn't get on very well with some of her new. But don't for the present try to make her take up the cudgels for you. Her husband may have other views, and, as a person who wishes her well, I advise you not to multiply points of difference between them." Poor Rosier's face assumed an expression of alarm; a suit for the hand of Pansy Osmond was even a more complicated business than his taste for proper transitions had allowed. But the extreme good sense which he concealed under a surface suggesting that of a careful owner's "best set" came to his assistance. "I don't see that I'm bound to consider Mr. Osmond so very much!" he exclaimed. "No, but you should consider HER. You say you're an old friend. Would you make her suffer?" "Not for the world." "Then be very careful, and let the matter alone till I've taken a few soundings." "Let the matter alone, dear Madame Merle? Remember that I'm in love." "Oh, you won't burn up! Why did you come to me, if you're not to heed what I say?" "You're very kind; I'll be very good," the young man promised. "But I'm afraid Mr. Osmond's pretty hard," he added in his mild voice as he went to the door. Madame Merle gave a short laugh. "It has been said before. But his wife isn't easy either." "Ah, she's a splendid woman!" Ned Rosier repeated, for departure. He resolved that his conduct should be worthy of an aspirant who was already a model of discretion; but he saw nothing in any pledge he had given Madame Merle that made it improper he should keep himself in spirits by an occasional visit to Miss Osmond's home. He reflected constantly on what his adviser had said to him, and turned over in his mind the impression of her rather circumspect tone. He had gone to her de confiance, as they put it in Paris; but it was possible he had been precipitate. He found difficulty in thinking of himself as rash--he had incurred this reproach so rarely; but it certainly was true that he had known Madame Merle only for the last month, and that his thinking her a delightful woman was not, when one came to look into it, a reason for assuming that she would be eager to push Pansy Osmond into his arms, gracefully arranged as these members might be to receive her. She had indeed shown him benevolence, and she was a person of consideration among the girl's people, where she had a rather striking appearance (Rosier had more than once wondered how she managed it) of being intimate without being familiar. But possibly he had exaggerated these advantages. There was no particular reason why she should take trouble for him; a charming woman was charming to every one, and Rosier felt rather a fool when he thought of his having appealed to her on the ground that she had distinguished him. Very likely--though she had appeared to say it in joke--she was really only thinking of his bibelots. Had it come into her head that he might offer her two or three of the gems of his collection? If she would only help him to marry Miss Osmond he would present her with his whole museum. He could hardly say so to her outright; it would seem too gross a bribe. But he should like her to believe it. It was with these thoughts that he went again to Mrs. Osmond's, Mrs. Osmond having an "evening"--she had taken the Thursday of each week--when his presence could be accounted for on general principles of civility. The object of Mr. Rosier's well-regulated affection dwelt in a high house in the very heart of Rome; a dark and massive structure overlooking a sunny piazzetta in the neighbourhood of the Farnese Palace. In a palace, too, little Pansy lived--a palace by Roman measure, but a dungeon to poor Rosier's apprehensive mind. It seemed to him of evil omen that the young lady he wished to marry, and whose fastidious father he doubted of his ability to conciliate, should be immured in a kind of domestic fortress, a pile which bore a stern old Roman name, which smelt of historic deeds, of crime and craft and violence, which was mentioned in "Murray" and visited by tourists who looked, on a vague survey, disappointed and depressed, and which had frescoes by Caravaggio in the piano nobile and a row of mutilated statues and dusty urns in the wide, nobly-arched loggia overhanging the damp court where a fountain gushed out of a mossy niche. In a less preoccupied frame of mind he could have done justice to the Palazzo Roccanera; he could have entered into the sentiment of Mrs. Osmond, who had once told him that on settling themselves in Rome she and her husband had chosen this habitation for the love of local colour. It had local colour enough, and though he knew less about architecture than about Limoges enamels he could see that the proportions of the windows and even the details of the cornice had quite the grand air. But Rosier was haunted by the conviction that at picturesque periods young girls had been shut up there to keep them from their true loves, and then, under the threat of being thrown into convents, had been forced into unholy marriages. There was one point, however, to which he always did justice when once he found himself in Mrs. Osmond's warm, rich-looking reception-rooms, which were on the second floor. He acknowledged that these people were very strong in "good things." It was a taste of Osmond's own--not at all of hers; this she had told him the first time he came to the house, when, after asking himself for a quarter of an hour whether they had even better "French" than he in Paris, he was obliged on the spot to admit that they had, very much, and vanquished his envy, as a gentleman should, to the point of expressing to his hostess his pure admiration of her treasures. He learned from Mrs. Osmond that her husband had made a large collection before their marriage and that, though he had annexed a number of fine pieces within the last three years, he had achieved his greatest finds at a time when he had not the advantage of her advice. Rosier interpreted this information according to principles of his own. For "advice" read "cash," he said to himself; and the fact that Gilbert Osmond had landed his highest prizes during his impecunious season confirmed his most cherished doctrine--the doctrine that a collector may freely be poor if he be only patient. In general, when Rosier presented himself on a Thursday evening, his first recognition was for the walls of the saloon; there were three or four objects his eyes really yearned for. But after his talk with Madame Merle he felt the extreme seriousness of his position; and now, when he came in, he looked about for the daughter of the house with such eagerness as might be permitted a gentleman whose smile, as he crossed a threshold, always took everything comfortable for granted.

Chapter 36

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39

In the autumn of 1876, Edward Rosier visits Madame Merle. The reader will remember that Edward Rosier had met Isabel's acquaintance briefly in Paris. He was part of the American circle there. He is visiting Madame Merle because he had met Pansy in Saint Moritz, where he fell in love with her. He knows Madame Merle is close with the family and wants her to advise him. He thinks of Pansy as "admirably finished," a "consummate piece". It will be remembered that Edward Rosier is quite a collector. He immediately appreciates all of Madame Merle's fine things as he waits for her to greet him. He declares to Madame Merle that he cares more for Pansy Osmond than "all the bibelots in Europe. He has come to ask for advice, and to be counseled on his prospects as a suitor for Pansy. Madame Merle agrees to help him, although she asks him what else he has to offer in marriage. He tells her he has a fortune of forty thousand francs a year. Merle thinks one might live sufficiently on such a sum, but not beautifully. She mentions that Pansy will bring little to a marriage, and that she does not think that Isabel will give her a dowry. Merle makes fun of Edward Rosier a bit, for being naive about money. We learn that Isabel and Osmond do not yet have children, and that they have opposite opinions in everything. Merle thinks that Osmond will be inclined to think he can do better for Pansy. Rosier thinks though that Pansy is in love with him. Madame Merle points out that he does not know this - he has not asked Pansy. Merle says she will find out for him though. He wants to speak to Isabel as well about the matter, but Merle cautions him that this would set Osmond against him. Edward Rosier nevertheless goes to see Isabel, realizing that there is no real reason that Madame Merle would really help him. Pansy is now living in a massive structure in the heart of Rome with Isabel and Osmond. Mr. Rosier thinks of this house as an evil omen, a dungeon. He thought of the palace as fully of Osmond's own taste, and not at all of Isabel's. He had learned from Isabel that her husband had added a lot to his collection after their marriage. Rosier thinks of Osmond as a good collector - he had been patient in marriage, and thus had landed the great prizes once he had finally married. Edward Rosier goes to visit Isabel who is now Mrs. Osmond

Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/37.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_12_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 37

chapter 37

{"name": "Chapter 37", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39", "summary": "Edward Rosier now stands in the palace where Isabel and Osmond live at some sort of social gathering. Osmond greets him, saying his wife will be out shortly. When we see Isabel through Edward's eyes, it seems that she has changed very little, imparting still that secret \"lustre\" of a valuable item. Edward Rosier lets Isabel know that he would like to see Pansy. When we see Pansy through Edward's eyes, the narrator tells us that while she is now nineteen years old, and that while she is pretty, she seems to lack style. She is dressed with \"freshness\" instead. Edward Rosier would have been inclined to notice these defects, the narrator tells us, if he had not already attributed named her qualities with ideas of his own -- he thinks she is absolutely unique. Mr. Rosier asks Pansy to show him the yellow room, and she agrees. He gets her to admit that she likes him, as she shows him her father's things. Pansy asks if Edward is sure that her father knows that he likes her; he retorts that her father is supposed to know everything. Madame Merle arrives and talks to Gilbert Osmond about Mr. Rosier: Merle considers telling Mr. Rosier that Osmond dislikes the proposal, and Osmond is annoyed at the thought that this will make Mr. Rosier insist. Merle advises Osmond to keep Mr. Rosier on hand, for he may have a use for him. Osmond does not understand this. Meanwhile Mr. Rosier speaks to Isabel. She tells him that he is not rich enough for Pansy, and he feels insulted. He has never been told that he is not good enough. She tells him Pansy's father cares about the money, and he hints that Osmond's love of money was apparent when he married Isabel", "analysis": "Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the \"ficelle\" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, \"Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so\" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a \"representative\" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an \"intrinsic value\" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from \"using\" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of \"intrinsic value\" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?"}

Pansy was not in the first of the rooms, a large apartment with a concave ceiling and walls covered with old red damask; it was here Mrs. Osmond usually sat--though she was not in her most customary place to-night--and that a circle of more especial intimates gathered about the fire. The room was flushed with subdued, diffused brightness; it contained the larger things and--almost always--an odour of flowers. Pansy on this occasion was presumably in the next of the series, the resort of younger visitors, where tea was served. Osmond stood before the chimney, leaning back with his hands behind him; he had one foot up and was warming the sole. Half a dozen persons, scattered near him, were talking together; but he was not in the conversation; his eyes had an expression, frequent with them, that seemed to represent them as engaged with objects more worth their while than the appearances actually thrust upon them. Rosier, coming in unannounced, failed to attract his attention; but the young man, who was very punctilious, though he was even exceptionally conscious that it was the wife, not the husband, he had come to see, went up to shake hands with him. Osmond put out his left hand, without changing his attitude. "How d'ye do? My wife's somewhere about." "Never fear; I shall find her," said Rosier cheerfully. Osmond, however, took him in; he had never in his life felt himself so efficiently looked at. "Madame Merle has told him, and he doesn't like it," he privately reasoned. He had hoped Madame Merle would be there, but she was not in sight; perhaps she was in one of the other rooms or would come later. He had never especially delighted in Gilbert Osmond, having a fancy he gave himself airs. But Rosier was not quickly resentful, and where politeness was concerned had ever a strong need of being quite in the right. He looked round him and smiled, all without help, and then in a moment, "I saw a jolly good piece of Capo di Monte to-day," he said. Osmond answered nothing at first; but presently, while he warmed his boot-sole, "I don't care a fig for Capo di Monte!" he returned. "I hope you're not losing your interest?" "In old pots and plates? Yes, I'm losing my interest." Rosier for an instant forgot the delicacy of his position. "You're not thinking of parting with a--a piece or two?" "No, I'm not thinking of parting with anything at all, Mr. Rosier," said Osmond, with his eyes still on the eyes of his visitor. "Ah, you want to keep, but not to add," Rosier remarked brightly. "Exactly. I've nothing I wish to match." Poor Rosier was aware he had blushed; he was distressed at his want of assurance. "Ah, well, I have!" was all he could murmur; and he knew his murmur was partly lost as he turned away. He took his course to the adjoining room and met Mrs. Osmond coming out of the deep doorway. She was dressed in black velvet; she looked high and splendid, as he had said, and yet oh so radiantly gentle! We know what Mr. Rosier thought of her and the terms in which, to Madame Merle, he had expressed his admiration. Like his appreciation of her dear little stepdaughter it was based partly on his eye for decorative character, his instinct for authenticity; but also on a sense for uncatalogued values, for that secret of a "lustre" beyond any recorded losing or rediscovering, which his devotion to brittle wares had still not disqualified him to recognise. Mrs. Osmond, at present, might well have gratified such tastes. The years had touched her only to enrich her; the flower of her youth had not faded, it only hung more quietly on its stem. She had lost something of that quick eagerness to which her husband had privately taken exception--she had more the air of being able to wait. Now, at all events, framed in the gilded doorway, she struck our young man as the picture of a gracious lady. "You see I'm very regular," he said. "But who should be if I'm not?" "Yes, I've known you longer than any one here. But we mustn't indulge in tender reminiscences. I want to introduce you to a young lady." "Ah, please, what young lady?" Rosier was immensely obliging; but this was not what he had come for. "She sits there by the fire in pink and has no one to speak to." Rosier hesitated a moment. "Can't Mr. Osmond speak to her? He's within six feet of her." Mrs. Osmond also hesitated. "She's not very lively, and he doesn't like dull people." "But she's good enough for me? Ah now, that's hard!" "I only mean that you've ideas for two. And then you're so obliging." "No, he's not--to me." And Mrs. Osmond vaguely smiled. "That's a sign he should be doubly so to other women. "So I tell him," she said, still smiling. "You see I want some tea," Rosier went on, looking wistfully beyond. "That's perfect. Go and give some to my young lady." "Very good; but after that I'll abandon her to her fate. The simple truth is I'm dying to have a little talk with Miss Osmond." "Ah," said Isabel, turning away, "I can't help you there!" Five minutes later, while he handed a tea-cup to the damsel in pink, whom he had conducted into the other room, he wondered whether, in making to Mrs. Osmond the profession I have just quoted, he had broken the spirit of his promise to Madame Merle. Such a question was capable of occupying this young man's mind for a considerable time. At last, however, he became--comparatively speaking--reckless; he cared little what promises he might break. The fate to which he had threatened to abandon the damsel in pink proved to be none so terrible; for Pansy Osmond, who had given him the tea for his companion--Pansy was as fond as ever of making tea--presently came and talked to her. Into this mild colloquy Edward Rosier entered little; he sat by moodily, watching his small sweetheart. If we look at her now through his eyes we shall at first not see much to remind us of the obedient little girl who, at Florence, three years before, was sent to walk short distances in the Cascine while her father and Miss Archer talked together of matters sacred to elder people. But after a moment we shall perceive that if at nineteen Pansy has become a young lady she doesn't really fill out the part; that if she has grown very pretty she lacks in a deplorable degree the quality known and esteemed in the appearance of females as style; and that if she is dressed with great freshness she wears her smart attire with an undisguised appearance of saving it--very much as if it were lent her for the occasion. Edward Rosier, it would seem, would have been just the man to note these defects; and in point of fact there was not a quality of this young lady, of any sort, that he had not noted. Only he called her qualities by names of his own--some of which indeed were happy enough. "No, she's unique--she's absolutely unique," he used to say to himself; and you may be sure that not for an instant would he have admitted to you that she was wanting in style. Style? Why, she had the style of a little princess; if you couldn't see it you had no eye. It was not modern, it was not conscious, it would produce no impression in Broadway; the small, serious damsel, in her stiff little dress, only looked like an Infanta of Velasquez. This was enough for Edward Rosier, who thought her delightfully old-fashioned. Her anxious eyes, her charming lips, her slip of a figure, were as touching as a childish prayer. He had now an acute desire to know just to what point she liked him--a desire which made him fidget as he sat in his chair. It made him feel hot, so that he had to pat his forehead with his handkerchief; he had never been so uncomfortable. She was such a perfect jeune fille, and one couldn't make of a jeune fille the enquiry requisite for throwing light on such a point. A jeune fille was what Rosier had always dreamed of--a jeune fille who should yet not be French, for he had felt that this nationality would complicate the question. He was sure Pansy had never looked at a newspaper and that, in the way of novels, if she had read Sir Walter Scott it was the very most. An American jeune fille--what could be better than that? She would be frank and gay, and yet would not have walked alone, nor have received letters from men, nor have been taken to the theatre to see the comedy of manners. Rosier could not deny that, as the matter stood, it would be a breach of hospitality to appeal directly to this unsophisticated creature; but he was now in imminent danger of asking himself if hospitality were the most sacred thing in the world. Was not the sentiment that he entertained for Miss Osmond of infinitely greater importance? Of greater importance to him--yes; but not probably to the master of the house. There was one comfort; even if this gentleman had been placed on his guard by Madame Merle he would not have extended the warning to Pansy; it would not have been part of his policy to let her know that a prepossessing young man was in love with her. But he WAS in love with her, the prepossessing young man; and all these restrictions of circumstance had ended by irritating him. What had Gilbert Osmond meant by giving him two fingers of his left hand? If Osmond was rude, surely he himself might be bold. He felt extremely bold after the dull girl in so vain a disguise of rose-colour had responded to the call of her mother, who came in to say, with a significant simper at Rosier, that she must carry her off to other triumphs. The mother and daughter departed together, and now it depended only upon him that he should be virtually alone with Pansy. He had never been alone with her before; he had never been alone with a jeune fille. It was a great moment; poor Rosier began to pat his forehead again. There was another room beyond the one in which they stood--a small room that had been thrown open and lighted, but that, the company not being numerous, had remained empty all the evening. It was empty yet; it was upholstered in pale yellow; there were several lamps; through the open door it looked the very temple of authorised love. Rosier gazed a moment through this aperture; he was afraid that Pansy would run away, and felt almost capable of stretching out a hand to detain her. But she lingered where the other maiden had left them, making no motion to join a knot of visitors on the far side of the room. For a little it occurred to him that she was frightened--too frightened perhaps to move; but a second glance assured him she was not, and he then reflected that she was too innocent indeed for that. After a supreme hesitation he asked her if he might go and look at the yellow room, which seemed so attractive yet so virginal. He had been there already with Osmond, to inspect the furniture, which was of the First French Empire, and especially to admire the clock (which he didn't really admire), an immense classic structure of that period. He therefore felt that he had now begun to manoeuvre. "Certainly, you may go," said Pansy; "and if you like I'll show you." She was not in the least frightened. "That's just what I hoped you'd say; you're so very kind," Rosier murmured. They went in together; Rosier really thought the room very ugly, and it seemed cold. The same idea appeared to have struck Pansy. "It's not for winter evenings; it's more for summer," she said. "It's papa's taste; he has so much." He had a good deal, Rosier thought; but some of it was very bad. He looked about him; he hardly knew what to say in such a situation. "Doesn't Mrs. Osmond care how her rooms are done? Has she no taste?" he asked. "Oh yes, a great deal; but it's more for literature," said Pansy--"and for conversation. But papa cares also for those things. I think he knows everything." Rosier was silent a little. "There's one thing I'm sure he knows!" he broke out presently. "He knows that when I come here it's, with all respect to him, with all respect to Mrs. Osmond, who's so charming--it's really," said the young man, "to see you!" "To see me?" And Pansy raised her vaguely troubled eyes. "To see you; that's what I come for," Rosier repeated, feeling the intoxication of a rupture with authority. Pansy stood looking at him, simply, intently, openly; a blush was not needed to make her face more modest. "I thought it was for that." "And it was not disagreeable to you?" "I couldn't tell; I didn't know. You never told me," said Pansy. "I was afraid of offending you." "You don't offend me," the young girl murmured, smiling as if an angel had kissed her. "You like me then, Pansy?" Rosier asked very gently, feeling very happy. "Yes--I like you." They had walked to the chimney-piece where the big cold Empire clock was perched; they were well within the room and beyond observation from without. The tone in which she had said these four words seemed to him the very breath of nature, and his only answer could be to take her hand and hold it a moment. Then he raised it to his lips. She submitted, still with her pure, trusting smile, in which there was something ineffably passive. She liked him--she had liked him all the while; now anything might happen! She was ready--she had been ready always, waiting for him to speak. If he had not spoken she would have waited for ever; but when the word came she dropped like the peach from the shaken tree. Rosier felt that if he should draw her toward him and hold her to his heart she would submit without a murmur, would rest there without a question. It was true that this would be a rash experiment in a yellow Empire salottino. She had known it was for her he came, and yet like what a perfect little lady she had carried it off! "You're very dear to me," he murmured, trying to believe that there was after all such a thing as hospitality. She looked a moment at her hand, where he had kissed it. "Did you say papa knows?" "You told me just now he knows everything." "I think you must make sure," said Pansy. "Ah, my dear, when once I'm sure of YOU!" Rosier murmured in her ear; whereupon she turned back to the other rooms with a little air of consistency which seemed to imply that their appeal should be immediate. The other rooms meanwhile had become conscious of the arrival of Madame Merle, who, wherever she went, produced an impression when she entered. How she did it the most attentive spectator could not have told you, for she neither spoke loud, nor laughed profusely, nor moved rapidly, nor dressed with splendour, nor appealed in any appreciable manner to the audience. Large, fair, smiling, serene, there was something in her very tranquillity that diffused itself, and when people looked round it was because of a sudden quiet. On this occasion she had done the quietest thing she could do; after embracing Mrs. Osmond, which was more striking, she had sat down on a small sofa to commune with the master of the house. There was a brief exchange of commonplaces between these two--they always paid, in public, a certain formal tribute to the commonplace--and then Madame Merle, whose eyes had been wandering, asked if little Mr. Rosier had come this evening. "He came nearly an hour ago--but he has disappeared," Osmond said. "And where's Pansy?" "In the other room. There are several people there." "He's probably among them," said Madame Merle. "Do you wish to see him?" Osmond asked in a provokingly pointless tone. Madame Merle looked at him a moment; she knew each of his tones to the eighth of a note. "Yes, I should like to say to him that I've told you what he wants, and that it interests you but feebly." "Don't tell him that. He'll try to interest me more--which is exactly what I don't want. Tell him I hate his proposal." "But you don't hate it." "It doesn't signify; I don't love it. I let him see that, myself, this evening; I was rude to him on purpose. That sort of thing's a great bore. There's no hurry." "I'll tell him that you'll take time and think it over." "No, don't do that. He'll hang on." "If I discourage him he'll do the same." "Yes, but in the one case he'll try to talk and explain--which would be exceedingly tiresome. In the other he'll probably hold his tongue and go in for some deeper game. That will leave me quiet. I hate talking with a donkey." "Is that what you call poor Mr. Rosier?" "Oh, he's a nuisance--with his eternal majolica." Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she had a faint smile. "He's a gentleman, he has a charming temper; and, after all, an income of forty thousand francs!" "It's misery--'genteel' misery," Osmond broke in. "It's not what I've dreamed of for Pansy." "Very good then. He has promised me not to speak to her." "Do you believe him?" Osmond asked absentmindedly. "Perfectly. Pansy has thought a great deal about him; but I don't suppose you consider that that matters." "I don't consider it matters at all; but neither do I believe she has thought of him." "That opinion's more convenient," said Madame Merle quietly. "Has she told you she's in love with him?" "For what do you take her? And for what do you take me?" Madame Merle added in a moment. Osmond had raised his foot and was resting his slim ankle on the other knee; he clasped his ankle in his hand familiarly--his long, fine forefinger and thumb could make a ring for it--and gazed a while before him. "This kind of thing doesn't find me unprepared. It's what I educated her for. It was all for this--that when such a case should come up she should do what I prefer." "I'm not afraid that she'll not do it." "Well then, where's the hitch?" "I don't see any. But, all the same, I recommend you not to get rid of Mr. Rosier. Keep him on hand; he may be useful." "I can't keep him. Keep him yourself." "Very good; I'll put him into a corner and allow him so much a day." Madame Merle had, for the most part, while they talked, been glancing about her; it was her habit in this situation, just as it was her habit to interpose a good many blank-looking pauses. A long drop followed the last words I have quoted; and before it had ended she saw Pansy come out of the adjoining room, followed by Edward Rosier. The girl advanced a few steps and then stopped and stood looking at Madame Merle and at her father. "He has spoken to her," Madame Merle went on to Osmond. Her companion never turned his head. "So much for your belief in his promises. He ought to be horsewhipped." "He intends to confess, poor little man!" Osmond got up; he had now taken a sharp look at his daughter. "It doesn't matter," he murmured, turning away. Pansy after a moment came up to Madame Merle with her little manner of unfamiliar politeness. This lady's reception of her was not more intimate; she simply, as she rose from the sofa, gave her a friendly smile. "You're very late," the young creature gently said. "My dear child, I'm never later than I intend to be." Madame Merle had not got up to be gracious to Pansy; she moved toward Edward Rosier. He came to meet her and, very quickly, as if to get it off his mind, "I've spoken to her!" he whispered. "I know it, Mr. Rosier." "Did she tell you?" "Yes, she told me. Behave properly for the rest of the evening, and come and see me to-morrow at a quarter past five." She was severe, and in the manner in which she turned her back to him there was a degree of contempt which caused him to mutter a decent imprecation. He had no intention of speaking to Osmond; it was neither the time nor the place. But he instinctively wandered toward Isabel, who sat talking with an old lady. He sat down on the other side of her; the old lady was Italian, and Rosier took for granted she understood no English. "You said just now you wouldn't help me," he began to Mrs. Osmond. "Perhaps you'll feel differently when you know--when you know--!" Isabel met his hesitation. "When I know what?" "That she's all right." "What do you mean by that?" "Well, that we've come to an understanding." "She's all wrong," said Isabel. "It won't do." Poor Rosier gazed at her half-pleadingly, half-angrily; a sudden flush testified to his sense of injury. "I've never been treated so," he said. "What is there against me, after all? That's not the way I'm usually considered. I could have married twenty times." "It's a pity you didn't. I don't mean twenty times, but once, comfortably," Isabel added, smiling kindly. "You're not rich enough for Pansy." "She doesn't care a straw for one's money." "No, but her father does." "Ah yes, he has proved that!" cried the young man. Isabel got up, turning away from him, leaving her old lady without ceremony; and he occupied himself for the next ten minutes in pretending to look at Gilbert Osmond's collection of miniatures, which were neatly arranged on a series of small velvet screens. But he looked without seeing; his cheek burned; he was too full of his sense of injury. It was certain that he had never been treated that way before; he was not used to being thought not good enough. He knew how good he was, and if such a fallacy had not been so pernicious he could have laughed at it. He searched again for Pansy, but she had disappeared, and his main desire was now to get out of the house. Before doing so he spoke once more to Isabel; it was not agreeable to him to reflect that he had just said a rude thing to her--the only point that would now justify a low view of him. "I referred to Mr. Osmond as I shouldn't have done, a while ago," he began. "But you must remember my situation." "I don't remember what you said," she answered coldly. "Ah, you're offended, and now you'll never help me." She was silent an instant, and then with a change of tone: "It's not that I won't; I simply can't!" Her manner was almost passionate. "If you COULD, just a little, I'd never again speak of your husband save as an angel." "The inducement's great," said Isabel gravely--inscrutably, as he afterwards, to himself, called it; and she gave him, straight in the eyes, a look which was also inscrutable. It made him remember somehow that he had known her as a child; and yet it was keener than he liked, and he took himself off.

Chapter 37

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39

Edward Rosier now stands in the palace where Isabel and Osmond live at some sort of social gathering. Osmond greets him, saying his wife will be out shortly. When we see Isabel through Edward's eyes, it seems that she has changed very little, imparting still that secret "lustre" of a valuable item. Edward Rosier lets Isabel know that he would like to see Pansy. When we see Pansy through Edward's eyes, the narrator tells us that while she is now nineteen years old, and that while she is pretty, she seems to lack style. She is dressed with "freshness" instead. Edward Rosier would have been inclined to notice these defects, the narrator tells us, if he had not already attributed named her qualities with ideas of his own -- he thinks she is absolutely unique. Mr. Rosier asks Pansy to show him the yellow room, and she agrees. He gets her to admit that she likes him, as she shows him her father's things. Pansy asks if Edward is sure that her father knows that he likes her; he retorts that her father is supposed to know everything. Madame Merle arrives and talks to Gilbert Osmond about Mr. Rosier: Merle considers telling Mr. Rosier that Osmond dislikes the proposal, and Osmond is annoyed at the thought that this will make Mr. Rosier insist. Merle advises Osmond to keep Mr. Rosier on hand, for he may have a use for him. Osmond does not understand this. Meanwhile Mr. Rosier speaks to Isabel. She tells him that he is not rich enough for Pansy, and he feels insulted. He has never been told that he is not good enough. She tells him Pansy's father cares about the money, and he hints that Osmond's love of money was apparent when he married Isabel

Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/38.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_12_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 38

chapter 38

{"name": "Chapter 38", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39", "summary": "Edward Rosier goes to see Madame Merle, who quickly forgives him for breaking his promise not to speak to Isabel. She tells him that he needs to only be patient and he may have a chance. She also warns him not to visit the house too often. Edward Rosier then skips one evening of the Thursday night gatherings at the Palazzo Roccanero, where Isabel and Osmond live together. The next Thursday he attends though. He discusses his love for Pansy with Osmond, who tells him that Pansy does not care for him and will not want to marry him. Edward then goes to discuss the matter with Isabel. As they are speaking, Lord Warburton suddenly appears. Edward slips away to speak with Pansy. Lord Warburton informs Isabel that he has arrived with Ralph, who has taken a turn for the worse. Isabel decides to see Ralph the next morning. She notes that Warburton has nothing of the spirit of revenge, and bears no malice against her for refusing him. She envies him in fact, because as a man, he has been able to plunge himself into the \"healing waters of action\". He asks if she is happy, and she jokes that she would not tell him if she was not. She then says that she is happy. He says that he may yet marry. Edward Rosier meanwhile speaks to Pansy, asking if she has changed her mind about him. She says she has not, but that she has promised her father that she will not speak with him. She tells him that her plan is to speak with Isabel about helping change Osmond's mind. Lord Warburton and Isabel then come up to Pansy for Lord Warburton to be introduced to her", "analysis": "Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the \"ficelle\" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, \"Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so\" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a \"representative\" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an \"intrinsic value\" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from \"using\" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of \"intrinsic value\" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?"}

He went to see Madame Merle on the morrow, and to his surprise she let him off rather easily. But she made him promise that he would stop there till something should have been decided. Mr. Osmond had had higher expectations; it was very true that as he had no intention of giving his daughter a portion such expectations were open to criticism or even, if one would, to ridicule. But she would advise Mr. Rosier not to take that tone; if he would possess his soul in patience he might arrive at his felicity. Mr. Osmond was not favourable to his suit, but it wouldn't be a miracle if he should gradually come round. Pansy would never defy her father, he might depend on that; so nothing was to be gained by precipitation. Mr. Osmond needed to accustom his mind to an offer of a sort that he had not hitherto entertained, and this result must come of itself--it was useless to try to force it. Rosier remarked that his own situation would be in the meanwhile the most uncomfortable in the world, and Madame Merle assured him that she felt for him. But, as she justly declared, one couldn't have everything one wanted; she had learned that lesson for herself. There would be no use in his writing to Gilbert Osmond, who had charged her to tell him as much. He wished the matter dropped for a few weeks and would himself write when he should have anything to communicate that it might please Mr. Rosier to hear. "He doesn't like your having spoken to Pansy, Ah, he doesn't like it at all," said Madame Merle. "I'm perfectly willing to give him a chance to tell me so!" "If you do that he'll tell you more than you care to hear. Go to the house, for the next month, as little as possible, and leave the rest to me." "As little as possible? Who's to measure the possibility?" "Let me measure it. Go on Thursday evenings with the rest of the world, but don't go at all at odd times, and don't fret about Pansy. I'll see that she understands everything. She's a calm little nature; she'll take it quietly." Edward Rosier fretted about Pansy a good deal, but he did as he was advised, and awaited another Thursday evening before returning to Palazzo Roccanera. There had been a party at dinner, so that though he went early the company was already tolerably numerous. Osmond, as usual, was in the first room, near the fire, staring straight at the door, so that, not to be distinctly uncivil, Rosier had to go and speak to him. "I'm glad that you can take a hint," Pansy's father said, slightly closing his keen, conscious eyes. "I take no hints. But I took a message, as I supposed it to be." "You took it? Where did you take it?" It seemed to poor Rosier he was being insulted, and he waited a moment, asking himself how much a true lover ought to submit to. "Madame Merle gave me, as I understood it, a message from you--to the effect that you declined to give me the opportunity I desire, the opportunity to explain my wishes to you." And he flattered himself he spoke rather sternly. "I don't see what Madame Merle has to do with it. Why did you apply to Madame Merle?" "I asked her for an opinion--for nothing more. I did so because she had seemed to me to know you very well." "She doesn't know me so well as she thinks," said Osmond. "I'm sorry for that, because she has given me some little ground for hope." Osmond stared into the fire a moment. "I set a great price on my daughter." "You can't set a higher one than I do. Don't I prove it by wishing to marry her?" "I wish to marry her very well," Osmond went on with a dry impertinence which, in another mood, poor Rosier would have admired. "Of course I pretend she'd marry well in marrying me. She couldn't marry a man who loves her more--or whom, I may venture to add, she loves more." "I'm not bound to accept your theories as to whom my daughter loves"--and Osmond looked up with a quick, cold smile. "I'm not theorising. Your daughter has spoken." "Not to me," Osmond continued, now bending forward a little and dropping his eyes to his boot-toes. "I have her promise, sir!" cried Rosier with the sharpness of exasperation. As their voices had been pitched very low before, such a note attracted some attention from the company. Osmond waited till this little movement had subsided; then he said, all undisturbed: "I think she has no recollection of having given it." They had been standing with their faces to the fire, and after he had uttered these last words the master of the house turned round again to the room. Before Rosier had time to reply he perceived that a gentleman--a stranger--had just come in, unannounced, according to the Roman custom, and was about to present himself to his host. The latter smiled blandly, but somewhat blankly; the visitor had a handsome face and a large, fair beard, and was evidently an Englishman. "You apparently don't recognise me," he said with a smile that expressed more than Osmond's. "Ah yes, now I do. I expected so little to see you." Rosier departed and went in direct pursuit of Pansy. He sought her, as usual, in the neighbouring room, but he again encountered Mrs. Osmond in his path. He gave his hostess no greeting--he was too righteously indignant, but said to her crudely: "Your husband's awfully cold-blooded." She gave the same mystical smile he had noticed before. "You can't expect every one to be as hot as yourself." "I don't pretend to be cold, but I'm cool. What has he been doing to his daughter?" "I've no idea." "Don't you take any interest?" Rosier demanded with his sense that she too was irritating. For a moment she answered nothing; then, "No!" she said abruptly and with a quickened light in her eyes which directly contradicted the word. "Pardon me if I don't believe that. Where's Miss Osmond?" "In the corner, making tea. Please leave her there." Rosier instantly discovered his friend, who had been hidden by intervening groups. He watched her, but her own attention was entirely given to her occupation. "What on earth has he done to her?" he asked again imploringly. "He declares to me she has given me up." "She has not given you up," Isabel said in a low tone and without looking at him. "Ah, thank you for that! Now I'll leave her alone as long as you think proper!" He had hardly spoken when he saw her change colour, and became aware that Osmond was coming toward her accompanied by the gentleman who had just entered. He judged the latter, in spite of the advantage of good looks and evident social experience, a little embarrassed. "Isabel," said her husband, "I bring you an old friend." Mrs. Osmond's face, though it wore a smile, was, like her old friend's, not perfectly confident. "I'm very happy to see Lord Warburton," she said. Rosier turned away and, now that his talk with her had been interrupted, felt absolved from the little pledge he had just taken. He had a quick impression that Mrs. Osmond wouldn't notice what he did. Isabel in fact, to do him justice, for some time quite ceased to observe him. She had been startled; she hardly knew if she felt a pleasure or a pain. Lord Warburton, however, now that he was face to face with her, was plainly quite sure of his own sense of the matter; though his grey eyes had still their fine original property of keeping recognition and attestation strictly sincere. He was "heavier" than of yore and looked older; he stood there very solidly and sensibly. "I suppose you didn't expect to see me," he said; "I've but just arrived. Literally, I only got here this evening. You see I've lost no time in coming to pay you my respects. I knew you were at home on Thursdays." "You see the fame of your Thursdays has spread to England," Osmond remarked to his wife. "It's very kind of Lord Warburton to come so soon; we're greatly flattered," Isabel said. "Ah well, it's better than stopping in one of those horrible inns," Osmond went on. "The hotel seems very good; I think it's the same at which I saw you four years since. You know it was here in Rome that we first met; it's a long time ago. Do you remember where I bade you good-bye?" his lordship asked of his hostess. "It was in the Capitol, in the first room." "I remember that myself," said Osmond. "I was there at the time." "Yes, I remember you there. I was very sorry to leave Rome--so sorry that, somehow or other, it became almost a dismal memory, and I've never cared to come back till to-day. But I knew you were living here," her old friend went on to Isabel, "and I assure you I've often thought of you. It must be a charming place to live in," he added with a look, round him, at her established home, in which she might have caught the dim ghost of his old ruefulness. "We should have been glad to see you at any time," Osmond observed with propriety. "Thank you very much. I haven't been out of England since then. Till a month ago I really supposed my travels over." "I've heard of you from time to time," said Isabel, who had already, with her rare capacity for such inward feats, taken the measure of what meeting him again meant for her. "I hope you've heard no harm. My life has been a remarkably complete blank." "Like the good reigns in history," Osmond suggested. He appeared to think his duties as a host now terminated--he had performed them so conscientiously. Nothing could have been more adequate, more nicely measured, than his courtesy to his wife's old friend. It was punctilious, it was explicit, it was everything but natural--a deficiency which Lord Warburton, who, himself, had on the whole a good deal of nature, may be supposed to have perceived. "I'll leave you and Mrs. Osmond together," he added. "You have reminiscences into which I don't enter." "I'm afraid you lose a good deal!" Lord Warburton called after him, as he moved away, in a tone which perhaps betrayed overmuch an appreciation of his generosity. Then the visitor turned on Isabel the deeper, the deepest, consciousness of his look, which gradually became more serious. "I'm really very glad to see you." "It's very pleasant. You're very kind." "Do you know that you're changed--a little?" She just hesitated. "Yes--a good deal." "I don't mean for the worse, of course; and yet how can I say for the better?" "I think I shall have no scruple in saying that to YOU," she bravely returned. "Ah well, for me--it's a long time. It would be a pity there shouldn't be something to show for it." They sat down and she asked him about his sisters, with other enquiries of a somewhat perfunctory kind. He answered her questions as if they interested him, and in a few moments she saw--or believed she saw--that he would press with less of his whole weight than of yore. Time had breathed upon his heart and, without chilling it, given it a relieved sense of having taken the air. Isabel felt her usual esteem for Time rise at a bound. Her friend's manner was certainly that of a contented man, one who would rather like people, or like her at least, to know him for such. "There's something I must tell you without more delay," he resumed. "I've brought Ralph Touchett with me." "Brought him with you?" Isabel's surprise was great. "He's at the hotel; he was too tired to come out and has gone to bed." "I'll go to see him," she immediately said. "That's exactly what I hoped you'd do. I had an idea you hadn't seen much of him since your marriage, that in fact your relations were a--a little more formal. That's why I hesitated--like an awkward Briton." "I'm as fond of Ralph as ever," Isabel answered. "But why has he come to Rome?" The declaration was very gentle, the question a little sharp. "Because he's very far gone, Mrs. Osmond." "Rome then is no place for him. I heard from him that he had determined to give up his custom of wintering abroad and to remain in England, indoors, in what he called an artificial climate." "Poor fellow, he doesn't succeed with the artificial! I went to see him three weeks ago, at Gardencourt, and found him thoroughly ill. He has been getting worse every year, and now he has no strength left. He smokes no more cigarettes! He had got up an artificial climate indeed; the house was as hot as Calcutta. Nevertheless he had suddenly taken it into his head to start for Sicily. I didn't believe in it--neither did the doctors, nor any of his friends. His mother, as I suppose you know, is in America, so there was no one to prevent him. He stuck to his idea that it would be the saving of him to spend the winter at Catania. He said he could take servants and furniture, could make himself comfortable, but in point of fact he hasn't brought anything. I wanted him at least to go by sea, to save fatigue; but he said he hated the sea and wished to stop at Rome. After that, though I thought it all rubbish, I made up my mind to come with him. I'm acting as--what do you call it in America?--as a kind of moderator. Poor Ralph's very moderate now. We left England a fortnight ago, and he has been very bad on the way. He can't keep warm, and the further south we come the more he feels the cold. He has got rather a good man, but I'm afraid he's beyond human help. I wanted him to take with him some clever fellow--I mean some sharp young doctor; but he wouldn't hear of it. If you don't mind my saying so, I think it was a most extraordinary time for Mrs. Touchett to decide on going to America." Isabel had listened eagerly; her face was full of pain and wonder. "My aunt does that at fixed periods and lets nothing turn her aside. When the date comes round she starts; I think she'd have started if Ralph had been dying." "I sometimes think he IS dying," Lord Warburton said. Isabel sprang up. "I'll go to him then now." He checked her; he was a little disconcerted at the quick effect of his words. "I don't mean I thought so to-night. On the contrary, to-day, in the train, he seemed particularly well; the idea of our reaching Rome--he's very fond of Rome, you know--gave him strength. An hour ago, when I bade him goodnight, he told me he was very tired, but very happy. Go to him in the morning; that's all I mean. I didn't tell him I was coming here; I didn't decide to till after we had separated. Then I remembered he had told me you had an evening, and that it was this very Thursday. It occurred to me to come in and tell you he's here, and let you know you had perhaps better not wait for him to call. I think he said he hadn't written to you." There was no need of Isabel's declaring that she would act upon Lord Warburton's information; she looked, as she sat there, like a winged creature held back. "Let alone that I wanted to see you for myself," her visitor gallantly added. "I don't understand Ralph's plan; it seems to me very wild," she said. "I was glad to think of him between those thick walls at Gardencourt." "He was completely alone there; the thick walls were his only company." "You went to see him; you've been extremely kind." "Oh dear, I had nothing to do," said Lord Warburton. "We hear, on the contrary, that you're doing great things. Every one speaks of you as a great statesman, and I'm perpetually seeing your name in the Times, which, by the way, doesn't appear to hold it in reverence. You're apparently as wild a radical as ever." "I don't feel nearly so wild; you know the world has come round to me. Touchett and I have kept up a sort of parliamentary debate all the way from London. I tell him he's the last of the Tories, and he calls me the King of the Goths--says I have, down to the details of my personal appearance, every sign of the brute. So you see there's life in him yet." Isabel had many questions to ask about Ralph, but she abstained from asking them all. She would see for herself on the morrow. She perceived that after a little Lord Warburton would tire of that subject--he had a conception of other possible topics. She was more and more able to say to herself that he had recovered, and, what is more to the point, she was able to say it without bitterness. He had been for her, of old, such an image of urgency, of insistence, of something to be resisted and reasoned with, that his reappearance at first menaced her with a new trouble. But she was now reassured; she could see he only wished to live with her on good terms, that she was to understand he had forgiven her and was incapable of the bad taste of making pointed allusions. This was not a form of revenge, of course; she had no suspicion of his wishing to punish her by an exhibition of disillusionment; she did him the justice to believe it had simply occurred to him that she would now take a good-natured interest in knowing he was resigned. It was the resignation of a healthy, manly nature, in which sentimental wounds could never fester. British politics had cured him; she had known they would. She gave an envious thought to the happier lot of men, who are always free to plunge into the healing waters of action. Lord Warburton of course spoke of the past, but he spoke of it without implications; he even went so far as to allude to their former meeting in Rome as a very jolly time. And he told her he had been immensely interested in hearing of her marriage and that it was a great pleasure for him to make Mr. Osmond's acquaintance--since he could hardly be said to have made it on the other occasion. He had not written to her at the time of that passage in her history, but he didn't apologise to her for this. The only thing he implied was that they were old friends, intimate friends. It was very much as an intimate friend that he said to her, suddenly, after a short pause which he had occupied in smiling, as he looked about him, like a person amused, at a provincial entertainment, by some innocent game of guesses-- "Well now, I suppose you're very happy and all that sort of thing?" Isabel answered with a quick laugh; the tone of his remark struck her almost as the accent of comedy. "Do you suppose if I were not I'd tell you?" "Well, I don't know. I don't see why not." "I do then. Fortunately, however, I'm very happy." "You've got an awfully good house." "Yes, it's very pleasant. But that's not my merit--it's my husband's." "You mean he has arranged it?" "Yes, it was nothing when we came." "He must be very clever." "He has a genius for upholstery," said Isabel. "There's a great rage for that sort of thing now. But you must have a taste of your own." "I enjoy things when they're done, but I've no ideas. I can never propose anything." "Do you mean you accept what others propose?" "Very willingly, for the most part." "That's a good thing to know. I shall propose to you something." "It will be very kind. I must say, however, that I've in a few small ways a certain initiative. I should like for instance to introduce you to some of these people." "Oh, please don't; I prefer sitting here. Unless it be to that young lady in the blue dress. She has a charming face." "The one talking to the rosy young man? That's my husband's daughter." "Lucky man, your husband. What a dear little maid!" "You must make her acquaintance." "In a moment--with pleasure. I like looking at her from here." He ceased to look at her, however, very soon; his eyes constantly reverted to Mrs. Osmond. "Do you know I was wrong just now in saying you had changed?" he presently went on. "You seem to me, after all, very much the same." "And yet I find it a great change to be married," said Isabel with mild gaiety. "It affects most people more than it has affected you. You see I haven't gone in for that." "It rather surprises me." "You ought to understand it, Mrs. Osmond. But I do want to marry," he added more simply. "It ought to be very easy," Isabel said, rising--after which she reflected, with a pang perhaps too visible, that she was hardly the person to say this. It was perhaps because Lord Warburton divined the pang that he generously forbore to call her attention to her not having contributed then to the facility. Edward Rosier had meanwhile seated himself on an ottoman beside Pansy's tea-table. He pretended at first to talk to her about trifles, and she asked him who was the new gentleman conversing with her stepmother. "He's an English lord," said Rosier. "I don't know more." "I wonder if he'll have some tea. The English are so fond of tea." "Never mind that; I've something particular to say to you." "Don't speak so loud every one will hear," said Pansy. "They won't hear if you continue to look that way: as if your only thought in life was the wish the kettle would boil." "It has just been filled; the servants never know!"--and she sighed with the weight of her responsibility. "Do you know what your father said to me just now? That you didn't mean what you said a week ago." "I don't mean everything I say. How can a young girl do that? But I mean what I say to you." "He told me you had forgotten me." "Ah no, I don't forget," said Pansy, showing her pretty teeth in a fixed smile. "Then everything's just the very same?" "Ah no, not the very same. Papa has been terribly severe." "What has he done to you?" "He asked me what you had done to me, and I told him everything. Then he forbade me to marry you." "You needn't mind that." "Oh yes, I must indeed. I can't disobey papa." "Not for one who loves you as I do, and whom you pretend to love?" She raised the lid of the tea-pot, gazing into this vessel for a moment; then she dropped six words into its aromatic depths. "I love you just as much." "What good will that do me?" "Ah," said Pansy, raising her sweet, vague eyes, "I don't know that." "You disappoint me," groaned poor Rosier. She was silent a little; she handed a tea-cup to a servant. "Please don't talk any more." "Is this to be all my satisfaction?" "Papa said I was not to talk with you." "Do you sacrifice me like that? Ah, it's too much!" "I wish you'd wait a little," said the girl in a voice just distinct enough to betray a quaver. "Of course I'll wait if you'll give me hope. But you take my life away." "I'll not give you up--oh no!" Pansy went on. "He'll try and make you marry some one else." "I'll never do that." "What then are we to wait for?" She hesitated again. "I'll speak to Mrs. Osmond and she'll help us." It was in this manner that she for the most part designated her stepmother. "She won't help us much. She's afraid." "Afraid of what?" "Of your father, I suppose." Pansy shook her little head. "She's not afraid of any one. We must have patience." "Ah, that's an awful word," Rosier groaned; he was deeply disconcerted. Oblivious of the customs of good society, he dropped his head into his hands and, supporting it with a melancholy grace, sat staring at the carpet. Presently he became aware of a good deal of movement about him and, as he looked up, saw Pansy making a curtsey--it was still her little curtsey of the convent--to the English lord whom Mrs. Osmond had introduced.

Chapter 38

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39

Edward Rosier goes to see Madame Merle, who quickly forgives him for breaking his promise not to speak to Isabel. She tells him that he needs to only be patient and he may have a chance. She also warns him not to visit the house too often. Edward Rosier then skips one evening of the Thursday night gatherings at the Palazzo Roccanero, where Isabel and Osmond live together. The next Thursday he attends though. He discusses his love for Pansy with Osmond, who tells him that Pansy does not care for him and will not want to marry him. Edward then goes to discuss the matter with Isabel. As they are speaking, Lord Warburton suddenly appears. Edward slips away to speak with Pansy. Lord Warburton informs Isabel that he has arrived with Ralph, who has taken a turn for the worse. Isabel decides to see Ralph the next morning. She notes that Warburton has nothing of the spirit of revenge, and bears no malice against her for refusing him. She envies him in fact, because as a man, he has been able to plunge himself into the "healing waters of action". He asks if she is happy, and she jokes that she would not tell him if she was not. She then says that she is happy. He says that he may yet marry. Edward Rosier meanwhile speaks to Pansy, asking if she has changed her mind about him. She says she has not, but that she has promised her father that she will not speak with him. She tells him that her plan is to speak with Isabel about helping change Osmond's mind. Lord Warburton and Isabel then come up to Pansy for Lord Warburton to be introduced to her

Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/39.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_12_part_4.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 39

chapter 39

{"name": "Chapter 39", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39", "summary": "In this chapter, we get Ralph's view of Isabel's marriage: he feels that she wears a mask. He has a theory about her unhappiness and how she is only playing the part of a happy wife, but he knows that she would never tell him if this were the case. The relations between Ralph and Isabel have cooled significantly - they always feel somewhat formal, and Ralph notices a definite difference. He feels that Isabel will never forgive him for having insulted her husband. Ralph did manage to make it to the wedding. The ceremony was very small: only Countess Gemini, Mrs. Touchett and Pansy were there to witness it. Henrietta had been critical of Mr. Osmond as well, and Mr. Osmond did not like Henrietta. Mrs. Touchett had only formal and distant relations with Isabel, and she had also broken her friendship with Madame Merle. Madame Merle acted as if Mrs. Touchett had offended her, pretending that she had simply not noticed Isabel had felt affectionate towards Gilbert Osmond during their travels together. We learn that Isabel has had a child, but she has also lost it. The life she leads gives all the appearance of being a successful one: from the outside, there was nothing to gape at or criticize. Ralph though recognizes this appearance as the \"hand of the master\". He notices that Isabel acts in too exaggerated a manner sometimes, and that she seems less curious, more indifferent. He feels that Isabel gives the appearance of a fine lady who is supposed to represent something -- namely, Gilbert Osmond. He realizes that Osmond had never had material with which express himself, but he had patiently waited. Isabel now serves the function of that material. But even though such material is very fine, Ralph thinks to himself, the thing being represented is absolutely vulgar. Ralph realizes that Osmond had given the appearance of caring for intrinsic values, but in actual fact, he lived for what others thought of him. His purpose was to project an image of impertinence and mystification - to make the world feel as if he were superior to it. His ambition was not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's curiosity and then declining to satisfy it,\" the narrator tells us of Ralph's theory about Osmond. Generally speaking Osmond does not seem to think Ralph is important enough to be disliked. However, once when Ralph stayed for too long in Rome, he knew that Osmond began to protest. Ralph then left so as not to disturb the relations between the couple. However, in a conversation with Lord Warburton, Ralph declares his intention to stay on, to see if Osmond will again protest. Also in this conversation, Lord Warburton and Ralph both intimate that they originally set upon their journey to see Isabel rather than to journey further south, as they had ostensibly planned to do. Ralph asks Warburton if he is trying to prove to Isabel that he does not intend to \"make love to her\" by showing interest in Pansy. Warburton wonders if Isabel will be pleased that he is showing interest in Pansy", "analysis": "Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the \"ficelle\" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, \"Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so\" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a \"representative\" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an \"intrinsic value\" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from \"using\" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of \"intrinsic value\" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?"}

It will probably not surprise the reflective reader that Ralph Touchett should have seen less of his cousin since her marriage than he had done before that event--an event of which he took such a view as could hardly prove a confirmation of intimacy. He had uttered his thought, as we know, and after this had held his peace, Isabel not having invited him to resume a discussion which marked an era in their relations. That discussion had made a difference--the difference he feared rather than the one he hoped. It had not chilled the girl's zeal in carrying out her engagement, but it had come dangerously near to spoiling a friendship. No reference was ever again made between them to Ralph's opinion of Gilbert Osmond, and by surrounding this topic with a sacred silence they managed to preserve a semblance of reciprocal frankness. But there was a difference, as Ralph often said to himself--there was a difference. She had not forgiven him, she never would forgive him: that was all he had gained. She thought she had forgiven him; she believed she didn't care; and as she was both very generous and very proud these convictions represented a certain reality. But whether or no the event should justify him he would virtually have done her a wrong, and the wrong was of the sort that women remember best. As Osmond's wife she could never again be his friend. If in this character she should enjoy the felicity she expected, she would have nothing but contempt for the man who had attempted, in advance, to undermine a blessing so dear; and if on the other hand his warning should be justified the vow she had taken that he should never know it would lay upon her spirit such a burden as to make her hate him. So dismal had been, during the year that followed his cousin's marriage, Ralph's prevision of the future; and if his meditations appear morbid we must remember he was not in the bloom of health. He consoled himself as he might by behaving (as he deemed) beautifully, and was present at the ceremony by which Isabel was united to Mr. Osmond, and which was performed in Florence in the month of June. He learned from his mother that Isabel at first had thought of celebrating her nuptials in her native land, but that as simplicity was what she chiefly desired to secure she had finally decided, in spite of Osmond's professed willingness to make a journey of any length, that this characteristic would be best embodied in their being married by the nearest clergyman in the shortest time. The thing was done therefore at the little American chapel, on a very hot day, in the presence only of Mrs. Touchett and her son, of Pansy Osmond and the Countess Gemini. That severity in the proceedings of which I just spoke was in part the result of the absence of two persons who might have been looked for on the occasion and who would have lent it a certain richness. Madame Merle had been invited, but Madame Merle, who was unable to leave Rome, had written a gracious letter of excuses. Henrietta Stackpole had not been invited, as her departure from America, announced to Isabel by Mr. Goodwood, was in fact frustrated by the duties of her profession; but she had sent a letter, less gracious than Madame Merle's, intimating that, had she been able to cross the Atlantic, she would have been present not only as a witness but as a critic. Her return to Europe had taken place somewhat later, and she had effected a meeting with Isabel in the autumn, in Paris, when she had indulged--perhaps a trifle too freely--her critical genius. Poor Osmond, who was chiefly the subject of it, had protested so sharply that Henrietta was obliged to declare to Isabel that she had taken a step which put a barrier between them. "It isn't in the least that you've married--it is that you have married HIM," she had deemed it her duty to remark; agreeing, it will be seen, much more with Ralph Touchett than she suspected, though she had few of his hesitations and compunctions. Henrietta's second visit to Europe, however, was not apparently to have been made in vain; for just at the moment when Osmond had declared to Isabel that he really must object to that newspaper-woman, and Isabel had answered that it seemed to her he took Henrietta too hard, the good Mr. Bantling had appeared upon the scene and proposed that they should take a run down to Spain. Henrietta's letters from Spain had proved the most acceptable she had yet published, and there had been one in especial, dated from the Alhambra and entitled 'Moors and Moonlight,' which generally passed for her masterpiece. Isabel had been secretly disappointed at her husband's not seeing his way simply to take the poor girl for funny. She even wondered if his sense of fun, or of the funny--which would be his sense of humour, wouldn't it?--were by chance defective. Of course she herself looked at the matter as a person whose present happiness had nothing to grudge to Henrietta's violated conscience. Osmond had thought their alliance a kind of monstrosity; he couldn't imagine what they had in common. For him, Mr. Bantling's fellow tourist was simply the most vulgar of women, and he had also pronounced her the most abandoned. Against this latter clause of the verdict Isabel had appealed with an ardour that had made him wonder afresh at the oddity of some of his wife's tastes. Isabel could explain it only by saying that she liked to know people who were as different as possible from herself. "Why then don't you make the acquaintance of your washerwoman?" Osmond had enquired; to which Isabel had answered that she was afraid her washerwoman wouldn't care for her. Now Henrietta cared so much. Ralph had seen nothing of her for the greater part of the two years that had followed her marriage; the winter that formed the beginning of her residence in Rome he had spent again at San Remo, where he had been joined in the spring by his mother, who afterwards had gone with him to England, to see what they were doing at the bank--an operation she couldn't induce him to perform. Ralph had taken a lease of his house at San Remo, a small villa which he had occupied still another winter; but late in the month of April of this second year he had come down to Rome. It was the first time since her marriage that he had stood face to face with Isabel; his desire to see her again was then of the keenest. She had written to him from time to time, but her letters told him nothing he wanted to know. He had asked his mother what she was making of her life, and his mother had simply answered that she supposed she was making the best of it. Mrs. Touchett had not the imagination that communes with the unseen, and she now pretended to no intimacy with her niece, whom she rarely encountered. This young woman appeared to be living in a sufficiently honourable way, but Mrs. Touchett still remained of the opinion that her marriage had been a shabby affair. It had given her no pleasure to think of Isabel's establishment, which she was sure was a very lame business. From time to time, in Florence, she rubbed against the Countess Gemini, doing her best always to minimise the contact; and the Countess reminded her of Osmond, who made her think of Isabel. The Countess was less talked of in these days; but Mrs. Touchett augured no good of that: it only proved how she had been talked of before. There was a more direct suggestion of Isabel in the person of Madame Merle; but Madame Merle's relations with Mrs. Touchett had undergone a perceptible change. Isabel's aunt had told her, without circumlocution, that she had played too ingenious a part; and Madame Merle, who never quarrelled with any one, who appeared to think no one worth it, and who had performed the miracle of living, more or less, for several years with Mrs. Touchett and showing no symptom of irritation--Madame Merle now took a very high tone and declared that this was an accusation from which she couldn't stoop to defend herself. She added, however (without stooping), that her behaviour had been only too simple, that she had believed only what she saw, that she saw Isabel was not eager to marry and Osmond not eager to please (his repeated visits had been nothing; he was boring himself to death on his hill-top and he came merely for amusement). Isabel had kept her sentiments to herself, and her journey to Greece and Egypt had effectually thrown dust in her companion's eyes. Madame Merle accepted the event--she was unprepared to think of it as a scandal; but that she had played any part in it, double or single, was an imputation against which she proudly protested. It was doubtless in consequence of Mrs. Touchett's attitude, and of the injury it offered to habits consecrated by many charming seasons, that Madame Merle had, after this, chosen to pass many months in England, where her credit was quite unimpaired. Mrs. Touchett had done her a wrong; there are some things that can't be forgiven. But Madame Merle suffered in silence; there was always something exquisite in her dignity. Ralph, as I say, had wished to see for himself; but while engaged in this pursuit he had yet felt afresh what a fool he had been to put the girl on her guard. He had played the wrong card, and now he had lost the game. He should see nothing, he should learn nothing; for him she would always wear a mask. His true line would have been to profess delight in her union, so that later, when, as Ralph phrased it, the bottom should fall out of it, she might have the pleasure of saying to him that he had been a goose. He would gladly have consented to pass for a goose in order to know Isabel's real situation. At present, however, she neither taunted him with his fallacies nor pretended that her own confidence was justified; if she wore a mask it completely covered her face. There was something fixed and mechanical in the serenity painted on it; this was not an expression, Ralph said--it was a representation, it was even an advertisement. She had lost her child; that was a sorrow, but it was a sorrow she scarcely spoke of; there was more to say about it than she could say to Ralph. It belonged to the past, moreover; it had occurred six months before and she had already laid aside the tokens of mourning. She appeared to be leading the life of the world; Ralph heard her spoken of as having a "charming position." He observed that she produced the impression of being peculiarly enviable, that it was supposed, among many people, to be a privilege even to know her. Her house was not open to every one, and she had an evening in the week to which people were not invited as a matter of course. She lived with a certain magnificence, but you needed to be a member of her circle to perceive it; for there was nothing to gape at, nothing to criticise, nothing even to admire, in the daily proceedings of Mr. and Mrs. Osmond. Ralph, in all this, recognised the hand of the master; for he knew that Isabel had no faculty for producing studied impressions. She struck him as having a great love of movement, of gaiety, of late hours, of long rides, of fatigue; an eagerness to be entertained, to be interested, even to be bored, to make acquaintances, to see people who were talked about, to explore the neighbourhood of Rome, to enter into relation with certain of the mustiest relics of its old society. In all this there was much less discrimination than in that desire for comprehensiveness of development on which he had been used to exercise his wit. There was a kind of violence in some of her impulses, of crudity in some of her experiments, which took him by surprise: it seemed to him that she even spoke faster, moved faster, breathed faster, than before her marriage. Certainly she had fallen into exaggerations--she who used to care so much for the pure truth; and whereas of old she had a great delight in good-humoured argument, in intellectual play (she never looked so charming as when in the genial heat of discussion she received a crushing blow full in the face and brushed it away as a feather), she appeared now to think there was nothing worth people's either differing about or agreeing upon. Of old she had been curious, and now she was indifferent, and yet in spite of her indifference her activity was greater than ever. Slender still, but lovelier than before, she had gained no great maturity of aspect; yet there was an amplitude and a brilliancy in her personal arrangements that gave a touch of insolence to her beauty. Poor human-hearted Isabel, what perversity had bitten her? Her light step drew a mass of drapery behind it; her intelligent head sustained a majesty of ornament. The free, keen girl had become quite another person; what he saw was the fine lady who was supposed to represent something. What did Isabel represent? Ralph asked himself; and he could only answer by saying that she represented Gilbert Osmond. "Good heavens, what a function!" he then woefully exclaimed. He was lost in wonder at the mystery of things. He recognised Osmond, as I say; he recognised him at every turn. He saw how he kept all things within limits; how he adjusted, regulated, animated their manner of life. Osmond was in his element; at last he had material to work with. He always had an eye to effect, and his effects were deeply calculated. They were produced by no vulgar means, but the motive was as vulgar as the art was great. To surround his interior with a sort of invidious sanctity, to tantalise society with a sense of exclusion, to make people believe his house was different from every other, to impart to the face that he presented to the world a cold originality--this was the ingenious effort of the personage to whom Isabel had attributed a superior morality. "He works with superior material," Ralph said to himself; "it's rich abundance compared with his former resources." Ralph was a clever man; but Ralph had never--to his own sense--been so clever as when he observed, in petto, that under the guise of caring only for intrinsic values Osmond lived exclusively for the world. Far from being its master as he pretended to be, he was its very humble servant, and the degree of its attention was his only measure of success. He lived with his eye on it from morning till night, and the world was so stupid it never suspected the trick. Everything he did was pose--pose so subtly considered that if one were not on the lookout one mistook it for impulse. Ralph had never met a man who lived so much in the land of consideration. His tastes, his studies, his accomplishments, his collections, were all for a purpose. His life on his hill-top at Florence had been the conscious attitude of years. His solitude, his ennui, his love for his daughter, his good manners, his bad manners, were so many features of a mental image constantly present to him as a model of impertinence and mystification. His ambition was not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's curiosity and then declining to satisfy it. It had made him feel great, ever, to play the world a trick. The thing he had done in his life most directly to please himself was his marrying Miss Archer; though in this case indeed the gullible world was in a manner embodied in poor Isabel, who had been mystified to the top of her bent. Ralph of course found a fitness in being consistent; he had embraced a creed, and as he had suffered for it he could not in honour forsake it. I give this little sketch of its articles for what they may at the time have been worth. It was certain that he was very skilful in fitting the facts to his theory--even the fact that during the month he spent in Rome at this period the husband of the woman he loved appeared to regard him not in the least as an enemy. For Gilbert Osmond Ralph had not now that importance. It was not that he had the importance of a friend; it was rather that he had none at all. He was Isabel's cousin and he was rather unpleasantly ill--it was on this basis that Osmond treated with him. He made the proper enquiries, asked about his health, about Mrs. Touchett, about his opinion of winter climates, whether he were comfortable at his hotel. He addressed him, on the few occasions of their meeting, not a word that was not necessary; but his manner had always the urbanity proper to conscious success in the presence of conscious failure. For all this, Ralph had had, toward the end, a sharp inward vision of Osmond's making it of small ease to his wife that she should continue to receive Mr. Touchett. He was not jealous--he had not that excuse; no one could be jealous of Ralph. But he made Isabel pay for her old-time kindness, of which so much was still left; and as Ralph had no idea of her paying too much, so when his suspicion had become sharp, he had taken himself off. In doing so he had deprived Isabel of a very interesting occupation: she had been constantly wondering what fine principle was keeping him alive. She had decided that it was his love of conversation; his conversation had been better than ever. He had given up walking; he was no longer a humorous stroller. He sat all day in a chair--almost any chair would serve, and was so dependent on what you would do for him that, had not his talk been highly contemplative, you might have thought he was blind. The reader already knows more about him than Isabel was ever to know, and the reader may therefore be given the key to the mystery. What kept Ralph alive was simply the fact that he had not yet seen enough of the person in the world in whom he was most interested: he was not yet satisfied. There was more to come; he couldn't make up his mind to lose that. He wanted to see what she would make of her husband--or what her husband would make of her. This was only the first act of the drama, and he was determined to sit out the performance. His determination had held good; it had kept him going some eighteen months more, till the time of his return to Rome with Lord Warburton. It had given him indeed such an air of intending to live indefinitely that Mrs. Touchett, though more accessible to confusions of thought in the matter of this strange, unremunerative--and unremunerated--son of hers than she had ever been before, had, as we have learned, not scrupled to embark for a distant land. If Ralph had been kept alive by suspense it was with a good deal of the same emotion--the excitement of wondering in what state she should find him--that Isabel mounted to his apartment the day after Lord Warburton had notified her of his arrival in Rome. She spent an hour with him; it was the first of several visits. Gilbert Osmond called on him punctually, and on their sending their carriage for him Ralph came more than once to Palazzo Roccanera. A fortnight elapsed, at the end of which Ralph announced to Lord Warburton that he thought after all he wouldn't go to Sicily. The two men had been dining together after a day spent by the latter in ranging about the Campagna. They had left the table, and Warburton, before the chimney, was lighting a cigar, which he instantly removed from his lips. "Won't go to Sicily? Where then will you go?" "Well, I guess I won't go anywhere," said Ralph, from the sofa, all shamelessly. "Do you mean you'll return to England?" "Oh dear no; I'll stay in Rome." "Rome won't do for you. Rome's not warm enough." "It will have to do. I'll make it do. See how well I've been." Lord Warburton looked at him a while, puffing a cigar and as if trying to see it. "You've been better than you were on the journey, certainly. I wonder how you lived through that. But I don't understand your condition. I recommend you to try Sicily." "I can't try," said poor Ralph. "I've done trying. I can't move further. I can't face that journey. Fancy me between Scylla and Charybdis! I don't want to die on the Sicilian plains--to be snatched away, like Proserpine in the same locality, to the Plutonian shades." "What the deuce then did you come for?" his lordship enquired. "Because the idea took me. I see it won't do. It really doesn't matter where I am now. I've exhausted all remedies, I've swallowed all climates. As I'm here I'll stay. I haven't a single cousin in Sicily--much less a married one." "Your cousin's certainly an inducement. But what does the doctor say?" "I haven't asked him, and I don't care a fig. If I die here Mrs. Osmond will bury me. But I shall not die here." "I hope not." Lord Warburton continued to smoke reflectively. "Well, I must say," he resumed, "for myself I'm very glad you don't insist on Sicily. I had a horror of that journey." "Ah, but for you it needn't have mattered. I had no idea of dragging you in my train." "I certainly didn't mean to let you go alone." "My dear Warburton, I never expected you to come further than this," Ralph cried. "I should have gone with you and seen you settled," said Lord Warburton. "You're a very good Christian. You're a very kind man." "Then I should have come back here." "And then you'd have gone to England." "No, no; I should have stayed." "Well," said Ralph, "if that's what we are both up to, I don't see where Sicily comes in!" His companion was silent; he sat staring at the fire. At last, looking up, "I say, tell me this," he broke out; "did you really mean to go to Sicily when we started?" "Ah, vous m'en demandez trop! Let me put a question first. Did you come with me quite--platonically?" "I don't know what you mean by that. I wanted to come abroad." "I suspect we've each been playing our little game." "Speak for yourself. I made no secret whatever of my desiring to be here a while." "Yes, I remember you said you wished to see the Minister of Foreign Affairs." "I've seen him three times. He's very amusing." "I think you've forgotten what you came for," said Ralph. "Perhaps I have," his companion answered rather gravely. These two were gentlemen of a race which is not distinguished by the absence of reserve, and they had travelled together from London to Rome without an allusion to matters that were uppermost in the mind of each. There was an old subject they had once discussed, but it had lost its recognised place in their attention, and even after their arrival in Rome, where many things led back to it, they had kept the same half-diffident, half-confident silence. "I recommend you to get the doctor's consent, all the same," Lord Warburton went on, abruptly, after an interval. "The doctor's consent will spoil it. I never have it when I can help it." "What then does Mrs. Osmond think?" Ralph's friend demanded. "I've not told her. She'll probably say that Rome's too cold and even offer to go with me to Catania. She's capable of that." "In your place I should like it." "Her husband won't like it." "Ah well, I can fancy that; though it seems to me you're not bound to mind his likings. They're his affair." "I don't want to make any more trouble between them," said Ralph. "Is there so much already?" "There's complete preparation for it. Her going off with me would make the explosion. Osmond isn't fond of his wife's cousin." "Then of course he'd make a row. But won't he make a row if you stop here?" "That's what I want to see. He made one the last time I was in Rome, and then I thought it my duty to disappear. Now I think it's my duty to stop and defend her." "My dear Touchett, your defensive powers--!" Lord Warburton began with a smile. But he saw something in his companion's face that checked him. "Your duty, in these premises, seems to me rather a nice question," he observed instead. Ralph for a short time answered nothing. "It's true that my defensive powers are small," he returned at last; "but as my aggressive ones are still smaller Osmond may after all not think me worth his gunpowder. At any rate," he added, "there are things I'm curious to see." "You're sacrificing your health to your curiosity then?" "I'm not much interested in my health, and I'm deeply interested in Mrs. Osmond." "So am I. But not as I once was," Lord Warburton added quickly. This was one of the allusions he had not hitherto found occasion to make. "Does she strike you as very happy?" Ralph enquired, emboldened by this confidence. "Well, I don't know; I've hardly thought. She told me the other night she was happy." "Ah, she told YOU, of course," Ralph exclaimed, smiling. "I don't know that. It seems to me I was rather the sort of person she might have complained to." "Complained? She'll never complain. She has done it--what she HAS done--and she knows it. She'll complain to you least of all. She's very careful." "She needn't be. I don't mean to make love to her again." "I'm delighted to hear it. There can be no doubt at least of YOUR duty." "Ah no," said Lord Warburton gravely; "none!" "Permit me to ask," Ralph went on, "whether it's to bring out the fact that you don't mean to make love to her that you're so very civil to the little girl?" Lord Warburton gave a slight start; he got up and stood before the fire, looking at it hard. "Does that strike you as very ridiculous?" "Ridiculous? Not in the least, if you really like her." "I think her a delightful little person. I don't know when a girl of that age has pleased me more." "She's a charming creature. Ah, she at least is genuine." "Of course there's the difference in our ages--more than twenty years." "My dear Warburton," said Ralph, "are you serious?" "Perfectly serious--as far as I've got." "I'm very glad. And, heaven help us," cried Ralph, "how cheered-up old Osmond will be!" His companion frowned. "I say, don't spoil it. I shouldn't propose for his daughter to please HIM." "He'll have the perversity to be pleased all the same." "He's not so fond of me as that," said his lordship. "As that? My dear Warburton, the drawback of your position is that people needn't be fond of you at all to wish to be connected with you. Now, with me in such a case, I should have the happy confidence that they loved me." Lord Warburton seemed scarcely in the mood for doing justice to general axioms--he was thinking of a special case. "Do you judge she'll be pleased?" "The girl herself? Delighted, surely." "No, no; I mean Mrs. Osmond." Ralph looked at him a moment. "My dear fellow, what has she to do with it?" "Whatever she chooses. She's very fond of Pansy." "Very true--very true." And Ralph slowly got up. "It's an interesting question--how far her fondness for Pansy will carry her." He stood there a moment with his hands in his pockets and rather a clouded brow. "I hope, you know, that you're very--very sure. The deuce!" he broke off. "I don't know how to say it." "Yes, you do; you know how to say everything." "Well, it's awkward. I hope you're sure that among Miss Osmond's merits her being--a--so near her stepmother isn't a leading one?" "Good heavens, Touchett!" cried Lord Warburton angrily, "for what do you take me?"

Chapter 39

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-36-39

In this chapter, we get Ralph's view of Isabel's marriage: he feels that she wears a mask. He has a theory about her unhappiness and how she is only playing the part of a happy wife, but he knows that she would never tell him if this were the case. The relations between Ralph and Isabel have cooled significantly - they always feel somewhat formal, and Ralph notices a definite difference. He feels that Isabel will never forgive him for having insulted her husband. Ralph did manage to make it to the wedding. The ceremony was very small: only Countess Gemini, Mrs. Touchett and Pansy were there to witness it. Henrietta had been critical of Mr. Osmond as well, and Mr. Osmond did not like Henrietta. Mrs. Touchett had only formal and distant relations with Isabel, and she had also broken her friendship with Madame Merle. Madame Merle acted as if Mrs. Touchett had offended her, pretending that she had simply not noticed Isabel had felt affectionate towards Gilbert Osmond during their travels together. We learn that Isabel has had a child, but she has also lost it. The life she leads gives all the appearance of being a successful one: from the outside, there was nothing to gape at or criticize. Ralph though recognizes this appearance as the "hand of the master". He notices that Isabel acts in too exaggerated a manner sometimes, and that she seems less curious, more indifferent. He feels that Isabel gives the appearance of a fine lady who is supposed to represent something -- namely, Gilbert Osmond. He realizes that Osmond had never had material with which express himself, but he had patiently waited. Isabel now serves the function of that material. But even though such material is very fine, Ralph thinks to himself, the thing being represented is absolutely vulgar. Ralph realizes that Osmond had given the appearance of caring for intrinsic values, but in actual fact, he lived for what others thought of him. His purpose was to project an image of impertinence and mystification - to make the world feel as if he were superior to it. His ambition was not to please the world, but to please himself by exciting the world's curiosity and then declining to satisfy it," the narrator tells us of Ralph's theory about Osmond. Generally speaking Osmond does not seem to think Ralph is important enough to be disliked. However, once when Ralph stayed for too long in Rome, he knew that Osmond began to protest. Ralph then left so as not to disturb the relations between the couple. However, in a conversation with Lord Warburton, Ralph declares his intention to stay on, to see if Osmond will again protest. Also in this conversation, Lord Warburton and Ralph both intimate that they originally set upon their journey to see Isabel rather than to journey further south, as they had ostensibly planned to do. Ralph asks Warburton if he is trying to prove to Isabel that he does not intend to "make love to her" by showing interest in Pansy. Warburton wonders if Isabel will be pleased that he is showing interest in Pansy

Many years have passed once Chapter 36 opens. It is an interesting technical choice on the part of James to begin this second part of his novel through the third-person point of view of Edward Rosier. Edward is not exactly an admirable character, and the narrator points out that his vision of Pansy is inaccurate. He also seems to resemble Osmond in subtle ways: they are both collectors, and they both have a habit of comparing persons of value to objects of value. He also believes that his own taste is quite accurately the only aesthetic standard - although it differs from Osmond's. In other words, his perspective is certainly not characterized by the perspicacity of others. Why then does James choose to introduce the story through his eyes? One answer might be that Edward is an example of James' technique of the "ficelle" - a character who is two-dimensional and is used merely to move the action of the story along. It is James' way of economically summarizing what the relationship between Osmond and Isabel has turned out to be. As James once famously said, "Really, universally, relations stop nowhere, and the exquisite problem of the artist is eternally but to draw, by a geometry of his own, the circle within which they shall happily appear to do so" . It is not until Chapter 40 that we get a peek into Isabel's world. Instead, Ralph's analysis in Chapter 39 of the situation paints a bleak picture for us. Ralph still believes Osmond is selfish and vulgar, and he believes that he has reduced Isabel to the function of being a "representative" of his own lack of values. It is interesting to pause over what is meant by an "intrinsic value" as opposed to Osmond's true values. Osmond cares what other people think of him, by Ralph's theory -- he cares how he appears to the world. He cares about his reputation and about having the means to show himself off in the world. But, the question is: does anyone else have an intrinsic value in this novel? Isabel is valuable, as James has explained in the preface, because others think she is interesting. This too is a value gained because of the opinion of others. Furthermore, a comparison can be made between Henry James as the author and Gilbert Osmond as the manipulative husband: Henry James also enjoyed financial success from "using" Isabel Archer to represent his own ideas. What is the intrinsic value of the novel itself? Is it supposed to be a representation of the author's ideas, or is it valuable for some other reason? This question is being posed in a meta-fictional sense. Can we really detach the idea of "intrinsic value" from values for others -- isn't value, after all, a social phenomenon?

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 40

chapter 40

{"name": "Chapter 40", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-40-42", "summary": "Isabel has had three years to think of Mrs. Touchett's suggestion that Madame Merle had a hand in her marriage. She still believes that while Merle may have helped Osmond get married, she certainly did not put the idea into Isabel's head. However, she has noticed that Merle has had a noticeable absence -- Merle has distanced herself from the couple. Madame Merle had even mentioned it once to her, saying that she had known Gilbert Osmond for so much longer than Isabel and did not want to seem too familiar. Isabel had once admired Madame Merle's \"trick for life\" , wondering how she could herself imitate her by turning herself into something like a silver surface. Now though, she does not want to imitate this. One day, Isabel returns to the house after a walk in the garden. She is going through the drawing room, when she sees Madame Merle has come for a visit. She receives a shocking impression: Madame Merle is standing, while Osmond is sitting down. She notes that the two are sitting silent, as if they are familiar with each other. As soon as Osmond notices Isabel's arrival, he jumps up, as if he knows his mistake. Madame Merle tells Isabel she has come to discuss Edward Rosier's quest for Pansy's hand in marriage. Rosier comes to visit Merle often, begging her to intercede on his behalf. Isabel responds sarcastically to Merle's claims to wash her hands of the whole affair. Merle wants Isabel to speak to Pansy - to find out if Pansy has actual feelings for Mr. Rosier. Isabel accuses her of being too much \"interested\" in the whole affair. Merle then tells her Mr. Rosier is afraid that Lord Warburton is falling in love with Pansy. Isabel says that she knows Lord Warburton is charmed by Pansy, and Merle almost immediately asks if Isabel has told her husband this. Merle thinks it is \"kind\" of Lord Warburton to rest his eyes on Pansy. Isabel agrees with Merle that a match with Lord Warburton might be good for Pansy. Merle thinks that Isabel can make Lord Warburton marry Pansy - that she has a great influence over him. Isabel is surprised to learn that Merle knew about her rejection of Warburton. Merle suggests that Isabel owes him the reparation of making a match for him with Pansy", "analysis": "The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so."}

Isabel had not seen much of Madame Merle since her marriage, this lady having indulged in frequent absences from Rome. At one time she had spent six months in England; at another she had passed a portion of a winter in Paris. She had made numerous visits to distant friends and gave countenance to the idea that for the future she should be a less inveterate Roman than in the past. As she had been inveterate in the past only in the sense of constantly having an apartment in one of the sunniest niches of the Pincian--an apartment which often stood empty--this suggested a prospect of almost constant absence; a danger which Isabel at one period had been much inclined to deplore. Familiarity had modified in some degree her first impression of Madame Merle, but it had not essentially altered it; there was still much wonder of admiration in it. That personage was armed at all points; it was a pleasure to see a character so completely equipped for the social battle. She carried her flag discreetly, but her weapons were polished steel, and she used them with a skill which struck Isabel as more and more that of a veteran. She was never weary, never overcome with disgust; she never appeared to need rest or consolation. She had her own ideas; she had of old exposed a great many of them to Isabel, who knew also that under an appearance of extreme self-control her highly-cultivated friend concealed a rich sensibility. But her will was mistress of her life; there was something gallant in the way she kept going. It was as if she had learned the secret of it--as if the art of life were some clever trick she had guessed. Isabel, as she herself grew older, became acquainted with revulsions, with disgusts; there were days when the world looked black and she asked herself with some sharpness what it was that she was pretending to live for. Her old habit had been to live by enthusiasm, to fall in love with suddenly-perceived possibilities, with the idea of some new adventure. As a younger person she had been used to proceed from one little exaltation to the other: there were scarcely any dull places between. But Madame Merle had suppressed enthusiasm; she fell in love now-a-days with nothing; she lived entirely by reason and by wisdom. There were hours when Isabel would have given anything for lessons in this art; if her brilliant friend had been near she would have made an appeal to her. She had become aware more than before of the advantage of being like that--of having made one's self a firm surface, a sort of corselet of silver. But, as I say, it was not till the winter during which we lately renewed acquaintance with our heroine that the personage in question made again a continuous stay in Rome. Isabel now saw more of her than she had done since her marriage; but by this time Isabel's needs and inclinations had considerably changed. It was not at present to Madame Merle that she would have applied for instruction; she had lost the desire to know this lady's clever trick. If she had troubles she must keep them to herself, and if life was difficult it would not make it easier to confess herself beaten. Madame Merle was doubtless of great use to herself and an ornament to any circle; but was she--would she be--of use to others in periods of refined embarrassment? The best way to profit by her friend--this indeed Isabel had always thought--was to imitate her, to be as firm and bright as she. She recognised no embarrassments, and Isabel, considering this fact, determined for the fiftieth time to brush aside her own. It seemed to her too, on the renewal of an intercourse which had virtually been interrupted, that her old ally was different, was almost detached--pushing to the extreme a certain rather artificial fear of being indiscreet. Ralph Touchett, we know, had been of the opinion that she was prone to exaggeration, to forcing the note--was apt, in the vulgar phrase, to overdo it. Isabel had never admitted this charge--had never indeed quite understood it; Madame Merle's conduct, to her perception, always bore the stamp of good taste, was always "quiet." But in this matter of not wishing to intrude upon the inner life of the Osmond family it at last occurred to our young woman that she overdid a little. That of course was not the best taste; that was rather violent. She remembered too much that Isabel was married; that she had now other interests; that though she, Madame Merle, had known Gilbert Osmond and his little Pansy very well, better almost than any one, she was not after all of the inner circle. She was on her guard; she never spoke of their affairs till she was asked, even pressed--as when her opinion was wanted; she had a dread of seeming to meddle. Madame Merle was as candid as we know, and one day she candidly expressed this dread to Isabel. "I MUST be on my guard," she said; "I might so easily, without suspecting it, offend you. You would be right to be offended, even if my intention should have been of the purest. I must not forget that I knew your husband long before you did; I must not let that betray me. If you were a silly woman you might be jealous. You're not a silly woman; I know that perfectly. But neither am I; therefore I'm determined not to get into trouble. A little harm's very soon done; a mistake's made before one knows it. Of course if I had wished to make love to your husband I had ten years to do it in, and nothing to prevent; so it isn't likely I shall begin to-day, when I'm so much less attractive than I was. But if I were to annoy you by seeming to take a place that doesn't belong to me, you wouldn't make that reflection; you'd simply say I was forgetting certain differences. I'm determined not to forget them. Certainly a good friend isn't always thinking of that; one doesn't suspect one's friends of injustice. I don't suspect you, my dear, in the least; but I suspect human nature. Don't think I make myself uncomfortable; I'm not always watching myself. I think I sufficiently prove it in talking to you as I do now. All I wish to say is, however, that if you were to be jealous--that's the form it would take--I should be sure to think it was a little my fault. It certainly wouldn't be your husband's." Isabel had had three years to think over Mrs. Touchett's theory that Madame Merle had made Gilbert Osmond's marriage. We know how she had at first received it. Madame Merle might have made Gilbert Osmond's marriage, but she certainly had not made Isabel Archer's. That was the work of--Isabel scarcely knew what: of nature, providence, fortune, of the eternal mystery of things. It was true her aunt's complaint had been not so much of Madame Merle's activity as of her duplicity: she had brought about the strange event and then she had denied her guilt. Such guilt would not have been great, to Isabel's mind; she couldn't make a crime of Madame Merle's having been the producing cause of the most important friendship she had ever formed. This had occurred to her just before her marriage, after her little discussion with her aunt and at a time when she was still capable of that large inward reference, the tone almost of the philosophic historian, to her scant young annals. If Madame Merle had desired her change of state she could only say it had been a very happy thought. With her, moreover, she had been perfectly straightforward; she had never concealed her high opinion of Gilbert Osmond. After their union Isabel discovered that her husband took a less convenient view of the matter; he seldom consented to finger, in talk, this roundest and smoothest bead of their social rosary. "Don't you like Madame Merle?" Isabel had once said to him. "She thinks a great deal of you." "I'll tell you once for all," Osmond had answered. "I liked her once better than I do to-day. I'm tired of her, and I'm rather ashamed of it. She's so almost unnaturally good! I'm glad she's not in Italy; it makes for relaxation--for a sort of moral detente. Don't talk of her too much; it seems to bring her back. She'll come back in plenty of time." Madame Merle, in fact, had come back before it was too late--too late, I mean, to recover whatever advantage she might have lost. But meantime, if, as I have said, she was sensibly different, Isabel's feelings were also not quite the same. Her consciousness of the situation was as acute as of old, but it was much less satisfying. A dissatisfied mind, whatever else it may miss, is rarely in want of reasons; they bloom as thick as buttercups in June. The fact of Madame Merle's having had a hand in Gilbert Osmond's marriage ceased to be one of her titles to consideration; it might have been written, after all, that there was not so much to thank her for. As time went on there was less and less, and Isabel once said to herself that perhaps without her these things would not have been. That reflection indeed was instantly stifled; she knew an immediate horror at having made it. "Whatever happens to me let me not be unjust," she said; "let me bear my burdens myself and not shift them upon others!" This disposition was tested, eventually, by that ingenious apology for her present conduct which Madame Merle saw fit to make and of which I have given a sketch; for there was something irritating--there was almost an air of mockery--in her neat discriminations and clear convictions. In Isabel's mind to-day there was nothing clear; there was a confusion of regrets, a complication of fears. She felt helpless as she turned away from her friend, who had just made the statements I have quoted: Madame Merle knew so little what she was thinking of! She was herself moreover so unable to explain. Jealous of her--jealous of her with Gilbert? The idea just then suggested no near reality. She almost wished jealousy had been possible; it would have made in a manner for refreshment. Wasn't it in a manner one of the symptoms of happiness? Madame Merle, however, was wise, so wise that she might have been pretending to know Isabel better than Isabel knew herself. This young woman had always been fertile in resolutions--any of them of an elevated character; but at no period had they flourished (in the privacy of her heart) more richly than to-day. It is true that they all had a family likeness; they might have been summed up in the determination that if she was to be unhappy it should not be by a fault of her own. Her poor winged spirit had always had a great desire to do its best, and it had not as yet been seriously discouraged. It wished, therefore, to hold fast to justice--not to pay itself by petty revenges. To associate Madame Merle with its disappointment would be a petty revenge--especially as the pleasure to be derived from that would be perfectly insincere. It might feed her sense of bitterness, but it would not loosen her bonds. It was impossible to pretend that she had not acted with her eyes open; if ever a girl was a free agent she had been. A girl in love was doubtless not a free agent; but the sole source of her mistake had been within herself. There had been no plot, no snare; she had looked and considered and chosen. When a woman had made such a mistake, there was only one way to repair it--just immensely (oh, with the highest grandeur!) to accept it. One folly was enough, especially when it was to last for ever; a second one would not much set it off. In this vow of reticence there was a certain nobleness which kept Isabel going; but Madame Merle had been right, for all that, in taking her precautions. One day about a month after Ralph Touchett's arrival in Rome Isabel came back from a walk with Pansy. It was not only a part of her general determination to be just that she was at present very thankful for Pansy--it was also a part of her tenderness for things that were pure and weak. Pansy was dear to her, and there was nothing else in her life that had the rightness of the young creature's attachment or the sweetness of her own clearness about it. It was like a soft presence--like a small hand in her own; on Pansy's part it was more than an affection--it was a kind of ardent coercive faith. On her own side her sense of the girl's dependence was more than a pleasure; it operated as a definite reason when motives threatened to fail her. She had said to herself that we must take our duty where we find it, and that we must look for it as much as possible. Pansy's sympathy was a direct admonition; it seemed to say that here was an opportunity, not eminent perhaps, but unmistakeable. Yet an opportunity for what Isabel could hardly have said; in general, to be more for the child than the child was able to be for herself. Isabel could have smiled, in these days, to remember that her little companion had once been ambiguous, for she now perceived that Pansy's ambiguities were simply her own grossness of vision. She had been unable to believe any one could care so much--so extraordinarily much--to please. But since then she had seen this delicate faculty in operation, and now she knew what to think of it. It was the whole creature--it was a sort of genius. Pansy had no pride to interfere with it, and though she was constantly extending her conquests she took no credit for them. The two were constantly together; Mrs. Osmond was rarely seen without her stepdaughter. Isabel liked her company; it had the effect of one's carrying a nosegay composed all of the same flower. And then not to neglect Pansy, not under any provocation to neglect her--this she had made an article of religion. The young girl had every appearance of being happier in Isabel's society than in that of any one save her father,--whom she admired with an intensity justified by the fact that, as paternity was an exquisite pleasure to Gilbert Osmond, he had always been luxuriously mild. Isabel knew how Pansy liked to be with her and how she studied the means of pleasing her. She had decided that the best way of pleasing her was negative, and consisted in not giving her trouble--a conviction which certainly could have had no reference to trouble already existing. She was therefore ingeniously passive and almost imaginatively docile; she was careful even to moderate the eagerness with which she assented to Isabel's propositions and which might have implied that she could have thought otherwise. She never interrupted, never asked social questions, and though she delighted in approbation, to the point of turning pale when it came to her, never held out her hand for it. She only looked toward it wistfully--an attitude which, as she grew older, made her eyes the prettiest in the world. When during the second winter at Palazzo Roccanera she began to go to parties, to dances, she always, at a reasonable hour, lest Mrs. Osmond should be tired, was the first to propose departure. Isabel appreciated the sacrifice of the late dances, for she knew her little companion had a passionate pleasure in this exercise, taking her steps to the music like a conscientious fairy. Society, moreover, had no drawbacks for her; she liked even the tiresome parts--the heat of ball-rooms, the dulness of dinners, the crush at the door, the awkward waiting for the carriage. During the day, in this vehicle, beside her stepmother, she sat in a small fixed, appreciative posture, bending forward and faintly smiling, as if she had been taken to drive for the first time. On the day I speak of they had been driven out of one of the gates of the city and at the end of half an hour had left the carriage to await them by the roadside while they walked away over the short grass of the Campagna, which even in the winter months is sprinkled with delicate flowers. This was almost a daily habit with Isabel, who was fond of a walk and had a swift length of step, though not so swift a one as on her first coming to Europe. It was not the form of exercise that Pansy loved best, but she liked it, because she liked everything; and she moved with a shorter undulation beside her father's wife, who afterwards, on their return to Rome, paid a tribute to her preferences by making the circuit of the Pincian or the Villa Borghese. She had gathered a handful of flowers in a sunny hollow, far from the walls of Rome, and on reaching Palazzo Roccanera she went straight to her room, to put them into water. Isabel passed into the drawing-room, the one she herself usually occupied, the second in order from the large ante-chamber which was entered from the staircase and in which even Gilbert Osmond's rich devices had not been able to correct a look of rather grand nudity. Just beyond the threshold of the drawing-room she stopped short, the reason for her doing so being that she had received an impression. The impression had, in strictness, nothing unprecedented; but she felt it as something new, and the soundlessness of her step gave her time to take in the scene before she interrupted it. Madame Merle was there in her bonnet, and Gilbert Osmond was talking to her; for a minute they were unaware she had come in. Isabel had often seen that before, certainly; but what she had not seen, or at least had not noticed, was that their colloquy had for the moment converted itself into a sort of familiar silence, from which she instantly perceived that her entrance would startle them. Madame Merle was standing on the rug, a little way from the fire; Osmond was in a deep chair, leaning back and looking at her. Her head was erect, as usual, but her eyes were bent on his. What struck Isabel first was that he was sitting while Madame Merle stood; there was an anomaly in this that arrested her. Then she perceived that they had arrived at a desultory pause in their exchange of ideas and were musing, face to face, with the freedom of old friends who sometimes exchange ideas without uttering them. There was nothing to shock in this; they were old friends in fact. But the thing made an image, lasting only a moment, like a sudden flicker of light. Their relative positions, their absorbed mutual gaze, struck her as something detected. But it was all over by the time she had fairly seen it. Madame Merle had seen her and had welcomed her without moving; her husband, on the other hand, had instantly jumped up. He presently murmured something about wanting a walk and, after having asked their visitor to excuse him, left the room. "I came to see you, thinking you would have come in; and as you hadn't I waited for you," Madame Merle said. "Didn't he ask you to sit down?" Isabel asked with a smile. Madame Merle looked about her. "Ah, it's very true; I was going away." "You must stay now." "Certainly. I came for a reason; I've something on my mind." "I've told you that before," Isabel said--"that it takes something extraordinary to bring you to this house." "And you know what I've told YOU; that whether I come or whether I stay away, I've always the same motive--the affection I bear you." "Yes, you've told me that." "You look just now as if you didn't believe it," said Madame Merle. "Ah," Isabel answered, "the profundity of your motives, that's the last thing I doubt!" "You doubt sooner of the sincerity of my words." Isabel shook her head gravely. "I know you've always been kind to me." "As often as you would let me. You don't always take it; then one has to let you alone. It's not to do you a kindness, however, that I've come to-day; it's quite another affair. I've come to get rid of a trouble of my own--to make it over to you. I've been talking to your husband about it." "I'm surprised at that; he doesn't like troubles." "Especially other people's; I know very well. But neither do you, I suppose. At any rate, whether you do or not, you must help me. It's about poor Mr. Rosier." "Ah," said Isabel reflectively, "it's his trouble then, not yours." "He has succeeded in saddling me with it. He comes to see me ten times a week, to talk about Pansy." "Yes, he wants to marry her. I know all about it." Madame Merle hesitated. "I gathered from your husband that perhaps you didn't." "How should he know what I know? He has never spoken to me of the matter." "It's probably because he doesn't know how to speak of it." "It's nevertheless the sort of question in which he's rarely at fault." "Yes, because as a general thing he knows perfectly well what to think. To-day he doesn't." "Haven't you been telling him?" Isabel asked. Madame Merle gave a bright, voluntary smile. "Do you know you're a little dry?" "Yes; I can't help it. Mr. Rosier has also talked to me." "In that there's some reason. You're so near the child." "Ah," said Isabel, "for all the comfort I've given him! If you think me dry, I wonder what HE thinks." "I believe he thinks you can do more than you have done." "I can do nothing." "You can do more at least than I. I don't know what mysterious connection he may have discovered between me and Pansy; but he came to me from the first, as if I held his fortune in my hand. Now he keeps coming back, to spur me up, to know what hope there is, to pour out his feelings." "He's very much in love," said Isabel. "Very much--for him." "Very much for Pansy, you might say as well." Madame Merle dropped her eyes a moment. "Don't you think she's attractive?" "The dearest little person possible--but very limited." "She ought to be all the easier for Mr. Rosier to love. Mr. Rosier's not unlimited." "No," said Isabel, "he has about the extent of one's pocket-handkerchief--the small ones with lace borders." Her humour had lately turned a good deal to sarcasm, but in a moment she was ashamed of exercising it on so innocent an object as Pansy's suitor. "He's very kind, very honest," she presently added; "and he's not such a fool as he seems." "He assures me that she delights in him," said Madame Merle. "I don't know; I've not asked her." "You've never sounded her a little?" "It's not my place; it's her father's." "Ah, you're too literal!" said Madame Merle. "I must judge for myself." Madame Merle gave her smile again. "It isn't easy to help you." "To help me?" said Isabel very seriously. "What do you mean?" "It's easy to displease you. Don't you see how wise I am to be careful? I notify you, at any rate, as I notified Osmond, that I wash my hands of the love-affairs of Miss Pansy and Mr. Edward Rosier. Je n'y peux rien, moi! I can't talk to Pansy about him. Especially," added Madame Merle, "as I don't think him a paragon of husbands." Isabel reflected a little; after which, with a smile, "You don't wash your hands then!" she said. After which again she added in another tone: "You can't--you're too much interested." Madame Merle slowly rose; she had given Isabel a look as rapid as the intimation that had gleamed before our heroine a few moments before. Only this time the latter saw nothing. "Ask him the next time, and you'll see." "I can't ask him; he has ceased to come to the house. Gilbert has let him know that he's not welcome." "Ah yes," said Madame Merle, "I forgot that--though it's the burden of his lamentation. He says Osmond has insulted him. All the same," she went on, "Osmond doesn't dislike him so much as he thinks." She had got up as if to close the conversation, but she lingered, looking about her, and had evidently more to say. Isabel perceived this and even saw the point she had in view; but Isabel also had her own reasons for not opening the way. "That must have pleased him, if you've told him," she answered, smiling. "Certainly I've told him; as far as that goes I've encouraged him. I've preached patience, have said that his case isn't desperate if he'll only hold his tongue and be quiet. Unfortunately he has taken it into his head to be jealous." "Jealous?" "Jealous of Lord Warburton, who, he says, is always here." Isabel, who was tired, had remained sitting; but at this she also rose. "Ah!" she exclaimed simply, moving slowly to the fireplace. Madame Merle observed her as she passed and while she stood a moment before the mantel-glass and pushed into its place a wandering tress of hair. "Poor Mr. Rosier keeps saying there's nothing impossible in Lord Warburton's falling in love with Pansy," Madame Merle went on. Isabel was silent a little; she turned away from the glass. "It's true--there's nothing impossible," she returned at last, gravely and more gently. "So I've had to admit to Mr. Rosier. So, too, your husband thinks." "That I don't know." "Ask him and you'll see." "I shall not ask him," said Isabel. "Pardon me; I forgot you had pointed that out. Of course," Madame Merle added, "you've had infinitely more observation of Lord Warburton's behaviour than I." "I see no reason why I shouldn't tell you that he likes my stepdaughter very much." Madame Merle gave one of her quick looks again. "Likes her, you mean--as Mr. Rosier means?" "I don't know how Mr. Rosier means; but Lord Warburton has let me know that he's charmed with Pansy." "And you've never told Osmond?" This observation was immediate, precipitate; it almost burst from Madame Merle's lips. Isabel's eyes rested on her. "I suppose he'll know in time; Lord Warburton has a tongue and knows how to express himself." Madame Merle instantly became conscious that she had spoken more quickly than usual, and the reflection brought the colour to her cheek. She gave the treacherous impulse time to subside and then said as if she had been thinking it over a little: "That would be better than marrying poor Mr. Rosier." "Much better, I think." "It would be very delightful; it would be a great marriage. It's really very kind of him." "Very kind of him?" "To drop his eyes on a simple little girl." "I don't see that." "It's very good of you. But after all, Pansy Osmond--" "After all, Pansy Osmond's the most attractive person he has ever known!" Isabel exclaimed. Madame Merle stared, and indeed she was justly bewildered. "Ah, a moment ago I thought you seemed rather to disparage her." "I said she was limited. And so she is. And so's Lord Warburton." "So are we all, if you come to that. If it's no more than Pansy deserves, all the better. But if she fixes her affections on Mr. Rosier I won't admit that she deserves it. That will be too perverse." "Mr. Rosier's a nuisance!" Isabel cried abruptly. "I quite agree with you, and I'm delighted to know that I'm not expected to feed his flame. For the future, when he calls on me, my door shall be closed to him." And gathering her mantle together Madame Merle prepared to depart. She was checked, however, on her progress to the door, by an inconsequent request from Isabel. "All the same, you know, be kind to him." She lifted her shoulders and eyebrows and stood looking at her friend. "I don't understand your contradictions! Decidedly I shan't be kind to him, for it will be a false kindness. I want to see her married to Lord Warburton." "You had better wait till he asks her." "If what you say's true, he'll ask her. Especially," said Madame Merle in a moment, "if you make him." "If I make him?" "It's quite in your power. You've great influence with him." Isabel frowned a little. "Where did you learn that?" "Mrs. Touchett told me. Not you--never!" said Madame Merle, smiling. "I certainly never told you anything of the sort." "You MIGHT have done so--so far as opportunity went--when we were by way of being confidential with each other. But you really told me very little; I've often thought so since." Isabel had thought so too, and sometimes with a certain satisfaction. But she didn't admit it now--perhaps because she wished not to appear to exult in it. "You seem to have had an excellent informant in my aunt," she simply returned. "She let me know you had declined an offer of marriage from Lord Warburton, because she was greatly vexed and was full of the subject. Of course I think you've done better in doing as you did. But if you wouldn't marry Lord Warburton yourself, make him the reparation of helping him to marry some one else." Isabel listened to this with a face that persisted in not reflecting the bright expressiveness of Madame Merle's. But in a moment she said, reasonably and gently enough: "I should be very glad indeed if, as regards Pansy, it could be arranged." Upon which her companion, who seemed to regard this as a speech of good omen, embraced her more tenderly than might have been expected and triumphantly withdrew.

Chapter 40

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-40-42

Isabel has had three years to think of Mrs. Touchett's suggestion that Madame Merle had a hand in her marriage. She still believes that while Merle may have helped Osmond get married, she certainly did not put the idea into Isabel's head. However, she has noticed that Merle has had a noticeable absence -- Merle has distanced herself from the couple. Madame Merle had even mentioned it once to her, saying that she had known Gilbert Osmond for so much longer than Isabel and did not want to seem too familiar. Isabel had once admired Madame Merle's "trick for life" , wondering how she could herself imitate her by turning herself into something like a silver surface. Now though, she does not want to imitate this. One day, Isabel returns to the house after a walk in the garden. She is going through the drawing room, when she sees Madame Merle has come for a visit. She receives a shocking impression: Madame Merle is standing, while Osmond is sitting down. She notes that the two are sitting silent, as if they are familiar with each other. As soon as Osmond notices Isabel's arrival, he jumps up, as if he knows his mistake. Madame Merle tells Isabel she has come to discuss Edward Rosier's quest for Pansy's hand in marriage. Rosier comes to visit Merle often, begging her to intercede on his behalf. Isabel responds sarcastically to Merle's claims to wash her hands of the whole affair. Merle wants Isabel to speak to Pansy - to find out if Pansy has actual feelings for Mr. Rosier. Isabel accuses her of being too much "interested" in the whole affair. Merle then tells her Mr. Rosier is afraid that Lord Warburton is falling in love with Pansy. Isabel says that she knows Lord Warburton is charmed by Pansy, and Merle almost immediately asks if Isabel has told her husband this. Merle thinks it is "kind" of Lord Warburton to rest his eyes on Pansy. Isabel agrees with Merle that a match with Lord Warburton might be good for Pansy. Merle thinks that Isabel can make Lord Warburton marry Pansy - that she has a great influence over him. Isabel is surprised to learn that Merle knew about her rejection of Warburton. Merle suggests that Isabel owes him the reparation of making a match for him with Pansy

The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/41.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_13_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 41

chapter 41

{"name": "Chapter 41", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-40-42", "summary": "Isabel is not excited by the idea of Pansy and Lord Warburton marrying initially, but she allows the idea to settle in her mind. She realizes that she would be acting her part as a good wife if she were to assist the match in being made. Yet, she is also surprised that Lord Warburton would be attracted to Pansy -- for Pansy is very different from Isabel herself. She thinks of Pansy as small, an innocent but limited creature. Nevertheless, Isabel contents herself with the idea of providing a service for her husband. Of course, Isabel thinks to herself, Edward Rosier presents a problem. Isabel had tried not to inform herself of Pansy's feelings for Mr. Rosier, but she finds that she knows that Pansy thinks the world of him. She wonders how tenacious Pansy will be in clinging to her idea of Edward Rosier - Isabel then begins to believe that Pansy could cling to just anything. Isabel after all thinks more highly of Lord Warburton than Edward Rosier. This scene within Isabel's mind takes place as Isabel is having another of her Thursday gatherings. Lord Warburton is there, speaking with Pansy. Isabel knows that if she leaves the two alone in a room together, Lord Warburton may declare his feelings for Pansy and set in motion a proposal. But she hesitates to do this act that would please her husband. Lord Warburton ends up leaving for the night without a moment alone with Pansy. Isabel then sits alone in a room staring at the fire. Her husband enters the room, and asks about Lord Warburton's interest in Pansy. Isabel says she has been waiting for Osmond to give it a name. The narrator tells us that Isabel has decided not to take it for granted that her husband would like Lord Warburton -- and further, she is motivated by the thought that Osmond's declaring a desire to see Lord Warburton propose would show that Osmond did in fact want something from the world. She thinks it is his constant intimation that he wants nothing of the world - that nothing could be good enough for him. Thus his declaration of a desire for a proposal from Lord Warburton would be a lapse in consistency. Isabel then also thinks to herself that her husband may very well decide to take this opportunity to humiliate Isabel. Osmond behaves well on this occasion though. He simply asks Isabel to help along the match. He then suggests to Isabel that she can make Lord Warburton do whatever she would like him to do - and that she should use this influence to make him marry Pansy", "analysis": "The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so."}

Osmond touched on this matter that evening for the first time; coming very late into the drawing-room, where she was sitting alone. They had spent the evening at home, and Pansy had gone to bed; he himself had been sitting since dinner in a small apartment in which he had arranged his books and which he called his study. At ten o'clock Lord Warburton had come in, as he always did when he knew from Isabel that she was to be at home; he was going somewhere else and he sat for half an hour. Isabel, after asking him for news of Ralph, said very little to him, on purpose; she wished him to talk with her stepdaughter. She pretended to read; she even went after a little to the piano; she asked herself if she mightn't leave the room. She had come little by little to think well of the idea of Pansy's becoming the wife of the master of beautiful Lockleigh, though at first it had not presented itself in a manner to excite her enthusiasm. Madame Merle, that afternoon, had applied the match to an accumulation of inflammable material. When Isabel was unhappy she always looked about her--partly from impulse and partly by theory--for some form of positive exertion. She could never rid herself of the sense that unhappiness was a state of disease--of suffering as opposed to doing. To "do"--it hardly mattered what--would therefore be an escape, perhaps in some degree a remedy. Besides, she wished to convince herself that she had done everything possible to content her husband; she was determined not to be haunted by visions of his wife's limpness under appeal. It would please him greatly to see Pansy married to an English nobleman, and justly please him, since this nobleman was so sound a character. It seemed to Isabel that if she could make it her duty to bring about such an event she should play the part of a good wife. She wanted to be that; she wanted to be able to believe sincerely, and with proof of it, that she had been that. Then such an undertaking had other recommendations. It would occupy her, and she desired occupation. It would even amuse her, and if she could really amuse herself she perhaps might be saved. Lastly, it would be a service to Lord Warburton, who evidently pleased himself greatly with the charming girl. It was a little "weird" he should--being what he was; but there was no accounting for such impressions. Pansy might captivate any one--any one at least but Lord Warburton. Isabel would have thought her too small, too slight, perhaps even too artificial for that. There was always a little of the doll about her, and that was not what he had been looking for. Still, who could say what men ever were looking for? They looked for what they found; they knew what pleased them only when they saw it. No theory was valid in such matters, and nothing was more unaccountable or more natural than anything else. If he had cared for HER it might seem odd he should care for Pansy, who was so different; but he had not cared for her so much as he had supposed. Or if he had, he had completely got over it, and it was natural that, as that affair had failed, he should think something of quite another sort might succeed. Enthusiasm, as I say, had not come at first to Isabel, but it came to-day and made her feel almost happy. It was astonishing what happiness she could still find in the idea of procuring a pleasure for her husband. It was a pity, however, that Edward Rosier had crossed their path! At this reflection the light that had suddenly gleamed upon that path lost something of its brightness. Isabel was unfortunately as sure that Pansy thought Mr. Rosier the nicest of all the young men--as sure as if she had held an interview with her on the subject. It was very tiresome she should be so sure, when she had carefully abstained from informing herself; almost as tiresome as that poor Mr. Rosier should have taken it into his own head. He was certainly very inferior to Lord Warburton. It was not the difference in fortune so much as the difference in the men; the young American was really so light a weight. He was much more of the type of the useless fine gentleman than the English nobleman. It was true that there was no particular reason why Pansy should marry a statesman; still, if a statesman admired her, that was his affair, and she would make a perfect little pearl of a peeress. It may seem to the reader that Mrs. Osmond had grown of a sudden strangely cynical, for she ended by saying to herself that this difficulty could probably be arranged. An impediment that was embodied in poor Rosier could not anyhow present itself as a dangerous one; there were always means of levelling secondary obstacles. Isabel was perfectly aware that she had not taken the measure of Pansy's tenacity, which might prove to be inconveniently great; but she inclined to see her as rather letting go, under suggestion, than as clutching under deprecation--since she had certainly the faculty of assent developed in a very much higher degree than that of protest. She would cling, yes, she would cling; but it really mattered to her very little what she clung to. Lord Warburton would do as well as Mr. Rosier--especially as she seemed quite to like him; she had expressed this sentiment to Isabel without a single reservation; she had said she thought his conversation most interesting--he had told her all about India. His manner to Pansy had been of the rightest and easiest--Isabel noticed that for herself, as she also observed that he talked to her not in the least in a patronising way, reminding himself of her youth and simplicity, but quite as if she understood his subjects with that sufficiency with which she followed those of the fashionable operas. This went far enough for attention to the music and the barytone. He was careful only to be kind--he was as kind as he had been to another fluttered young chit at Gardencourt. A girl might well be touched by that; she remembered how she herself had been touched, and said to herself that if she had been as simple as Pansy the impression would have been deeper still. She had not been simple when she refused him; that operation had been as complicated as, later, her acceptance of Osmond had been. Pansy, however, in spite of HER simplicity, really did understand, and was glad that Lord Warburton should talk to her, not about her partners and bouquets, but about the state of Italy, the condition of the peasantry, the famous grist-tax, the pellagra, his impressions of Roman society. She looked at him, as she drew her needle through her tapestry, with sweet submissive eyes, and when she lowered them she gave little quiet oblique glances at his person, his hands, his feet, his clothes, as if she were considering him. Even his person, Isabel might have reminded her, was better than Mr. Rosier's. But Isabel contented herself at such moments with wondering where this gentleman was; he came no more at all to Palazzo Roccanera. It was surprising, as I say, the hold it had taken of her--the idea of assisting her husband to be pleased. It was surprising for a variety of reasons which I shall presently touch upon. On the evening I speak of, while Lord Warburton sat there, she had been on the point of taking the great step of going out of the room and leaving her companions alone. I say the great step, because it was in this light that Gilbert Osmond would have regarded it, and Isabel was trying as much as possible to take her husband's view. She succeeded after a fashion, but she fell short of the point I mention. After all she couldn't rise to it; something held her and made this impossible. It was not exactly that it would be base or insidious; for women as a general thing practise such manoeuvres with a perfectly good conscience, and Isabel was instinctively much more true than false to the common genius of her sex. There was a vague doubt that interposed--a sense that she was not quite sure. So she remained in the drawing-room, and after a while Lord Warburton went off to his party, of which he promised to give Pansy a full account on the morrow. After he had gone she wondered if she had prevented something which would have happened if she had absented herself for a quarter of an hour; and then she pronounced--always mentally--that when their distinguished visitor should wish her to go away he would easily find means to let her know it. Pansy said nothing whatever about him after he had gone, and Isabel studiously said nothing, as she had taken a vow of reserve until after he should have declared himself. He was a little longer in coming to this than might seem to accord with the description he had given Isabel of his feelings. Pansy went to bed, and Isabel had to admit that she could not now guess what her stepdaughter was thinking of. Her transparent little companion was for the moment not to be seen through. She remained alone, looking at the fire, until, at the end of half an hour, her husband came in. He moved about a while in silence and then sat down; he looked at the fire like herself. But she now had transferred her eyes from the flickering flame in the chimney to Osmond's face, and she watched him while he kept his silence. Covert observation had become a habit with her; an instinct, of which it is not an exaggeration to say that it was allied to that of self-defence, had made it habitual. She wished as much as possible to know his thoughts, to know what he would say, beforehand, so that she might prepare her answer. Preparing answers had not been her strong point of old; she had rarely in this respect got further than thinking afterwards of clever things she might have said. But she had learned caution--learned it in a measure from her husband's very countenance. It was the same face she had looked into with eyes equally earnest perhaps, but less penetrating, on the terrace of a Florentine villa; except that Osmond had grown slightly stouter since his marriage. He still, however, might strike one as very distinguished. "Has Lord Warburton been here?" he presently asked. "Yes, he stayed half an hour." "Did he see Pansy?" "Yes; he sat on the sofa beside her." "Did he talk with her much?" "He talked almost only to her." "It seems to me he's attentive. Isn't that what you call it?" "I don't call it anything," said Isabel; "I've waited for you to give it a name." "That's a consideration you don't always show," Osmond answered after a moment. "I've determined, this time, to try and act as you'd like. I've so often failed of that." Osmond turned his head slowly, looking at her. "Are you trying to quarrel with me?" "No, I'm trying to live at peace." "Nothing's more easy; you know I don't quarrel myself." "What do you call it when you try to make me angry?" Isabel asked. "I don't try; if I've done so it has been the most natural thing in the world. Moreover I'm not in the least trying now." Isabel smiled. "It doesn't matter. I've determined never to be angry again." "That's an excellent resolve. Your temper isn't good." "No--it's not good." She pushed away the book she had been reading and took up the band of tapestry Pansy had left on the table. "That's partly why I've not spoken to you about this business of my daughter's," Osmond said, designating Pansy in the manner that was most frequent with him. "I was afraid I should encounter opposition--that you too would have views on the subject. I've sent little Rosier about his business." "You were afraid I'd plead for Mr. Rosier? Haven't you noticed that I've never spoken to you of him?" "I've never given you a chance. We've so little conversation in these days. I know he was an old friend of yours." "Yes; he's an old friend of mine." Isabel cared little more for him than for the tapestry that she held in her hand; but it was true that he was an old friend and that with her husband she felt a desire not to extenuate such ties. He had a way of expressing contempt for them which fortified her loyalty to them, even when, as in the present case, they were in themselves insignificant. She sometimes felt a sort of passion of tenderness for memories which had no other merit than that they belonged to her unmarried life. "But as regards Pansy," she added in a moment, "I've given him no encouragement." "That's fortunate," Osmond observed. "Fortunate for me, I suppose you mean. For him it matters little." "There's no use talking of him," Osmond said. "As I tell you, I've turned him out." "Yes; but a lover outside's always a lover. He's sometimes even more of one. Mr. Rosier still has hope." "He's welcome to the comfort of it! My daughter has only to sit perfectly quiet to become Lady Warburton." "Should you like that?" Isabel asked with a simplicity which was not so affected as it may appear. She was resolved to assume nothing, for Osmond had a way of unexpectedly turning her assumptions against her. The intensity with which he would like his daughter to become Lady Warburton had been the very basis of her own recent reflections. But that was for herself; she would recognise nothing until Osmond should have put it into words; she would not take for granted with him that he thought Lord Warburton a prize worth an amount of effort that was unusual among the Osmonds. It was Gilbert's constant intimation that for him nothing in life was a prize; that he treated as from equal to equal with the most distinguished people in the world, and that his daughter had only to look about her to pick out a prince. It cost him therefore a lapse from consistency to say explicitly that he yearned for Lord Warburton and that if this nobleman should escape his equivalent might not be found; with which moreover it was another of his customary implications that he was never inconsistent. He would have liked his wife to glide over the point. But strangely enough, now that she was face to face with him and although an hour before she had almost invented a scheme for pleasing him, Isabel was not accommodating, would not glide. And yet she knew exactly the effect on his mind of her question: it would operate as an humiliation. Never mind; he was terribly capable of humiliating her--all the more so that he was also capable of waiting for great opportunities and of showing sometimes an almost unaccountable indifference to small ones. Isabel perhaps took a small opportunity because she would not have availed herself of a great one. Osmond at present acquitted himself very honourably. "I should like it extremely; it would be a great marriage. And then Lord Warburton has another advantage: he's an old friend of yours. It would be pleasant for him to come into the family. It's very odd Pansy's admirers should all be your old friends." "It's natural that they should come to see me. In coming to see me they see Pansy. Seeing her it's natural they should fall in love with her." "So I think. But you're not bound to do so." "If she should marry Lord Warburton I should be very glad," Isabel went on frankly. "He's an excellent man. You say, however, that she has only to sit perfectly still. Perhaps she won't sit perfectly still. If she loses Mr. Rosier she may jump up!" Osmond appeared to give no heed to this; he sat gazing at the fire. "Pansy would like to be a great lady," he remarked in a moment with a certain tenderness of tone. "She wishes above all to please," he added. "To please Mr. Rosier, perhaps." "No, to please me." "Me too a little, I think," said Isabel. "Yes, she has a great opinion of you. But she'll do what I like." "If you're sure of that, it's very well," she went on. "Meantime," said Osmond, "I should like our distinguished visitor to speak." "He has spoken--to me. He has told me it would be a great pleasure to him to believe she could care for him." Osmond turned his head quickly, but at first he said nothing. Then, "Why didn't you tell me that?" he asked sharply. "There was no opportunity. You know how we live. I've taken the first chance that has offered." "Did you speak to him of Rosier?" "Oh yes, a little." "That was hardly necessary." "I thought it best he should know, so that, so that--" And Isabel paused. "So that what?" "So that he might act accordingly." "So that he might back out, do you mean?" "No, so that he might advance while there's yet time." "That's not the effect it seems to have had." "You should have patience," said Isabel. "You know Englishmen are shy." "This one's not. He was not when he made love to YOU." She had been afraid Osmond would speak of that; it was disagreeable to her. "I beg your pardon; he was extremely so," she returned. He answered nothing for some time; he took up a book and fingered the pages while she sat silent and occupied herself with Pansy's tapestry. "You must have a great deal of influence with him," Osmond went on at last. "The moment you really wish it you can bring him to the point." This was more offensive still; but she felt the great naturalness of his saying it, and it was after all extremely like what she had said to herself. "Why should I have influence?" she asked. "What have I ever done to put him under an obligation to me?" "You refused to marry him," said Osmond with his eyes on his book. "I must not presume too much on that," she replied. He threw down the book presently and got up, standing before the fire with his hands behind him. "Well, I hold that it lies in your hands. I shall leave it there. With a little good-will you may manage it. Think that over and remember how much I count on you." He waited a little, to give her time to answer; but she answered nothing, and he presently strolled out of the room.

Chapter 41

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-40-42

Isabel is not excited by the idea of Pansy and Lord Warburton marrying initially, but she allows the idea to settle in her mind. She realizes that she would be acting her part as a good wife if she were to assist the match in being made. Yet, she is also surprised that Lord Warburton would be attracted to Pansy -- for Pansy is very different from Isabel herself. She thinks of Pansy as small, an innocent but limited creature. Nevertheless, Isabel contents herself with the idea of providing a service for her husband. Of course, Isabel thinks to herself, Edward Rosier presents a problem. Isabel had tried not to inform herself of Pansy's feelings for Mr. Rosier, but she finds that she knows that Pansy thinks the world of him. She wonders how tenacious Pansy will be in clinging to her idea of Edward Rosier - Isabel then begins to believe that Pansy could cling to just anything. Isabel after all thinks more highly of Lord Warburton than Edward Rosier. This scene within Isabel's mind takes place as Isabel is having another of her Thursday gatherings. Lord Warburton is there, speaking with Pansy. Isabel knows that if she leaves the two alone in a room together, Lord Warburton may declare his feelings for Pansy and set in motion a proposal. But she hesitates to do this act that would please her husband. Lord Warburton ends up leaving for the night without a moment alone with Pansy. Isabel then sits alone in a room staring at the fire. Her husband enters the room, and asks about Lord Warburton's interest in Pansy. Isabel says she has been waiting for Osmond to give it a name. The narrator tells us that Isabel has decided not to take it for granted that her husband would like Lord Warburton -- and further, she is motivated by the thought that Osmond's declaring a desire to see Lord Warburton propose would show that Osmond did in fact want something from the world. She thinks it is his constant intimation that he wants nothing of the world - that nothing could be good enough for him. Thus his declaration of a desire for a proposal from Lord Warburton would be a lapse in consistency. Isabel then also thinks to herself that her husband may very well decide to take this opportunity to humiliate Isabel. Osmond behaves well on this occasion though. He simply asks Isabel to help along the match. He then suggests to Isabel that she can make Lord Warburton do whatever she would like him to do - and that she should use this influence to make him marry Pansy

The situation between Lord Warburton and Pansy presents us with an interesting situation that allows Isabel to think about the right motivations behind an action. If Lord Warburton is marrying Pansy in order to please Isabel, she sees that it would be wrong of her to take advantage of this. Yet Isabel realizes that this is exactly what Madame Merle and Osmond expect of her: they expect her to have no qualms about using another person for one's own ends. This makes her reflect on the moral character of the people around her. As Robert Pippin has pointed out , the modern situation that Henry James was facing during his time introduced the possibility that psychological motivations made an action moral or immoral. For example, if Osmond had married Isabel just for his own self-interest and to increase his fortune, it would be immoral. But Isabel had married Osmond because she had wanted to give him the means to further express himself, and this is considered moral. However, the problem being presented in the novel is that psychological motivations only crystallize as such later on in life. It is important to note the technique that James employs to enter into Isabel's mind. He first of all has set up the scene so that we have only gradually approached Isabel's true state of mind through the speculations of others. We first get Edward Rosier's speculations of Isabel, then Lord Warburton's, then Ralph's, until we finally approach Isabel's own. It is like peeling the layers off of an onion until we reach the core of Isabel's thought. Furthermore, there is an indication that Isabel's own thoughts are very much infected and inflected through her understanding of the thoughts of others. Sharon Cameron has called this the 'intersubjectivity' of the novel: the belief that one's mind is not entirely one's own, but rather a consciousness crystallizes as such only once one knows what others are thinking. Finally, Chapter 42 provides us with insight into James' views on the conventional Old World. Osmond is representative of empty traditions without any intrinsic meaning. He follows them simply to show his own aristocratic value. At best, this Old World is capable of showing itself off through aesthetics -- knowledge about classical art, for example, would let one show off how cultured one is. However, James is questioning whether or not this aristocratic, European view of the world would not benefit from the freshness of an American, moral perspective. Isabel is representative of the New World, and the insights that an open mind can provide to a European outlook. She wants to always look at things for herself, bring her own original perspective, and question the meaning of traditions. Yet it is problematic that she has only two means of expressing herself: money and marriage. There seems also to be a feminist point being made here, especially in Isabel's envy of Lord Warburton. Women did not have enough avenues open to them during this time period for expression of their character, and James seems to be suggesting that they would have something very valuable to add to society if more pathways were open to them to do so.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 43

chapter 43

{"name": "Chapter 43", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-43-45", "summary": "Isabel takes Pansy to a dance, where she has been instructed by Osmond to keep watch over his daughter. While Pansy is dancing, Edward Rosier approaches Isabel in a determined manner. We learn that Pansy has refused to dance with him. He sees a bouquet of pansies that Isabel is holding, and realizing that it must belong to Pansy, he begs for one of the flowers. Pansy finishes a dance and is returning to Isabel, and Isabel bids Edward to leave. Upon her return, Pansy counts the flowers. Lord Warburton then approaches Isabel. Warburton has not yet asked Pansy to dance, because she is occupied with others. He then asks Isabel to dance, and she refuses. He says he prefers to talk to her anyway. Apparently Lord Warburton has written to Isabel telling her of his intention to offer marriage to Pansy, but he has not written to Osmond. The two then bump into Edward Rosier, who looks miserable. Lord Warburton notes how miserable he looks and asks Isabel why. Isabel tells him of Rosier's love for Pansy, and Warburton pities the man. Isabel notices that Warburton is not at all envious, and thinks that he is not in love with Pansy. Lord Warburton claims he has good reasons to love Pansy, and Isabel retorts that one never has good reasons to be in love. He wonders why Isabel is so skeptical of his intentions towards Pansy. The two exchange a look. Deeper meanings are exchanged between them than they are conscious of. Not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying her stepdaughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous,\" the narrator tells us", "analysis": "In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that \"not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself\" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way."}

Three nights after this she took Pansy to a great party, to which Osmond, who never went to dances, did not accompany them. Pansy was as ready for a dance as ever; she was not of a generalising turn and had not extended to other pleasures the interdict she had seen placed on those of love. If she was biding her time or hoping to circumvent her father she must have had a prevision of success. Isabel thought this unlikely; it was much more likely that Pansy had simply determined to be a good girl. She had never had such a chance, and she had a proper esteem for chances. She carried herself no less attentively than usual and kept no less anxious an eye upon her vaporous skirts; she held her bouquet very tight and counted over the flowers for the twentieth time. She made Isabel feel old; it seemed so long since she had been in a flutter about a ball. Pansy, who was greatly admired, was never in want of partners, and very soon after their arrival she gave Isabel, who was not dancing, her bouquet to hold. Isabel had rendered her this service for some minutes when she became aware of the near presence of Edward Rosier. He stood before her; he had lost his affable smile and wore a look of almost military resolution. The change in his appearance would have made Isabel smile if she had not felt his case to be at bottom a hard one: he had always smelt so much more of heliotrope than of gunpowder. He looked at her a moment somewhat fiercely, as if to notify her he was dangerous, and then dropped his eyes on her bouquet. After he had inspected it his glance softened and he said quickly: "It's all pansies; it must be hers!" Isabel smiled kindly. "Yes, it's hers; she gave it to me to hold." "May I hold it a little, Mrs. Osmond?" the poor young man asked. "No, I can't trust you; I'm afraid you wouldn't give it back." "I'm not sure that I should; I should leave the house with it instantly. But may I not at least have a single flower?" Isabel hesitated a moment, and then, smiling still, held out the bouquet. "Choose one yourself. It's frightful what I'm doing for you." "Ah, if you do no more than this, Mrs. Osmond!" Rosier exclaimed with his glass in one eye, carefully choosing his flower. "Don't put it into your button-hole," she said. "Don't for the world!" "I should like her to see it. She has refused to dance with me, but I wish to show her that I believe in her still." "It's very well to show it to her, but it's out of place to show it to others. Her father has told her not to dance with you." "And is that all YOU can do for me? I expected more from you, Mrs. Osmond," said the young man in a tone of fine general reference. "You know our acquaintance goes back very far--quite into the days of our innocent childhood." "Don't make me out too old," Isabel patiently answered. "You come back to that very often, and I've never denied it. But I must tell you that, old friends as we are, if you had done me the honour to ask me to marry you I should have refused you on the spot." "Ah, you don't esteem me then. Say at once that you think me a mere Parisian trifler!" "I esteem you very much, but I'm not in love with you. What I mean by that, of course, is that I'm not in love with you for Pansy." "Very good; I see. You pity me--that's all." And Edward Rosier looked all round, inconsequently, with his single glass. It was a revelation to him that people shouldn't be more pleased; but he was at least too proud to show that the deficiency struck him as general. Isabel for a moment said nothing. His manner and appearance had not the dignity of the deepest tragedy; his little glass, among other things, was against that. But she suddenly felt touched; her own unhappiness, after all, had something in common with his, and it came over her, more than before, that here, in recognisable, if not in romantic form, was the most affecting thing in the world--young love struggling with adversity. "Would you really be very kind to her?" she finally asked in a low tone. He dropped his eyes devoutly and raised the little flower that he held in his fingers to his lips. Then he looked at her. "You pity me; but don't you pity HER a little?" "I don't know; I'm not sure. She'll always enjoy life." "It will depend on what you call life!" Mr. Rosier effectively said. "She won't enjoy being tortured." "There'll be nothing of that." "I'm glad to hear it. She knows what she's about. You'll see." "I think she does, and she'll never disobey her father. But she's coming back to me," Isabel added, "and I must beg you to go away." Rosier lingered a moment till Pansy came in sight on the arm of her cavalier; he stood just long enough to look her in the face. Then he walked away, holding up his head; and the manner in which he achieved this sacrifice to expediency convinced Isabel he was very much in love. Pansy, who seldom got disarranged in dancing, looking perfectly fresh and cool after this exercise, waited a moment and then took back her bouquet. Isabel watched her and saw she was counting the flowers; whereupon she said to herself that decidedly there were deeper forces at play than she had recognised. Pansy had seen Rosier turn away, but she said nothing to Isabel about him; she talked only of her partner, after he had made his bow and retired; of the music, the floor, the rare misfortune of having already torn her dress. Isabel was sure, however, she had discovered her lover to have abstracted a flower; though this knowledge was not needed to account for the dutiful grace with which she responded to the appeal of her next partner. That perfect amenity under acute constraint was part of a larger system. She was again led forth by a flushed young man, this time carrying her bouquet; and she had not been absent many minutes when Isabel saw Lord Warburton advancing through the crowd. He presently drew near and bade her good-evening; she had not seen him since the day before. He looked about him, and then "Where's the little maid?" he asked. It was in this manner that he had formed the harmless habit of alluding to Miss Osmond. "She's dancing," said Isabel. "You'll see her somewhere." He looked among the dancers and at last caught Pansy's eye. "She sees me, but she won't notice me," he then remarked. "Are you not dancing?" "As you see, I'm a wall-flower." "Won't you dance with me?" "Thank you; I'd rather you should dance with the little maid." "One needn't prevent the other--especially as she's engaged." "She's not engaged for everything, and you can reserve yourself. She dances very hard, and you'll be the fresher." "She dances beautifully," said Lord Warburton, following her with his eyes. "Ah, at last," he added, "she has given me a smile." He stood there with his handsome, easy, important physiognomy; and as Isabel observed him it came over her, as it had done before, that it was strange a man of his mettle should take an interest in a little maid. It struck her as a great incongruity; neither Pansy's small fascinations, nor his own kindness, his good-nature, not even his need for amusement, which was extreme and constant, were sufficient to account for it. "I should like to dance with you," he went on in a moment, turning back to Isabel; "but I think I like even better to talk with you." "Yes, it's better, and it's more worthy of your dignity. Great statesmen oughtn't to waltz." "Don't be cruel. Why did you recommend me then to dance with Miss Osmond?" "Ah, that's different. If you danced with her it would look simply like a piece of kindness--as if you were doing it for her amusement. If you dance with me you'll look as if you were doing it for your own." "And pray haven't I a right to amuse myself?" "No, not with the affairs of the British Empire on your hands." "The British Empire be hanged! You're always laughing at it." "Amuse yourself with talking to me," said Isabel. "I'm not sure it's really a recreation. You're too pointed; I've always to be defending myself. And you strike me as more than usually dangerous to-night. Will you absolutely not dance?" "I can't leave my place. Pansy must find me here." He was silent a little. "You're wonderfully good to her," he said suddenly. Isabel stared a little and smiled. "Can you imagine one's not being?" "No indeed. I know how one is charmed with her. But you must have done a great deal for her." "I've taken her out with me," said Isabel, smiling still. "And I've seen that she has proper clothes." "Your society must have been a great benefit to her. You've talked to her, advised her, helped her to develop." "Ah yes, if she isn't the rose she has lived near it." She laughed, and her companion did as much; but there was a certain visible preoccupation in his face which interfered with complete hilarity. "We all try to live as near it as we can," he said after a moment's hesitation. Isabel turned away; Pansy was about to be restored to her, and she welcomed the diversion. We know how much she liked Lord Warburton; she thought him pleasanter even than the sum of his merits warranted; there was something in his friendship that appeared a kind of resource in case of indefinite need; it was like having a large balance at the bank. She felt happier when he was in the room; there was something reassuring in his approach; the sound of his voice reminded her of the beneficence of nature. Yet for all that it didn't suit her that he should be too near her, that he should take too much of her good-will for granted. She was afraid of that; she averted herself from it; she wished he wouldn't. She felt that if he should come too near, as it were, it might be in her to flash out and bid him keep his distance. Pansy came back to Isabel with another rent in her skirt, which was the inevitable consequence of the first and which she displayed to Isabel with serious eyes. There were too many gentlemen in uniform; they wore those dreadful spurs, which were fatal to the dresses of little maids. It hereupon became apparent that the resources of women are innumerable. Isabel devoted herself to Pansy's desecrated drapery; she fumbled for a pin and repaired the injury; she smiled and listened to her account of her adventures. Her attention, her sympathy were immediate and active; and they were in direct proportion to a sentiment with which they were in no way connected--a lively conjecture as to whether Lord Warburton might be trying to make love to her. It was not simply his words just then; it was others as well; it was the reference and the continuity. This was what she thought about while she pinned up Pansy's dress. If it were so, as she feared, he was of course unwitting; he himself had not taken account of his intention. But this made it none the more auspicious, made the situation none less impossible. The sooner he should get back into right relations with things the better. He immediately began to talk to Pansy--on whom it was certainly mystifying to see that he dropped a smile of chastened devotion. Pansy replied, as usual, with a little air of conscientious aspiration; he had to bend toward her a good deal in conversation, and her eyes, as usual, wandered up and down his robust person as if he had offered it to her for exhibition. She always seemed a little frightened; yet her fright was not of the painful character that suggests dislike; on the contrary, she looked as if she knew that he knew she liked him. Isabel left them together a little and wandered toward a friend whom she saw near and with whom she talked till the music of the following dance began, for which she knew Pansy to be also engaged. The girl joined her presently, with a little fluttered flush, and Isabel, who scrupulously took Osmond's view of his daughter's complete dependence, consigned her, as a precious and momentary loan, to her appointed partner. About all this matter she had her own imaginations, her own reserves; there were moments when Pansy's extreme adhesiveness made each of them, to her sense, look foolish. But Osmond had given her a sort of tableau of her position as his daughter's duenna, which consisted of gracious alternations of concession and contraction; and there were directions of his which she liked to think she obeyed to the letter. Perhaps, as regards some of them, it was because her doing so appeared to reduce them to the absurd. After Pansy had been led away, she found Lord Warburton drawing near her again. She rested her eyes on him steadily; she wished she could sound his thoughts. But he had no appearance of confusion. "She has promised to dance with me later," he said. "I'm glad of that. I suppose you've engaged her for the cotillion." At this he looked a little awkward. "No, I didn't ask her for that. It's a quadrille." "Ah, you're not clever!" said Isabel almost angrily. "I told her to keep the cotillion in case you should ask for it." "Poor little maid, fancy that!" And Lord Warburton laughed frankly. "Of course I will if you like." "If I like? Oh, if you dance with her only because I like it--!" "I'm afraid I bore her. She seems to have a lot of young fellows on her book." Isabel dropped her eyes, reflecting rapidly; Lord Warburton stood there looking at her and she felt his eyes on her face. She felt much inclined to ask him to remove them. She didn't do so, however; she only said to him, after a minute, with her own raised: "Please let me understand." "Understand what?" "You told me ten days ago that you'd like to marry my stepdaughter. You've not forgotten it!" "Forgotten it? I wrote to Mr. Osmond about it this morning." "Ah," said Isabel, "he didn't mention to me that he had heard from you." Lord Warburton stammered a little. "I--I didn't send my letter." "Perhaps you forgot THAT." "No, I wasn't satisfied with it. It's an awkward sort of letter to write, you know. But I shall send it to-night." "At three o'clock in the morning?" "I mean later, in the course of the day." "Very good. You still wish then to marry her?" "Very much indeed." "Aren't you afraid that you'll bore her?" And as her companion stared at this enquiry Isabel added: "If she can't dance with you for half an hour how will she be able to dance with you for life?" "Ah," said Lord Warburton readily, "I'll let her dance with other people! About the cotillion, the fact is I thought that you--that you--" "That I would do it with you? I told you I'd do nothing." "Exactly; so that while it's going on I might find some quiet corner where we may sit down and talk." "Oh," said Isabel gravely, "you're much too considerate of me." When the cotillion came Pansy was found to have engaged herself, thinking, in perfect humility, that Lord Warburton had no intentions. Isabel recommended him to seek another partner, but he assured her that he would dance with no one but herself. As, however, she had, in spite of the remonstrances of her hostess, declined other invitations on the ground that she was not dancing at all, it was not possible for her to make an exception in Lord Warburton's favour. "After all I don't care to dance," he said; "it's a barbarous amusement: I'd much rather talk." And he intimated that he had discovered exactly the corner he had been looking for--a quiet nook in one of the smaller rooms, where the music would come to them faintly and not interfere with conversation. Isabel had decided to let him carry out his idea; she wished to be satisfied. She wandered away from the ball-room with him, though she knew her husband desired she should not lose sight of his daughter. It was with his daughter's pretendant, however; that would make it right for Osmond. On her way out of the ball-room she came upon Edward Rosier, who was standing in a doorway, with folded arms, looking at the dance in the attitude of a young man without illusions. She stopped a moment and asked him if he were not dancing. "Certainly not, if I can't dance with HER!" he answered. "You had better go away then," said Isabel with the manner of good counsel. "I shall not go till she does!" And he let Lord Warburton pass without giving him a look. This nobleman, however, had noticed the melancholy youth, and he asked Isabel who her dismal friend was, remarking that he had seen him somewhere before. "It's the young man I've told you about, who's in love with Pansy." "Ah yes, I remember. He looks rather bad." "He has reason. My husband won't listen to him." "What's the matter with him?" Lord Warburton enquired. "He seems very harmless." "He hasn't money enough, and he isn't very clever." Lord Warburton listened with interest; he seemed struck with this account of Edward Rosier. "Dear me; he looked a well-set-up young fellow." "So he is, but my husband's very particular." "Oh, I see." And Lord Warburton paused a moment. "How much money has he got?" he then ventured to ask. "Some forty thousand francs a year." "Sixteen hundred pounds? Ah, but that's very good, you know." "So I think. My husband, however, has larger ideas." "Yes; I've noticed that your husband has very large ideas. Is he really an idiot, the young man?" "An idiot? Not in the least; he's charming. When he was twelve years old I myself was in love with him." "He doesn't look much more than twelve to-day," Lord Warburton rejoined vaguely, looking about him. Then with more point, "Don't you think we might sit here?" he asked. "Wherever you please." The room was a sort of boudoir, pervaded by a subdued, rose-coloured light; a lady and gentleman moved out of it as our friends came in. "It's very kind of you to take such an interest in Mr. Rosier," Isabel said. "He seems to me rather ill-treated. He had a face a yard long. I wondered what ailed him." "You're a just man," said Isabel. "You've a kind thought even for a rival." Lord Warburton suddenly turned with a stare. "A rival! Do you call him my rival?" "Surely--if you both wish to marry the same person." "Yes--but since he has no chance!" "I like you, however that may be, for putting your self in his place. It shows imagination." "You like me for it?" And Lord Warburton looked at her with an uncertain eye. "I think you mean you're laughing at me for it." "Yes, I'm laughing at you a little. But I like you as somebody to laugh at." "Ah well, then, let me enter into his situation a little more. What do you suppose one could do for him?" "Since I have been praising your imagination I'll leave you to imagine that yourself," Isabel said. "Pansy too would like you for that." "Miss Osmond? Ah, she, I flatter myself, likes me already." "Very much, I think." He waited a little; he was still questioning her face. "Well then, I don't understand you. You don't mean that she cares for him?" A quick blush sprang to his brow. "You told me she would have no wish apart from her father's, and as I've gathered that he would favour me--!" He paused a little and then suggested "Don't you see?" through his blush. "Yes, I told you she has an immense wish to please her father, and that it would probably take her very far." "That seems to me a very proper feeling," said Lord Warburton. "Certainly; it's a very proper feeling." Isabel remained silent for some moments; the room continued empty; the sound of the music reached them with its richness softened by the interposing apartments. Then at last she said: "But it hardly strikes me as the sort of feeling to which a man would wish to be indebted for a wife." "I don't know; if the wife's a good one and he thinks she does well!" "Yes, of course you must think that." "I do; I can't help it. You call that very British, of course." "No, I don't. I think Pansy would do wonderfully well to marry you, and I don't know who should know it better than you. But you're not in love." "Ah, yes I am, Mrs. Osmond!" Isabel shook her head. "You like to think you are while you sit here with me. But that's not how you strike me." "I'm not like the young man in the doorway. I admit that. But what makes it so unnatural? Could any one in the world be more loveable than Miss Osmond?" "No one, possibly. But love has nothing to do with good reasons." "I don't agree with you. I'm delighted to have good reasons." "Of course you are. If you were really in love you wouldn't care a straw for them." "Ah, really in love--really in love!" Lord Warburton exclaimed, folding his arms, leaning back his head and stretching himself a little. "You must remember that I'm forty-two years old. I won't pretend I'm as I once was." "Well, if you're sure," said Isabel, "it's all right." He answered nothing; he sat there, with his head back, looking before him. Abruptly, however, he changed his position; he turned quickly to his friend. "Why are you so unwilling, so sceptical?" She met his eyes, and for a moment they looked straight at each other. If she wished to be satisfied she saw something that satisfied her; she saw in his expression the gleam of an idea that she was uneasy on her own account--that she was perhaps even in fear. It showed a suspicion, not a hope, but such as it was it told her what she wanted to know. Not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying her step-daughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous. In that brief, extremely personal gaze, however, deeper meanings passed between them than they were conscious of at the moment. "My dear Lord Warburton," she said, smiling, "you may do, so far as I'm concerned, whatever comes into your head." And with this she got up and wandered into the adjoining room, where, within her companion's view, she was immediately addressed by a pair of gentlemen, high personages in the Roman world, who met her as if they had been looking for her. While she talked with them she found herself regretting she had moved; it looked a little like running away--all the more as Lord Warburton didn't follow her. She was glad of this, however, and at any rate she was satisfied. She was so well satisfied that when, in passing back into the ball-room, she found Edward Rosier still planted in the doorway, she stopped and spoke to him again. "You did right not to go away. I've some comfort for you." "I need it," the young man softly wailed, "when I see you so awfully thick with him!" "Don't speak of him; I'll do what I can for you. I'm afraid it won't be much, but what I can I'll do." He looked at her with gloomy obliqueness. "What has suddenly brought you round?" "The sense that you are an inconvenience in doorways!" she answered, smiling as she passed him. Half an hour later she took leave, with Pansy, and at the foot of the staircase the two ladies, with many other departing guests, waited a while for their carriage. Just as it approached Lord Warburton came out of the house and assisted them to reach their vehicle. He stood a moment at the door, asking Pansy if she had amused herself; and she, having answered him, fell back with a little air of fatigue. Then Isabel, at the window, detaining him by a movement of her finger, murmured gently: "Don't forget to send your letter to her father!"

Chapter 43

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-43-45

Isabel takes Pansy to a dance, where she has been instructed by Osmond to keep watch over his daughter. While Pansy is dancing, Edward Rosier approaches Isabel in a determined manner. We learn that Pansy has refused to dance with him. He sees a bouquet of pansies that Isabel is holding, and realizing that it must belong to Pansy, he begs for one of the flowers. Pansy finishes a dance and is returning to Isabel, and Isabel bids Edward to leave. Upon her return, Pansy counts the flowers. Lord Warburton then approaches Isabel. Warburton has not yet asked Pansy to dance, because she is occupied with others. He then asks Isabel to dance, and she refuses. He says he prefers to talk to her anyway. Apparently Lord Warburton has written to Isabel telling her of his intention to offer marriage to Pansy, but he has not written to Osmond. The two then bump into Edward Rosier, who looks miserable. Lord Warburton notes how miserable he looks and asks Isabel why. Isabel tells him of Rosier's love for Pansy, and Warburton pities the man. Isabel notices that Warburton is not at all envious, and thinks that he is not in love with Pansy. Lord Warburton claims he has good reasons to love Pansy, and Isabel retorts that one never has good reasons to be in love. He wonders why Isabel is so skeptical of his intentions towards Pansy. The two exchange a look. Deeper meanings are exchanged between them than they are conscious of. Not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal of marrying her stepdaughter an implication of increased nearness to herself, or of thinking it, on such a betrayal, ominous," the narrator tells us

In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that "not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 44

chapter 44

{"name": "Chapter 44", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-43-45", "summary": "Countess Gemini wishes she lived in Rome - she finds herself often very bored. She thought of society in Rome as very interesting; it had many celebrities, whereas in Florence, where she lives, there are none. She knew Isabel was having a beautiful time, and that she led a more brilliant life than herself. The Countess did not feel envious of Isabel's personal merits though. She is constantly surprised by the fact that Isabel did not look down on her. Isabel in fact was somewhat scared of her, thinking of her as a \"bright rare shell, with a polished surface\". The Countess is not often asked to come to Rome because of her brother. Isabel would have liked to have seen her more often. The Countess wishes to know how Isabel is faring against her brother. One day Henrietta Stackpole comes to visit the Countess because the Countess is the only person she knows in Florence at the moment. Henrietta tells the Countess that she remembers the Countess once told her something useful about the position of women in the city of Florence. Henrietta has used this bit of information in a newspaper article. Henrietta informs the Countess that Isabel's husband has tried to break her relations with her dearest friend. She is seeking the Countess's help. Henrietta is going to Rome to see if Isabel now hates her. She has noticed a change in Isabel's letters. The Countess tells Henrietta that Lord Warburton is trying to \"make love\" to Isabel. Henrietta wants to find out if Isabel is unhappy, but she is afraid Isabel would not tell her. The Countess speculates that she can find out if Mr. Osmond is unhappy - and if he is unhappy, then that would show that Isabel is making him miserable, meaning that she has not allowed herself to be trampled upon by Mr. Osmond. Henrietta dislikes this line of thought. The Countess notes how devoted Isabel's friends are. On her way back to her hotel, Henrietta leaves a card for Caspar Goodwood, who is in Florence. She requests to see him regarding an important matter. When she arrives at her hotel though, Goodwood is already there. She asks him if he will go to Rome. Goodwood says he has been considering it for the past few months. He does not believe it will matter for Isabel, but he wants to go and see him for himself. Henrietta notes that Caspar Goodwood has never cared for anyone but Isabel. Caspar Goodwood wonders why Henrietta Stackpole thinks that Isabel is always foremost on his mind. He believes he is not always thinking of Isabel. He wished that Henrietta would leave him alone. But he realizes that he must offer to go on the same train with her to Rome, if only out of courtesy", "analysis": "In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that \"not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself\" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way."}

The Countess Gemini was often extremely bored--bored, in her own phrase, to extinction. She had not been extinguished, however, and she struggled bravely enough with her destiny, which had been to marry an unaccommodating Florentine who insisted upon living in his native town, where he enjoyed such consideration as might attach to a gentleman whose talent for losing at cards had not the merit of being incidental to an obliging disposition. The Count Gemini was not liked even by those who won from him; and he bore a name which, having a measurable value in Florence, was, like the local coin of the old Italian states, without currency in other parts of the peninsula. In Rome he was simply a very dull Florentine, and it is not remarkable that he should not have cared to pay frequent visits to a place where, to carry it off, his dulness needed more explanation than was convenient. The Countess lived with her eyes upon Rome, and it was the constant grievance of her life that she had not an habitation there. She was ashamed to say how seldom she had been allowed to visit that city; it scarcely made the matter better that there were other members of the Florentine nobility who never had been there at all. She went whenever she could; that was all she could say. Or rather not all, but all she said she could say. In fact she had much more to say about it, and had often set forth the reasons why she hated Florence and wished to end her days in the shadow of Saint Peter's. They are reasons, however, that do not closely concern us, and were usually summed up in the declaration that Rome, in short, was the Eternal City and that Florence was simply a pretty little place like any other. The Countess apparently needed to connect the idea of eternity with her amusements. She was convinced that society was infinitely more interesting in Rome, where you met celebrities all winter at evening parties. At Florence there were no celebrities; none at least that one had heard of. Since her brother's marriage her impatience had greatly increased; she was so sure his wife had a more brilliant life than herself. She was not so intellectual as Isabel, but she was intellectual enough to do justice to Rome--not to the ruins and the catacombs, not even perhaps to the monuments and museums, the church ceremonies and the scenery; but certainly to all the rest. She heard a great deal about her sister-in-law and knew perfectly that Isabel was having a beautiful time. She had indeed seen it for herself on the only occasion on which she had enjoyed the hospitality of Palazzo Roccanera. She had spent a week there during the first winter of her brother's marriage, but she had not been encouraged to renew this satisfaction. Osmond didn't want her--that she was perfectly aware of; but she would have gone all the same, for after all she didn't care two straws about Osmond. It was her husband who wouldn't let her, and the money question was always a trouble. Isabel had been very nice; the Countess, who had liked her sister-in-law from the first, had not been blinded by envy to Isabel's personal merits. She had always observed that she got on better with clever women than with silly ones like herself; the silly ones could never understand her wisdom, whereas the clever ones--the really clever ones--always understood her silliness. It appeared to her that, different as they were in appearance and general style, Isabel and she had somewhere a patch of common ground that they would set their feet upon at last. It was not very large, but it was firm, and they should both know it when once they had really touched it. And then she lived, with Mrs. Osmond, under the influence of a pleasant surprise; she was constantly expecting that Isabel would "look down" on her, and she as constantly saw this operation postponed. She asked herself when it would begin, like fire-works, or Lent, or the opera season; not that she cared much, but she wondered what kept it in abeyance. Her sister-in-law regarded her with none but level glances and expressed for the poor Countess as little contempt as admiration. In reality Isabel would as soon have thought of despising her as of passing a moral judgement on a grasshopper. She was not indifferent to her husband's sister, however; she was rather a little afraid of her. She wondered at her; she thought her very extraordinary. The Countess seemed to her to have no soul; she was like a bright rare shell, with a polished surface and a remarkably pink lip, in which something would rattle when you shook it. This rattle was apparently the Countess's spiritual principle, a little loose nut that tumbled about inside of her. She was too odd for disdain, too anomalous for comparisons. Isabel would have invited her again (there was no question of inviting the Count); but Osmond, after his marriage, had not scrupled to say frankly that Amy was a fool of the worst species--a fool whose folly had the irrepressibility of genius. He said at another time that she had no heart; and he added in a moment that she had given it all away--in small pieces, like a frosted wedding-cake. The fact of not having been asked was of course another obstacle to the Countess's going again to Rome; but at the period with which this history has now to deal she was in receipt of an invitation to spend several weeks at Palazzo Roccanera. The proposal had come from Osmond himself, who wrote to his sister that she must be prepared to be very quiet. Whether or no she found in this phrase all the meaning he had put into it I am unable to say; but she accepted the invitation on any terms. She was curious, moreover; for one of the impressions of her former visit had been that her brother had found his match. Before the marriage she had been sorry for Isabel, so sorry as to have had serious thoughts--if any of the Countess's thoughts were serious--of putting her on her guard. But she had let that pass, and after a little she was reassured. Osmond was as lofty as ever, but his wife would not be an easy victim. The Countess was not very exact at measurements, but it seemed to her that if Isabel should draw herself up she would be the taller spirit of the two. What she wanted to learn now was whether Isabel had drawn herself up; it would give her immense pleasure to see Osmond overtopped. Several days before she was to start for Rome a servant brought her the card of a visitor--a card with the simple superscription "Henrietta C. Stackpole." The Countess pressed her finger-tips to her forehead; she didn't remember to have known any such Henrietta as that. The servant then remarked that the lady had requested him to say that if the Countess should not recognise her name she would know her well enough on seeing her. By the time she appeared before her visitor she had in fact reminded herself that there was once a literary lady at Mrs. Touchett's; the only woman of letters she had ever encountered--that is the only modern one, since she was the daughter of a defunct poetess. She recognised Miss Stackpole immediately, the more so that Miss Stackpole seemed perfectly unchanged; and the Countess, who was thoroughly good-natured, thought it rather fine to be called on by a person of that sort of distinction. She wondered if Miss Stackpole had come on account of her mother--whether she had heard of the American Corinne. Her mother was not at all like Isabel's friend; the Countess could see at a glance that this lady was much more contemporary; and she received an impression of the improvements that were taking place--chiefly in distant countries--in the character (the professional character) of literary ladies. Her mother had been used to wear a Roman scarf thrown over a pair of shoulders timorously bared of their tight black velvet (oh the old clothes!) and a gold laurel-wreath set upon a multitude of glossy ringlets. She had spoken softly and vaguely, with the accent of her "Creole" ancestors, as she always confessed; she sighed a great deal and was not at all enterprising. But Henrietta, the Countess could see, was always closely buttoned and compactly braided; there was something brisk and business-like in her appearance; her manner was almost conscientiously familiar. It was as impossible to imagine her ever vaguely sighing as to imagine a letter posted without its address. The Countess could not but feel that the correspondent of the Interviewer was much more in the movement than the American Corinne. She explained that she had called on the Countess because she was the only person she knew in Florence, and that when she visited a foreign city she liked to see something more than superficial travellers. She knew Mrs. Touchett, but Mrs. Touchett was in America, and even if she had been in Florence Henrietta would not have put herself out for her, since Mrs. Touchett was not one of her admirations. "Do you mean by that that I am?" the Countess graciously asked. "Well, I like you better than I do her," said Miss Stackpole. "I seem to remember that when I saw you before you were very interesting. I don't know whether it was an accident or whether it's your usual style. At any rate I was a good deal struck with what you said. I made use of it afterwards in print." "Dear me!" cried the Countess, staring and half-alarmed; "I had no idea I ever said anything remarkable! I wish I had known it at the time." "It was about the position of woman in this city," Miss Stackpole remarked. "You threw a good deal of light upon it." "The position of woman's very uncomfortable. Is that what you mean? And you wrote it down and published it?" the Countess went on. "Ah, do let me see it!" "I'll write to them to send you the paper if you like," Henrietta said. "I didn't mention your name; I only said a lady of high rank. And then I quoted your views." The Countess threw herself hastily backward, tossing up her clasped hands. "Do you know I'm rather sorry you didn't mention my name? I should have rather liked to see my name in the papers. I forget what my views were; I have so many! But I'm not ashamed of them. I'm not at all like my brother--I suppose you know my brother? He thinks it a kind of scandal to be put in the papers; if you were to quote him he'd never forgive you." "He needn't be afraid; I shall never refer to him," said Miss Stackpole with bland dryness. "That's another reason," she added, "why I wanted to come to see you. You know Mr. Osmond married my dearest friend." "Ah, yes; you were a friend of Isabel's. I was trying to think what I knew about you." "I'm quite willing to be known by that," Henrietta declared. "But that isn't what your brother likes to know me by. He has tried to break up my relations with Isabel." "Don't permit it," said the Countess. "That's what I want to talk about. I'm going to Rome." "So am I!" the Countess cried. "We'll go together." "With great pleasure. And when I write about my journey I'll mention you by name as my companion." The Countess sprang from her chair and came and sat on the sofa beside her visitor. "Ah, you must send me the paper! My husband won't like it, but he need never see it. Besides, he doesn't know how to read." Henrietta's large eyes became immense. "Doesn't know how to read? May I put that into my letter?" "Into your letter?" "In the Interviewer. That's my paper." "Oh yes, if you like; with his name. Are you going to stay with Isabel?" Henrietta held up her head, gazing a little in silence at her hostess. "She has not asked me. I wrote to her I was coming, and she answered that she would engage a room for me at a pension. She gave no reason." The Countess listened with extreme interest. "The reason's Osmond," she pregnantly remarked. "Isabel ought to make a stand," said Miss Stackpole. "I'm afraid she has changed a great deal. I told her she would." "I'm sorry to hear it; I hoped she would have her own way. Why doesn't my brother like you?" the Countess ingenuously added. "I don't know and I don't care. He's perfectly welcome not to like me; I don't want every one to like me; I should think less of myself if some people did. A journalist can't hope to do much good unless he gets a good deal hated; that's the way he knows how his work goes on. And it's just the same for a lady. But I didn't expect it of Isabel." "Do you mean that she hates you?" the Countess enquired. "I don't know; I want to see. That's what I'm going to Rome for." "Dear me, what a tiresome errand!" the Countess exclaimed. "She doesn't write to me in the same way; it's easy to see there's a difference. If you know anything," Miss Stackpole went on, "I should like to hear it beforehand, so as to decide on the line I shall take." The Countess thrust out her under lip and gave a gradual shrug. "I know very little; I see and hear very little of Osmond. He doesn't like me any better than he appears to like you." "Yet you're not a lady correspondent," said Henrietta pensively. "Oh, he has plenty of reasons. Nevertheless they've invited me--I'm to stay in the house!" And the Countess smiled almost fiercely; her exultation, for the moment, took little account of Miss Stackpole's disappointment. This lady, however, regarded it very placidly. "I shouldn't have gone if she HAD asked me. That is I think I shouldn't; and I'm glad I hadn't to make up my mind. It would have been a very difficult question. I shouldn't have liked to turn away from her, and yet I shouldn't have been happy under her roof. A pension will suit me very well. But that's not all." "Rome's very good just now," said the Countess; "there are all sorts of brilliant people. Did you ever hear of Lord Warburton?" "Hear of him? I know him very well. Do you consider him very brilliant?" Henrietta enquired. "I don't know him, but I'm told he's extremely grand seigneur. He's making love to Isabel." "Making love to her?" "So I'm told; I don't know the details," said the Countess lightly. "But Isabel's pretty safe." Henrietta gazed earnestly at her companion; for a moment she said nothing. "When do you go to Rome?" she enquired abruptly. "Not for a week, I'm afraid." "I shall go to-morrow," Henrietta said. "I think I had better not wait." "Dear me, I'm sorry; I'm having some dresses made. I'm told Isabel receives immensely. But I shall see you there; I shall call on you at your pension." Henrietta sat still--she was lost in thought; and suddenly the Countess cried: "Ah, but if you don't go with me you can't describe our journey!" Miss Stackpole seemed unmoved by this consideration; she was thinking of something else and presently expressed it. "I'm not sure that I understand you about Lord Warburton." "Understand me? I mean he's very nice, that's all." "Do you consider it nice to make love to married women?" Henrietta enquired with unprecedented distinctness. The Countess stared, and then with a little violent laugh: "It's certain all the nice men do it. Get married and you'll see!" she added. "That idea would be enough to prevent me," said Miss Stackpole. "I should want my own husband; I shouldn't want any one else's. Do you mean that Isabel's guilty--guilty--?" And she paused a little, choosing her expression. "Do I mean she's guilty? Oh dear no, not yet, I hope. I only mean that Osmond's very tiresome and that Lord Warburton, as I hear, is a great deal at the house. I'm afraid you're scandalised." "No, I'm just anxious," Henrietta said. "Ah, you're not very complimentary to Isabel! You should have more confidence. I'll tell you," the Countess added quickly: "if it will be a comfort to you I engage to draw him off." Miss Stackpole answered at first only with the deeper solemnity of her gaze. "You don't understand me," she said after a while. "I haven't the idea you seem to suppose. I'm not afraid for Isabel--in that way. I'm only afraid she's unhappy--that's what I want to get at." The Countess gave a dozen turns of the head; she looked impatient and sarcastic. "That may very well be; for my part I should like to know whether Osmond is." Miss Stackpole had begun a little to bore her. "If she's really changed that must be at the bottom of it," Henrietta went on. "You'll see; she'll tell you," said the Countess. "Ah, she may NOT tell me--that's what I'm afraid of!" "Well, if Osmond isn't amusing himself--in his own old way--I flatter myself I shall discover it," the Countess rejoined. "I don't care for that," said Henrietta. "I do immensely! If Isabel's unhappy I'm very sorry for her, but I can't help it. I might tell her something that would make her worse, but I can't tell her anything that would console her. What did she go and marry him for? If she had listened to me she'd have got rid of him. I'll forgive her, however, if I find she has made things hot for him! If she has simply allowed him to trample upon her I don't know that I shall even pity her. But I don't think that's very likely. I count upon finding that if she's miserable she has at least made HIM so." Henrietta got up; these seemed to her, naturally, very dreadful expectations. She honestly believed she had no desire to see Mr. Osmond unhappy; and indeed he could not be for her the subject of a flight of fancy. She was on the whole rather disappointed in the Countess, whose mind moved in a narrower circle than she had imagined, though with a capacity for coarseness even there. "It will be better if they love each other," she said for edification. "They can't. He can't love any one." "I presumed that was the case. But it only aggravates my fear for Isabel. I shall positively start to-morrow." "Isabel certainly has devotees," said the Countess, smiling very vividly. "I declare I don't pity her." "It may be I can't assist her," Miss Stackpole pursued, as if it were well not to have illusions. "You can have wanted to, at any rate; that's something. I believe that's what you came from America for," the Countess suddenly added. "Yes, I wanted to look after her," Henrietta said serenely. Her hostess stood there smiling at her with small bright eyes and an eager-looking nose; with cheeks into each of which a flush had come. "Ah, that's very pretty c'est bien gentil! Isn't it what they call friendship?" "I don't know what they call it. I thought I had better come." "She's very happy--she's very fortunate," the Countess went on. "She has others besides." And then she broke out passionately. "She's more fortunate than I! I'm as unhappy as she--I've a very bad husband; he's a great deal worse than Osmond. And I've no friends. I thought I had, but they're gone. No one, man or woman, would do for me what you've done for her." Henrietta was touched; there was nature in this bitter effusion. She gazed at her companion a moment, and then: "Look here, Countess, I'll do anything for you that you like. I'll wait over and travel with you." "Never mind," the Countess answered with a quick change of tone: "only describe me in the newspaper!" Henrietta, before leaving her, however, was obliged to make her understand that she could give no fictitious representation of her journey to Rome. Miss Stackpole was a strictly veracious reporter. On quitting her she took the way to the Lung' Arno, the sunny quay beside the yellow river where the bright-faced inns familiar to tourists stand all in a row. She had learned her way before this through the streets of Florence (she was very quick in such matters), and was therefore able to turn with great decision of step out of the little square which forms the approach to the bridge of the Holy Trinity. She proceeded to the left, toward the Ponte Vecchio, and stopped in front of one of the hotels which overlook that delightful structure. Here she drew forth a small pocket-book, took from it a card and a pencil and, after meditating a moment, wrote a few words. It is our privilege to look over her shoulder, and if we exercise it we may read the brief query: "Could I see you this evening for a few moments on a very important matter?" Henrietta added that she should start on the morrow for Rome. Armed with this little document she approached the porter, who now had taken up his station in the doorway, and asked if Mr. Goodwood were at home. The porter replied, as porters always reply, that he had gone out about twenty minutes before; whereupon Henrietta presented her card and begged it might be handed him on his return. She left the inn and pursued her course along the quay to the severe portico of the Uffizi, through which she presently reached the entrance of the famous gallery of paintings. Making her way in, she ascended the high staircase which leads to the upper chambers. The long corridor, glazed on one side and decorated with antique busts, which gives admission to these apartments, presented an empty vista in which the bright winter light twinkled upon the marble floor. The gallery is very cold and during the midwinter weeks but scantily visited. Miss Stackpole may appear more ardent in her quest of artistic beauty than she has hitherto struck us as being, but she had after all her preferences and admirations. One of the latter was the little Correggio of the Tribune--the Virgin kneeling down before the sacred infant, who lies in a litter of straw, and clapping her hands to him while he delightedly laughs and crows. Henrietta had a special devotion to this intimate scene--she thought it the most beautiful picture in the world. On her way, at present, from New York to Rome, she was spending but three days in Florence, and yet reminded herself that they must not elapse without her paying another visit to her favourite work of art. She had a great sense of beauty in all ways, and it involved a good many intellectual obligations. She was about to turn into the Tribune when a gentleman came out of it; whereupon she gave a little exclamation and stood before Caspar Goodwood. "I've just been at your hotel," she said. "I left a card for you." "I'm very much honoured," Caspar Goodwood answered as if he really meant it. "It was not to honour you I did it; I've called on you before and I know you don't like it. It was to talk to you a little about something." He looked for a moment at the buckle in her hat. "I shall be very glad to hear what you wish to say." "You don't like to talk with me," said Henrietta. "But I don't care for that; I don't talk for your amusement. I wrote a word to ask you to come and see me; but since I've met you here this will do as well." "I was just going away," Goodwood stated; "but of course I'll stop." He was civil, but not enthusiastic. Henrietta, however, never looked for great professions, and she was so much in earnest that she was thankful he would listen to her on any terms. She asked him first, none the less, if he had seen all the pictures. "All I want to. I've been here an hour." "I wonder if you've seen my Correggio," said Henrietta. "I came up on purpose to have a look at it." She went into the Tribune and he slowly accompanied her. "I suppose I've seen it, but I didn't know it was yours. I don't remember pictures--especially that sort." She had pointed out her favourite work, and he asked her if it was about Correggio she wished to talk with him. "No," said Henrietta, "it's about something less harmonious!" They had the small, brilliant room, a splendid cabinet of treasures, to themselves; there was only a custode hovering about the Medicean Venus. "I want you to do me a favour," Miss Stackpole went on. Caspar Goodwood frowned a little, but he expressed no embarrassment at the sense of not looking eager. His face was that of a much older man than our earlier friend. "I'm sure it's something I shan't like," he said rather loudly. "No, I don't think you'll like it. If you did it would be no favour." "Well, let's hear it," he went on in the tone of a man quite conscious of his patience. "You may say there's no particular reason why you should do me a favour. Indeed I only know of one: the fact that if you'd let me I'd gladly do you one." Her soft, exact tone, in which there was no attempt at effect, had an extreme sincerity; and her companion, though he presented rather a hard surface, couldn't help being touched by it. When he was touched he rarely showed it, however, by the usual signs; he neither blushed, nor looked away, nor looked conscious. He only fixed his attention more directly; he seemed to consider with added firmness. Henrietta continued therefore disinterestedly, without the sense of an advantage. "I may say now, indeed--it seems a good time--that if I've ever annoyed you (and I think sometimes I have) it's because I knew I was willing to suffer annoyance for you. I've troubled you--doubtless. But I'd TAKE trouble for you." Goodwood hesitated. "You're taking trouble now." "Yes, I am--some. I want you to consider whether it's better on the whole that you should go to Rome." "I thought you were going to say that!" he answered rather artlessly. "You HAVE considered it then?" "Of course I have, very carefully. I've looked all round it. Otherwise I shouldn't have come so far as this. That's what I stayed in Paris two months for. I was thinking it over." "I'm afraid you decided as you liked. You decided it was best because you were so much attracted." "Best for whom, do you mean?" Goodwood demanded. "Well, for yourself first. For Mrs. Osmond next." "Oh, it won't do HER any good! I don't flatter myself that." "Won't it do her some harm?--that's the question." "I don't see what it will matter to her. I'm nothing to Mrs. Osmond. But if you want to know, I do want to see her myself." "Yes, and that's why you go." "Of course it is. Could there be a better reason?" "How will it help you?--that's what I want to know," said Miss Stackpole. "That's just what I can't tell you. It's just what I was thinking about in Paris." "It will make you more discontented." "Why do you say 'more' so?" Goodwood asked rather sternly. "How do you know I'm discontented?" "Well," said Henrietta, hesitating a little, "you seem never to have cared for another." "How do you know what I care for?" he cried with a big blush. "Just now I care to go to Rome." Henrietta looked at him in silence, with a sad yet luminous expression. "Well," she observed at last, "I only wanted to tell you what I think; I had it on my mind. Of course you think it's none of my business. But nothing is any one's business, on that principle." "It's very kind of you; I'm greatly obliged to you for your interest," said Caspar Goodwood. "I shall go to Rome and I shan't hurt Mrs. Osmond." "You won't hurt her, perhaps. But will you help her?--that's the real issue." "Is she in need of help?" he asked slowly, with a penetrating look. "Most women always are," said Henrietta, with conscientious evasiveness and generalising less hopefully than usual. "If you go to Rome," she added, "I hope you'll be a true friend--not a selfish one!" And she turned off and began to look at the pictures. Caspar Goodwood let her go and stood watching her while she wandered round the room; but after a moment he rejoined her. "You've heard something about her here," he then resumed. "I should like to know what you've heard." Henrietta had never prevaricated in her life, and, though on this occasion there might have been a fitness in doing so, she decided, after thinking some minutes, to make no superficial exception. "Yes, I've heard," she answered; "but as I don't want you to go to Rome I won't tell you." "Just as you please. I shall see for myself," he said. Then inconsistently, for him, "You've heard she's unhappy!" he added. "Oh, you won't see that!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I hope not. When do you start?" "To-morrow, by the evening train. And you?" Goodwood hung back; he had no desire to make his journey to Rome in Miss Stackpole's company. His indifference to this advantage was not of the same character as Gilbert Osmond's, but it had at this moment an equal distinctness. It was rather a tribute to Miss Stackpole's virtues than a reference to her faults. He thought her very remarkable, very brilliant, and he had, in theory, no objection to the class to which she belonged. Lady correspondents appeared to him a part of the natural scheme of things in a progressive country, and though he never read their letters he supposed that they ministered somehow to social prosperity. But it was this very eminence of their position that made him wish Miss Stackpole didn't take so much for granted. She took for granted that he was always ready for some allusion to Mrs. Osmond; she had done so when they met in Paris, six weeks after his arrival in Europe, and she had repeated the assumption with every successive opportunity. He had no wish whatever to allude to Mrs. Osmond; he was NOT always thinking of her; he was perfectly sure of that. He was the most reserved, the least colloquial of men, and this enquiring authoress was constantly flashing her lantern into the quiet darkness of his soul. He wished she didn't care so much; he even wished, though it might seem rather brutal of him, that she would leave him alone. In spite of this, however, he just now made other reflections--which show how widely different, in effect, his ill-humour was from Gilbert Osmond's. He desired to go immediately to Rome; he would have liked to go alone, in the night-train. He hated the European railway-carriages, in which one sat for hours in a vise, knee to knee and nose to nose with a foreigner to whom one presently found one's self objecting with all the added vehemence of one's wish to have the window open; and if they were worse at night even than by day, at least at night one could sleep and dream of an American saloon-car. But he couldn't take a night-train when Miss Stackpole was starting in the morning; it struck him that this would be an insult to an unprotected woman. Nor could he wait until after she had gone unless he should wait longer than he had patience for. It wouldn't do to start the next day. She worried him; she oppressed him; the idea of spending the day in a European railway-carriage with her offered a complication of irritations. Still, she was a lady travelling alone; it was his duty to put himself out for her. There could be no two questions about that; it was a perfectly clear necessity. He looked extremely grave for some moments and then said, wholly without the flourish of gallantry but in a tone of extreme distinctness, "Of course if you're going to-morrow I'll go too, as I may be of assistance to you." "Well, Mr. Goodwood, I should hope so!" Henrietta returned imperturbably.

Chapter 44

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-43-45

Countess Gemini wishes she lived in Rome - she finds herself often very bored. She thought of society in Rome as very interesting; it had many celebrities, whereas in Florence, where she lives, there are none. She knew Isabel was having a beautiful time, and that she led a more brilliant life than herself. The Countess did not feel envious of Isabel's personal merits though. She is constantly surprised by the fact that Isabel did not look down on her. Isabel in fact was somewhat scared of her, thinking of her as a "bright rare shell, with a polished surface". The Countess is not often asked to come to Rome because of her brother. Isabel would have liked to have seen her more often. The Countess wishes to know how Isabel is faring against her brother. One day Henrietta Stackpole comes to visit the Countess because the Countess is the only person she knows in Florence at the moment. Henrietta tells the Countess that she remembers the Countess once told her something useful about the position of women in the city of Florence. Henrietta has used this bit of information in a newspaper article. Henrietta informs the Countess that Isabel's husband has tried to break her relations with her dearest friend. She is seeking the Countess's help. Henrietta is going to Rome to see if Isabel now hates her. She has noticed a change in Isabel's letters. The Countess tells Henrietta that Lord Warburton is trying to "make love" to Isabel. Henrietta wants to find out if Isabel is unhappy, but she is afraid Isabel would not tell her. The Countess speculates that she can find out if Mr. Osmond is unhappy - and if he is unhappy, then that would show that Isabel is making him miserable, meaning that she has not allowed herself to be trampled upon by Mr. Osmond. Henrietta dislikes this line of thought. The Countess notes how devoted Isabel's friends are. On her way back to her hotel, Henrietta leaves a card for Caspar Goodwood, who is in Florence. She requests to see him regarding an important matter. When she arrives at her hotel though, Goodwood is already there. She asks him if he will go to Rome. Goodwood says he has been considering it for the past few months. He does not believe it will matter for Isabel, but he wants to go and see him for himself. Henrietta notes that Caspar Goodwood has never cared for anyone but Isabel. Caspar Goodwood wonders why Henrietta Stackpole thinks that Isabel is always foremost on his mind. He believes he is not always thinking of Isabel. He wished that Henrietta would leave him alone. But he realizes that he must offer to go on the same train with her to Rome, if only out of courtesy

In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that "not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/45.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_14_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 45

chapter 45

{"name": "Chapter 45", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-43-45", "summary": "Isabel knows that her husband dislikes her visiting Ralph. She thinks of Ralph though as an \"apostle of freedom\" who allows her to refresh her own mind. However Isabel is very much aware of how her visiting Ralph against the wishes of her husband would not fit the definition of a conventional marriage, and she cowers at the idea that she might end up meeting her husband in open opposition. Sometimes she even Ralph would leave because she is afraid of seeming to repudiate her husband in her defiance. Isabel visits Ralph one day and asks him if Lord Warburton is really in love with Pansy, and Ralph responds that he is not in love with Pansy, implying that he is in love with Isabel. When Ralph treats the matter lightly, Isabel sighs that Ralph gives her no help. Ralph compassionately declares, \"How unhappy you must be. since it is the first time she has ever asked for help. Isabel however quickly recovers and brushes the matter off as a \"domestic embarrassment. Isabel's mask has only dropped for an instant, and Ralph feels disappointed. He tries again and again to make her betray her husband in words. He feels he hears her cry for help in the fact that she is contradicting herself in matters of domestic embarrassments. Ralph then suggests that Osmond will think Isabel is jealous of Pansy. Isabel blushes at the idea. Later that day, Isabel decides to speak to Pansy. She wants to know how Pansy feels about Lord Warburton. She knows that Osmond would have thought this an act of treachery. Isabel tells Pansy that she wants to know what Pansy desires so that Isabel herself may act accordingly. Pansy tells her that all she wants is to marry Mr. Rosier. Isabel says it is impossible, and that she must think of something else. Isabel explains to Pansy the consequences of disobeying her father, and she also tells him that Edward Rosier does not have enough money to marry her. As she explains this, she feels incredibly insincere. She suggests that Osmond might propose another suitor for marriage, Lord Warburton. Pansy smiles with bright assurance: she is sure that Lord Warburton will not ask. Isabel feels awkward at Pansy's assurance, because she feels like she is being accused of dishonesty. Pansy explains that Warburton is kind enough not to ask", "analysis": "In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that \"not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself\" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way."}

I have already had reason to say that Isabel knew her husband to be displeased by the continuance of Ralph's visit to Rome. That knowledge was very present to her as she went to her cousin's hotel the day after she had invited Lord Warburton to give a tangible proof of his sincerity; and at this moment, as at others, she had a sufficient perception of the sources of Osmond's opposition. He wished her to have no freedom of mind, and he knew perfectly well that Ralph was an apostle of freedom. It was just because he was this, Isabel said to herself, that it was a refreshment to go and see him. It will be perceived that she partook of this refreshment in spite of her husband's aversion to it, that is partook of it, as she flattered herself, discreetly. She had not as yet undertaken to act in direct opposition to his wishes; he was her appointed and inscribed master; she gazed at moments with a sort of incredulous blankness at this fact. It weighed upon her imagination, however; constantly present to her mind were all the traditionary decencies and sanctities of marriage. The idea of violating them filled her with shame as well as with dread, for on giving herself away she had lost sight of this contingency in the perfect belief that her husband's intentions were as generous as her own. She seemed to see, none the less, the rapid approach of the day when she should have to take back something she had solemnly bestown. Such a ceremony would be odious and monstrous; she tried to shut her eyes to it meanwhile. Osmond would do nothing to help it by beginning first; he would put that burden upon her to the end. He had not yet formally forbidden her to call upon Ralph; but she felt sure that unless Ralph should very soon depart this prohibition would come. How could poor Ralph depart? The weather as yet made it impossible. She could perfectly understand her husband's wish for the event; she didn't, to be just, see how he COULD like her to be with her cousin. Ralph never said a word against him, but Osmond's sore, mute protest was none the less founded. If he should positively interpose, if he should put forth his authority, she would have to decide, and that wouldn't be easy. The prospect made her heart beat and her cheeks burn, as I say, in advance; there were moments when, in her wish to avoid an open rupture, she found herself wishing Ralph would start even at a risk. And it was of no use that, when catching herself in this state of mind, she called herself a feeble spirit, a coward. It was not that she loved Ralph less, but that almost anything seemed preferable to repudiating the most serious act--the single sacred act--of her life. That appeared to make the whole future hideous. To break with Osmond once would be to break for ever; any open acknowledgement of irreconcilable needs would be an admission that their whole attempt had proved a failure. For them there could be no condonement, no compromise, no easy forgetfulness, no formal readjustment. They had attempted only one thing, but that one thing was to have been exquisite. Once they missed it nothing else would do; there was no conceivable substitute for that success. For the moment, Isabel went to the Hotel de Paris as often as she thought well; the measure of propriety was in the canon of taste, and there couldn't have been a better proof that morality was, so to speak, a matter of earnest appreciation. Isabel's application of that measure had been particularly free to-day, for in addition to the general truth that she couldn't leave Ralph to die alone she had something important to ask of him. This indeed was Gilbert's business as well as her own. She came very soon to what she wished to speak of. "I want you to answer me a question. It's about Lord Warburton." "I think I guess your question," Ralph answered from his arm-chair, out of which his thin legs protruded at greater length than ever. "Very possibly you guess it. Please then answer it." "Oh, I don't say I can do that." "You're intimate with him," she said; "you've a great deal of observation of him." "Very true. But think how he must dissimulate!" "Why should he dissimulate? That's not his nature." "Ah, you must remember that the circumstances are peculiar," said Ralph with an air of private amusement. "To a certain extent--yes. But is he really in love?" "Very much, I think. I can make that out." "Ah!" said Isabel with a certain dryness. Ralph looked at her as if his mild hilarity had been touched with mystification. "You say that as if you were disappointed." Isabel got up, slowly smoothing her gloves and eyeing them thoughtfully. "It's after all no business of mine." "You're very philosophic," said her cousin. And then in a moment: "May I enquire what you're talking about?" Isabel stared. "I thought you knew. Lord Warburton tells me he wants, of all things in the world, to marry Pansy. I've told you that before, without eliciting a comment from you. You might risk one this morning, I think. Is it your belief that he really cares for her?" "Ah, for Pansy, no!" cried Ralph very positively. "But you said just now he did." Ralph waited a moment. "That he cared for you, Mrs. Osmond." Isabel shook her head gravely. "That's nonsense, you know." "Of course it is. But the nonsense is Warburton's, not mine." "That would be very tiresome." She spoke, as she flattered herself, with much subtlety. "I ought to tell you indeed," Ralph went on, "that to me he has denied it." "It's very good of you to talk about it together! Has he also told you that he's in love with Pansy?" "He has spoken very well of her--very properly. He has let me know, of course, that he thinks she would do very well at Lockleigh." "Does he really think it?" "Ah, what Warburton really thinks--!" said Ralph. Isabel fell to smoothing her gloves again; they were long, loose gloves on which she could freely expend herself. Soon, however, she looked up, and then, "Ah, Ralph, you give me no help!" she cried abruptly and passionately. It was the first time she had alluded to the need for help, and the words shook her cousin with their violence. He gave a long murmur of relief, of pity, of tenderness; it seemed to him that at last the gulf between them had been bridged. It was this that made him exclaim in a moment: "How unhappy you must be!" He had no sooner spoken than she recovered her self-possession, and the first use she made of it was to pretend she had not heard him. "When I talk of your helping me I talk great nonsense," she said with a quick smile. "The idea of my troubling you with my domestic embarrassments! The matter's very simple; Lord Warburton must get on by himself. I can't undertake to see him through." "He ought to succeed easily," said Ralph. Isabel debated. "Yes--but he has not always succeeded." "Very true. You know, however, how that always surprised me. Is Miss Osmond capable of giving us a surprise?" "It will come from him, rather. I seem to see that after all he'll let the matter drop." "He'll do nothing dishonourable," said Ralph. "I'm very sure of that. Nothing can be more honourable than for him to leave the poor child alone. She cares for another person, and it's cruel to attempt to bribe her by magnificent offers to give him up." "Cruel to the other person perhaps--the one she cares for. But Warburton isn't obliged to mind that." "No, cruel to her," said Isabel. "She would be very unhappy if she were to allow herself to be persuaded to desert poor Mr. Rosier. That idea seems to amuse you; of course you're not in love with him. He has the merit--for Pansy--of being in love with Pansy. She can see at a glance that Lord Warburton isn't." "He'd be very good to her," said Ralph. "He has been good to her already. Fortunately, however, he has not said a word to disturb her. He could come and bid her good-bye to-morrow with perfect propriety." "How would your husband like that?" "Not at all; and he may be right in not liking it. Only he must obtain satisfaction himself." "Has he commissioned you to obtain it?" Ralph ventured to ask. "It was natural that as an old friend of Lord Warburton's--an older friend, that is, than Gilbert--I should take an interest in his intentions." "Take an interest in his renouncing them, you mean?" Isabel hesitated, frowning a little. "Let me understand. Are you pleading his cause?" "Not in the least. I'm very glad he shouldn't become your stepdaughter's husband. It makes such a very queer relation to you!" said Ralph, smiling. "But I'm rather nervous lest your husband should think you haven't pushed him enough." Isabel found herself able to smile as well as he. "He knows me well enough not to have expected me to push. He himself has no intention of pushing, I presume. I'm not afraid I shall not be able to justify myself!" she said lightly. Her mask had dropped for an instant, but she had put it on again, to Ralph's infinite disappointment. He had caught a glimpse of her natural face and he wished immensely to look into it. He had an almost savage desire to hear her complain of her husband--hear her say that she should be held accountable for Lord Warburton's defection. Ralph was certain that this was her situation; he knew by instinct, in advance, the form that in such an event Osmond's displeasure would take. It could only take the meanest and cruellest. He would have liked to warn Isabel of it--to let her see at least how he judged for her and how he knew. It little mattered that Isabel would know much better; it was for his own satisfaction more than for hers that he longed to show her he was not deceived. He tried and tried again to make her betray Osmond; he felt cold-blooded, cruel, dishonourable almost, in doing so. But it scarcely mattered, for he only failed. What had she come for then, and why did she seem almost to offer him a chance to violate their tacit convention? Why did she ask him his advice if she gave him no liberty to answer her? How could they talk of her domestic embarrassments, as it pleased her humorously to designate them, if the principal factor was not to be mentioned? These contradictions were themselves but an indication of her trouble, and her cry for help, just before, was the only thing he was bound to consider. "You'll be decidedly at variance, all the same," he said in a moment. And as she answered nothing, looking as if she scarce understood, "You'll find yourselves thinking very differently," he continued. "That may easily happen, among the most united couples!" She took up her parasol; he saw she was nervous, afraid of what he might say. "It's a matter we can hardly quarrel about, however," she added; "for almost all the interest is on his side. That's very natural. Pansy's after all his daughter--not mine." And she put out her hand to wish him goodbye. Ralph took an inward resolution that she shouldn't leave him without his letting her know that he knew everything: it seemed too great an opportunity to lose. "Do you know what his interest will make him say?" he asked as he took her hand. She shook her head, rather dryly--not discouragingly--and he went on. "It will make him say that your want of zeal is owing to jealousy." He stopped a moment; her face made him afraid. "To jealousy?" "To jealousy of his daughter." She blushed red and threw back her head. "You're not kind," she said in a voice that he had never heard on her lips. "Be frank with me and you'll see," he answered. But she made no reply; she only pulled her hand out of his own, which he tried still to hold, and rapidly withdrew from the room. She made up her mind to speak to Pansy, and she took an occasion on the same day, going to the girl's room before dinner. Pansy was already dressed; she was always in advance of the time: it seemed to illustrate her pretty patience and the graceful stillness with which she could sit and wait. At present she was seated, in her fresh array, before the bed-room fire; she had blown out her candles on the completion of her toilet, in accordance with the economical habits in which she had been brought up and which she was now more careful than ever to observe; so that the room was lighted only by a couple of logs. The rooms in Palazzo Roccanera were as spacious as they were numerous, and Pansy's virginal bower was an immense chamber with a dark, heavily-timbered ceiling. Its diminutive mistress, in the midst of it, appeared but a speck of humanity, and as she got up, with quick deference, to welcome Isabel, the latter was more than ever struck with her shy sincerity. Isabel had a difficult task--the only thing was to perform it as simply as possible. She felt bitter and angry, but she warned herself against betraying this heat. She was afraid even of looking too grave, or at least too stern; she was afraid of causing alarm. But Pansy seemed to have guessed she had come more or less as a confessor; for after she had moved the chair in which she had been sitting a little nearer to the fire and Isabel had taken her place in it, she kneeled down on a cushion in front of her, looking up and resting her clasped hands on her stepmother's knees. What Isabel wished to do was to hear from her own lips that her mind was not occupied with Lord Warburton; but if she desired the assurance she felt herself by no means at liberty to provoke it. The girl's father would have qualified this as rank treachery; and indeed Isabel knew that if Pansy should display the smallest germ of a disposition to encourage Lord Warburton her own duty was to hold her tongue. It was difficult to interrogate without appearing to suggest; Pansy's supreme simplicity, an innocence even more complete than Isabel had yet judged it, gave to the most tentative enquiry something of the effect of an admonition. As she knelt there in the vague firelight, with her pretty dress dimly shining, her hands folded half in appeal and half in submission, her soft eyes, raised and fixed, full of the seriousness of the situation, she looked to Isabel like a childish martyr decked out for sacrifice and scarcely presuming even to hope to avert it. When Isabel said to her that she had never yet spoken to her of what might have been going on in relation to her getting married, but that her silence had not been indifference or ignorance, had only been the desire to leave her at liberty, Pansy bent forward, raised her face nearer and nearer, and with a little murmur which evidently expressed a deep longing, answered that she had greatly wished her to speak and that she begged her to advise her now. "It's difficult for me to advise you," Isabel returned. "I don't know how I can undertake that. That's for your father; you must get his advice and, above all, you must act on it." At this Pansy dropped her eyes; for a moment she said nothing. "I think I should like your advice better than papa's," she presently remarked. "That's not as it should be," said Isabel coldly. "I love you very much, but your father loves you better." "It isn't because you love me--it's because you're a lady," Pansy answered with the air of saying something very reasonable. "A lady can advise a young girl better than a man." "I advise you then to pay the greatest respect to your father's wishes." "Ah yes," said the child eagerly, "I must do that." "But if I speak to you now about your getting married it's not for your own sake, it's for mine," Isabel went on. "If I try to learn from you what you expect, what you desire, it's only that I may act accordingly." Pansy stared, and then very quickly, "Will you do everything I want?" she asked. "Before I say yes I must know what such things are." Pansy presently told her that the only thing she wanted in life was to marry Mr. Rosier. He had asked her and she had told him she would do so if her papa would allow it. Now her papa wouldn't allow it. "Very well then, it's impossible," Isabel pronounced. "Yes, it's impossible," said Pansy without a sigh and with the same extreme attention in her clear little face. "You must think of something else then," Isabel went on; but Pansy, sighing at this, told her that she had attempted that feat without the least success. "You think of those who think of you," she said with a faint smile. "I know Mr. Rosier thinks of me." "He ought not to," said Isabel loftily. "Your father has expressly requested he shouldn't." "He can't help it, because he knows I think of HIM." "You shouldn't think of him. There's some excuse for him, perhaps; but there's none for you." "I wish you would try to find one," the girl exclaimed as if she were praying to the Madonna. "I should be very sorry to attempt it," said the Madonna with unusual frigidity. "If you knew some one else was thinking of you, would you think of him?" "No one can think of me as Mr. Rosier does; no one has the right." "Ah, but I don't admit Mr. Rosier's right!" Isabel hypocritically cried. Pansy only gazed at her, evidently much puzzled; and Isabel, taking advantage of it, began to represent to her the wretched consequences of disobeying her father. At this Pansy stopped her with the assurance that she would never disobey him, would never marry without his consent. And she announced, in the serenest, simplest tone, that, though she might never marry Mr. Rosier, she would never cease to think of him. She appeared to have accepted the idea of eternal singleness; but Isabel of course was free to reflect that she had no conception of its meaning. She was perfectly sincere; she was prepared to give up her lover. This might seem an important step toward taking another, but for Pansy, evidently, it failed to lead in that direction. She felt no bitterness toward her father; there was no bitterness in her heart; there was only the sweetness of fidelity to Edward Rosier, and a strange, exquisite intimation that she could prove it better by remaining single than even by marrying him. "Your father would like you to make a better marriage," said Isabel. "Mr. Rosier's fortune is not at all large." "How do you mean better--if that would be good enough? And I have myself so little money; why should I look for a fortune?" "Your having so little is a reason for looking for more." With which Isabel was grateful for the dimness of the room; she felt as if her face were hideously insincere. It was what she was doing for Osmond; it was what one had to do for Osmond! Pansy's solemn eyes, fixed on her own, almost embarrassed her; she was ashamed to think she had made so light of the girl's preference. "What should you like me to do?" her companion softly demanded. The question was a terrible one, and Isabel took refuge in timorous vagueness. "To remember all the pleasure it's in your power to give your father." "To marry some one else, you mean--if he should ask me?" For a moment Isabel's answer caused itself to be waited for; then she heard herself utter it in the stillness that Pansy's attention seemed to make. "Yes--to marry some one else." The child's eyes grew more penetrating; Isabel believed she was doubting her sincerity, and the impression took force from her slowly getting up from her cushion. She stood there a moment with her small hands unclasped and then quavered out: "Well, I hope no one will ask me!" "There has been a question of that. Some one else would have been ready to ask you." "I don't think he can have been ready," said Pansy. "It would appear so if he had been sure he'd succeed." "If he had been sure? Then he wasn't ready!" Isabel thought this rather sharp; she also got up and stood a moment looking into the fire. "Lord Warburton has shown you great attention," she resumed; "of course you know it's of him I speak." She found herself, against her expectation, almost placed in the position of justifying herself; which led her to introduce this nobleman more crudely than she had intended. "He has been very kind to me, and I like him very much. But if you mean that he'll propose for me I think you're mistaken." "Perhaps I am. But your father would like it extremely." Pansy shook her head with a little wise smile. "Lord Warburton won't propose simply to please papa." "Your father would like you to encourage him," Isabel went on mechanically. "How can I encourage him?" "I don't know. Your father must tell you that." Pansy said nothing for a moment; she only continued to smile as if she were in possession of a bright assurance. "There's no danger--no danger!" she declared at last. There was a conviction in the way she said this, and a felicity in her believing it, which conduced to Isabel's awkwardness. She felt accused of dishonesty, and the idea was disgusting. To repair her self-respect she was on the point of saying that Lord Warburton had let her know that there was a danger. But she didn't; she only said--in her embarrassment rather wide of the mark--that he surely had been most kind, most friendly. "Yes, he has been very kind," Pansy answered. "That's what I like him for." "Why then is the difficulty so great?" "I've always felt sure of his knowing that I don't want--what did you say I should do?--to encourage him. He knows I don't want to marry, and he wants me to know that he therefore won't trouble me. That's the meaning of his kindness. It's as if he said to me: 'I like you very much, but if it doesn't please you I'll never say it again.' I think that's very kind, very noble," Pansy went on with deepening positiveness. "That is all we've said to each other. And he doesn't care for me either. Ah no, there's no danger." Isabel was touched with wonder at the depths of perception of which this submissive little person was capable; she felt afraid of Pansy's wisdom--began almost to retreat before it. "You must tell your father that," she remarked reservedly. "I think I'd rather not," Pansy unreservedly answered. "You oughtn't to let him have false hopes." "Perhaps not; but it will be good for me that he should. So long as he believes that Lord Warburton intends anything of the kind you say, papa won't propose any one else. And that will be an advantage for me," said the child very lucidly. There was something brilliant in her lucidity, and it made her companion draw a long breath. It relieved this friend of a heavy responsibility. Pansy had a sufficient illumination of her own, and Isabel felt that she herself just now had no light to spare from her small stock. Nevertheless it still clung to her that she must be loyal to Osmond, that she was on her honour in dealing with his daughter. Under the influence of this sentiment she threw out another suggestion before she retired--a suggestion with which it seemed to her that she should have done her utmost. "Your father takes for granted at least that you would like to marry a nobleman." Pansy stood in the open doorway; she had drawn back the curtain for Isabel to pass. "I think Mr. Rosier looks like one!" she remarked very gravely.

Chapter 45

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-43-45

Isabel knows that her husband dislikes her visiting Ralph. She thinks of Ralph though as an "apostle of freedom" who allows her to refresh her own mind. However Isabel is very much aware of how her visiting Ralph against the wishes of her husband would not fit the definition of a conventional marriage, and she cowers at the idea that she might end up meeting her husband in open opposition. Sometimes she even Ralph would leave because she is afraid of seeming to repudiate her husband in her defiance. Isabel visits Ralph one day and asks him if Lord Warburton is really in love with Pansy, and Ralph responds that he is not in love with Pansy, implying that he is in love with Isabel. When Ralph treats the matter lightly, Isabel sighs that Ralph gives her no help. Ralph compassionately declares, "How unhappy you must be. since it is the first time she has ever asked for help. Isabel however quickly recovers and brushes the matter off as a "domestic embarrassment. Isabel's mask has only dropped for an instant, and Ralph feels disappointed. He tries again and again to make her betray her husband in words. He feels he hears her cry for help in the fact that she is contradicting herself in matters of domestic embarrassments. Ralph then suggests that Osmond will think Isabel is jealous of Pansy. Isabel blushes at the idea. Later that day, Isabel decides to speak to Pansy. She wants to know how Pansy feels about Lord Warburton. She knows that Osmond would have thought this an act of treachery. Isabel tells Pansy that she wants to know what Pansy desires so that Isabel herself may act accordingly. Pansy tells her that all she wants is to marry Mr. Rosier. Isabel says it is impossible, and that she must think of something else. Isabel explains to Pansy the consequences of disobeying her father, and she also tells him that Edward Rosier does not have enough money to marry her. As she explains this, she feels incredibly insincere. She suggests that Osmond might propose another suitor for marriage, Lord Warburton. Pansy smiles with bright assurance: she is sure that Lord Warburton will not ask. Isabel feels awkward at Pansy's assurance, because she feels like she is being accused of dishonesty. Pansy explains that Warburton is kind enough not to ask

In Chapter 43, Isabel guesses that Warburton may act or abstain from acting on the basis of her own desires: and it is this that makes her refuse to force him to do so. They exchange a look that is very significant for indicating how psychological motivation of two people with good intentions can play off of each other. The narrator tells us that Isabel sees the gleam of an idea in Warburton's eye that Isabel herself is uneasy. This is a very difficult construction: Isabel knows that Warburton is thinking about Isabel's thoughts and desires. The next sentence is attributed neither to Warburton, nor to Isabel - it is simply a statement that "not for an instant should he suspect her of detecting in his proposal... an implication of increased nearness to herself" . It could either mean that Warburton is trying to prevent Isabel from knowing that he is acting all out of his love for Isabel, or it could mean that Isabel notices Warburton is trying to prevent her from knowing his true motivation. Two people with good intentions, in other words, want to act only when they understand other people's desires and motivations, rather than acting purely out of their own self-interest. This seems to be the version of morality that James is propagating: one must understand oneself within a network of social relations and amidst the motivations of others in order to act in a moral way. The conversation between Countess Gemini and Henrietta Stackpole is one of the few conversations we get between two characters of minor importance. It is comical that these two characters get along: Countess Gemini has been described as a frivolous fabulist, and Henrietta Stackpole is very straightforward and honest. Henrietta Stackpole represents the New World and the possibilities open to modern women, insofar as she has an occupation that enables her to travel, think, observe, and be financially independent. Countess Gemini represents the decadence of the Old World, having married for position and money, she is left without any real values. Ralph and Isabel's conversation in Chapter 45 is significant because it shows Isabel finally beginning to move about the cage which Osmond has built for her: she finally starts to assert her own idea of how one should behave in life, rather than following Osmond's conventional way. Convention dictates that a woman should not oppose her husband's will. Isabel here feels that a heavy obligation. However, she realizes that if she convinces Lord Warburton to propose marriage to Pansy, he will only be doing it out of his love for Isabel. In Isabel's conversation with Pansy, in Chapter 46 then, Isabel seems to realize what more concretely what her morality is: she believes that people should act only from their own ideas and desires, and do so in an open and honest way.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 46

chapter 46

{"name": "Chapter 46", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-46-47", "summary": "Osmond begins to think it is odd that Lord Warburton has not yet written to him to ask for Pansy's hand in marriage. Osmond asks Isabel to remind Lord Warburton to write. Isabel tells him to do so himself. Osmond retorts that Isabel is working against him. Isabel begins to tremble. She notes, \"How much you must want to make sure of him. She feels delight at having wounded him. Lord Warburton suddenly arrives. He announces that he will be leaving soon, and he speaks as if he will not be seeing them for quite some time more. A complex operation occurs in Isabel's mind as Warburton gallantly departs. She listens to Warburton, reading between the lines of what he said. On the other side of her mind, she knows Osmond's emotions. She almost feels sorry for him as his hopes vanish. But she also sees how proportionate his inexpressiveness is to his indifference. As his hopes vanish, she sees how he had the comfort of thinking how well he had kept out of the whole affair, as if he had been indifferent the entire time. Lord Warburton begins to stay and chat for an awkwardly long time. Osmond excuses himself. Pansy is sent into the room, and Warburton tells her that Pansy has a \"guardian angel\". He then retreats. Pansy tells Isabel that she is her guardian angel. Pansy believes that Isabel has asked Osmond to be gentle with her, but Isabel recognizes that Osmond is only gentle because he can never be put in the wrong with his daughter. When Isabel is about to go to bed, Osmond calls her into the drawing room. He asks what she means to do. She responds that she has no intentions. Osmond believes she is trying to humiliate him, playing a very deep game. Isabel tells him that Pansy did not like Lord Warburton, and Osmond simply dismisses this as an unimportant detail", "analysis": "Isabel's conversation with Osmond declares her intention not to help him in his quest to marry Pansy to Lord Warburton -- he accuses her then of taking a direct action against him. This is the beginning of an open confrontation with her husband that she has never before had, and which she had feared at the beginning of Chapter 45 would occur in reference to Ralph. It is a demonstration of a kind of psychological violence that people can do to each other by acting against one another's interests, or ignoring each other's desires. Osmond shows his own limited perspective when he refuses to acknowledge Pansy's own desires as even factoring into her life: he simply believes she should follow convention and try to ambitiously climb as high in society as possible through marriage. Isabel's response to Henrietta's suggestion that she simply leave Osmond implies that Isabel believes in a certain moral standard for her own behavior. Unlike being tied to conventionality, like Osmond's understanding of marriage, Isabel takes responsibility for her actions, believing that she freely made her choice to be with Osmond and that she ought not to hypocritically act in ways contradicting the oath she made. Robert Pippin has understood Isabel to be one of Henry James' best moral heroines, who is asking the question of how she can morally assert her own freedom in life - how she can act independently, taking responsibility for her own actions. She is faced with the modern problem of decaying social relations that are empty formal conventions with no real moral values. She is faced with a problem of meaning that is unstable because nobody shares common meanings. Gilbert Osmond for example sees marriage as a financial transaction, but Isabel marries for her own ideas. Her assertion to Henrietta that she must adhere to the consequences of her actions shows Isabel's commitment to keeping her actions consistent, even in the realization that they are isolating."}

Lord Warburton was not seen in Mrs. Osmond's drawing-room for several days, and Isabel couldn't fail to observe that her husband said nothing to her about having received a letter from him. She couldn't fail to observe, either, that Osmond was in a state of expectancy and that, though it was not agreeable to him to betray it, he thought their distinguished friend kept him waiting quite too long. At the end of four days he alluded to his absence. "What has become of Warburton? What does he mean by treating one like a tradesman with a bill?" "I know nothing about him," Isabel said. "I saw him last Friday at the German ball. He told me then that he meant to write to you." "He has never written to me." "So I supposed, from your not having told me." "He's an odd fish," said Osmond comprehensively. And on Isabel's making no rejoinder he went on to enquire whether it took his lordship five days to indite a letter. "Does he form his words with such difficulty?" "I don't know," Isabel was reduced to replying. "I've never had a letter from him." "Never had a letter? I had an idea that you were at one time in intimate correspondence." She answered that this had not been the case, and let the conversation drop. On the morrow, however, coming into the drawing-room late in the afternoon, her husband took it up again. "When Lord Warburton told you of his intention of writing what did you say to him?" he asked. She just faltered. "I think I told him not to forget it. "Did you believe there was a danger of that?" "As you say, he's an odd fish." "Apparently he has forgotten it," said Osmond. "Be so good as to remind him." "Should you like me to write to him?" she demanded. "I've no objection whatever." "You expect too much of me." "Ah yes, I expect a great deal of you." "I'm afraid I shall disappoint you," said Isabel. "My expectations have survived a good deal of disappointment." "Of course I know that. Think how I must have disappointed myself! If you really wish hands laid on Lord Warburton you must lay them yourself." For a couple of minutes Osmond answered nothing; then he said: "That won't be easy, with you working against me." Isabel started; she felt herself beginning to tremble. He had a way of looking at her through half-closed eyelids, as if he were thinking of her but scarcely saw her, which seemed to her to have a wonderfully cruel intention. It appeared to recognise her as a disagreeable necessity of thought, but to ignore her for the time as a presence. That effect had never been so marked as now. "I think you accuse me of something very base," she returned. "I accuse you of not being trustworthy. If he doesn't after all come forward it will be because you've kept him off. I don't know that it's base: it is the kind of thing a woman always thinks she may do. I've no doubt you've the finest ideas about it." "I told you I would do what I could," she went on. "Yes, that gained you time." It came over her, after he had said this, that she had once thought him beautiful. "How much you must want to make sure of him!" she exclaimed in a moment. She had no sooner spoken than she perceived the full reach of her words, of which she had not been conscious in uttering them. They made a comparison between Osmond and herself, recalled the fact that she had once held this coveted treasure in her hand and felt herself rich enough to let it fall. A momentary exultation took possession of her--a horrible delight in having wounded him; for his face instantly told her that none of the force of her exclamation was lost. He expressed nothing otherwise, however; he only said quickly: "Yes, I want it immensely." At this moment a servant came in to usher a visitor, and he was followed the next by Lord Warburton, who received a visible check on seeing Osmond. He looked rapidly from the master of the house to the mistress; a movement that seemed to denote a reluctance to interrupt or even a perception of ominous conditions. Then he advanced, with his English address, in which a vague shyness seemed to offer itself as an element of good-breeding; in which the only defect was a difficulty in achieving transitions. Osmond was embarrassed; he found nothing to say; but Isabel remarked, promptly enough, that they had been in the act of talking about their visitor. Upon this her husband added that they hadn't known what was become of him--they had been afraid he had gone away. "No," he explained, smiling and looking at Osmond; "I'm only on the point of going." And then he mentioned that he found himself suddenly recalled to England: he should start on the morrow or the day after. "I'm awfully sorry to leave poor Touchett!" he ended by exclaiming. For a moment neither of his companions spoke; Osmond only leaned back in his chair, listening. Isabel didn't look at him; she could only fancy how he looked. Her eyes were on their visitor's face, where they were the more free to rest that those of his lordship carefully avoided them. Yet Isabel was sure that had she met his glance she would have found it expressive. "You had better take poor Touchett with you," she heard her husband say, lightly enough, in a moment. "He had better wait for warmer weather," Lord Warburton answered. "I shouldn't advise him to travel just now." He sat there a quarter of an hour, talking as if he might not soon see them again--unless indeed they should come to England, a course he strongly recommended. Why shouldn't they come to England in the autumn?--that struck him as a very happy thought. It would give him such pleasure to do what he could for them--to have them come and spend a month with him. Osmond, by his own admission, had been to England but once; which was an absurd state of things for a man of his leisure and intelligence. It was just the country for him--he would be sure to get on well there. Then Lord Warburton asked Isabel if she remembered what a good time she had had there and if she didn't want to try it again. Didn't she want to see Gardencourt once more? Gardencourt was really very good. Touchett didn't take proper care of it, but it was the sort of place you could hardly spoil by letting it alone. Why didn't they come and pay Touchett a visit? He surely must have asked them. Hadn't asked them? What an ill-mannered wretch!--and Lord Warburton promised to give the master of Gardencourt a piece of his mind. Of course it was a mere accident; he would be delighted to have them. Spending a month with Touchett and a month with himself, and seeing all the rest of the people they must know there, they really wouldn't find it half bad. Lord Warburton added that it would amuse Miss Osmond as well, who had told him that she had never been to England and whom he had assured it was a country she deserved to see. Of course she didn't need to go to England to be admired--that was her fate everywhere; but she would be an immense success there, she certainly would, if that was any inducement. He asked if she were not at home: couldn't he say good-bye? Not that he liked good-byes--he always funked them. When he left England the other day he hadn't said good-bye to a two-legged creature. He had had half a mind to leave Rome without troubling Mrs. Osmond for a final interview. What could be more dreary than final interviews? One never said the things one wanted--one remembered them all an hour afterwards. On the other hand one usually said a lot of things one shouldn't, simply from a sense that one had to say something. Such a sense was upsetting; it muddled one's wits. He had it at present, and that was the effect it produced on him. If Mrs. Osmond didn't think he spoke as he ought she must set it down to agitation; it was no light thing to part with Mrs. Osmond. He was really very sorry to be going. He had thought of writing to her instead of calling--but he would write to her at any rate, to tell her a lot of things that would be sure to occur to him as soon as he had left the house. They must think seriously about coming to Lockleigh. If there was anything awkward in the conditions of his visit or in the announcement of his departure it failed to come to the surface. Lord Warburton talked about his agitation; but he showed it in no other manner, and Isabel saw that since he had determined on a retreat he was capable of executing it gallantly. She was very glad for him; she liked him quite well enough to wish him to appear to carry a thing off. He would do that on any occasion--not from impudence but simply from the habit of success; and Isabel felt it out of her husband's power to frustrate this faculty. A complex operation, as she sat there, went on in her mind. On one side she listened to their visitor; said what was proper to him; read, more or less, between the lines of what he said himself; and wondered how he would have spoken if he had found her alone. On the other she had a perfect consciousness of Osmond's emotion. She felt almost sorry for him; he was condemned to the sharp pain of loss without the relief of cursing. He had had a great hope, and now, as he saw it vanish into smoke, he was obliged to sit and smile and twirl his thumbs. Not that he troubled himself to smile very brightly; he treated their friend on the whole to as vacant a countenance as so clever a man could very well wear. It was indeed a part of Osmond's cleverness that he could look consummately uncompromised. His present appearance, however, was not a confession of disappointment; it was simply a part of Osmond's habitual system, which was to be inexpressive exactly in proportion as he was really intent. He had been intent on this prize from the first; but he had never allowed his eagerness to irradiate his refined face. He had treated his possible son-in-law as he treated every one--with an air of being interested in him only for his own advantage, not for any profit to a person already so generally, so perfectly provided as Gilbert Osmond. He would give no sign now of an inward rage which was the result of a vanished prospect of gain--not the faintest nor subtlest. Isabel could be sure of that, if it was any satisfaction to her. Strangely, very strangely, it was a satisfaction; she wished Lord Warburton to triumph before her husband, and at the same time she wished her husband to be very superior before Lord Warburton. Osmond, in his way, was admirable; he had, like their visitor, the advantage of an acquired habit. It was not that of succeeding, but it was something almost as good--that of not attempting. As he leaned back in his place, listening but vaguely to the other's friendly offers and suppressed explanations--as if it were only proper to assume that they were addressed essentially to his wife--he had at least (since so little else was left him) the comfort of thinking how well he personally had kept out of it, and how the air of indifference, which he was now able to wear, had the added beauty of consistency. It was something to be able to look as if the leave-taker's movements had no relation to his own mind. The latter did well, certainly; but Osmond's performance was in its very nature more finished. Lord Warburton's position was after all an easy one; there was no reason in the world why he shouldn't leave Rome. He had had beneficent inclinations, but they had stopped short of fruition; he had never committed himself, and his honour was safe. Osmond appeared to take but a moderate interest in the proposal that they should go and stay with him and in his allusion to the success Pansy might extract from their visit. He murmured a recognition, but left Isabel to say that it was a matter requiring grave consideration. Isabel, even while she made this remark, could see the great vista which had suddenly opened out in her husband's mind, with Pansy's little figure marching up the middle of it. Lord Warburton had asked leave to bid good-bye to Pansy, but neither Isabel nor Osmond had made any motion to send for her. He had the air of giving out that his visit must be short; he sat on a small chair, as if it were only for a moment, keeping his hat in his hand. But he stayed and stayed; Isabel wondered what he was waiting for. She believed it was not to see Pansy; she had an impression that on the whole he would rather not see Pansy. It was of course to see herself alone--he had something to say to her. Isabel had no great wish to hear it, for she was afraid it would be an explanation, and she could perfectly dispense with explanations. Osmond, however, presently got up, like a man of good taste to whom it had occurred that so inveterate a visitor might wish to say just the last word of all to the ladies. "I've a letter to write before dinner," he said; "you must excuse me. I'll see if my daughter's disengaged, and if she is she shall know you're here. Of course when you come to Rome you'll always look us up. Mrs. Osmond will talk to you about the English expedition: she decides all those things." The nod with which, instead of a hand-shake, he wound up this little speech was perhaps rather a meagre form of salutation; but on the whole it was all the occasion demanded. Isabel reflected that after he left the room Lord Warburton would have no pretext for saying, "Your husband's very angry"; which would have been extremely disagreeable to her. Nevertheless, if he had done so, she would have said: "Oh, don't be anxious. He doesn't hate you: it's me that he hates!" It was only when they had been left alone together that her friend showed a certain vague awkwardness--sitting down in another chair, handling two or three of the objects that were near him. "I hope he'll make Miss Osmond come," he presently remarked. "I want very much to see her." "I'm glad it's the last time," said Isabel. "So am I. She doesn't care for me." "No, she doesn't care for you." "I don't wonder at it," he returned. Then he added with inconsequence: "You'll come to England, won't you?" "I think we had better not." "Ah, you owe me a visit. Don't you remember that you were to have come to Lockleigh once, and you never did?" "Everything's changed since then," said Isabel. "Not changed for the worse, surely--as far as we're concerned. To see you under my roof"--and he hung fire but an instant--"would be a great satisfaction." She had feared an explanation; but that was the only one that occurred. They talked a little of Ralph, and in another moment Pansy came in, already dressed for dinner and with a little red spot in either cheek. She shook hands with Lord Warburton and stood looking up into his face with a fixed smile--a smile that Isabel knew, though his lordship probably never suspected it, to be near akin to a burst of tears. "I'm going away," he said. "I want to bid you good-bye." "Good-bye, Lord Warburton." Her voice perceptibly trembled. "And I want to tell you how much I wish you may be very happy." "Thank you, Lord Warburton," Pansy answered. He lingered a moment and gave a glance at Isabel. "You ought to be very happy--you've got a guardian angel." "I'm sure I shall be happy," said Pansy in the tone of a person whose certainties were always cheerful. "Such a conviction as that will take you a great way. But if it should ever fail you, remember--remember--" And her interlocutor stammered a little. "Think of me sometimes, you know!" he said with a vague laugh. Then he shook hands with Isabel in silence, and presently he was gone. When he had left the room she expected an effusion of tears from her stepdaughter; but Pansy in fact treated her to something very different. "I think you ARE my guardian angel!" she exclaimed very sweetly. Isabel shook her head. "I'm not an angel of any kind. I'm at the most your good friend." "You're a very good friend then--to have asked papa to be gentle with me." "I've asked your father nothing," said Isabel, wondering. "He told me just now to come to the drawing-room, and then he gave me a very kind kiss." "Ah," said Isabel, "that was quite his own idea!" She recognised the idea perfectly; it was very characteristic, and she was to see a great deal more of it. Even with Pansy he couldn't put himself the least in the wrong. They were dining out that day, and after their dinner they went to another entertainment; so that it was not till late in the evening that Isabel saw him alone. When Pansy kissed him before going to bed he returned her embrace with even more than his usual munificence, and Isabel wondered if he meant it as a hint that his daughter had been injured by the machinations of her stepmother. It was a partial expression, at any rate, of what he continued to expect of his wife. She was about to follow Pansy, but he remarked that he wished she would remain; he had something to say to her. Then he walked about the drawing-room a little, while she stood waiting in her cloak. "I don't understand what you wish to do," he said in a moment. "I should like to know--so that I may know how to act." "Just now I wish to go to bed. I'm very tired." "Sit down and rest; I shall not keep you long. Not there--take a comfortable place." And he arranged a multitude of cushions that were scattered in picturesque disorder upon a vast divan. This was not, however, where she seated herself; she dropped into the nearest chair. The fire had gone out; the lights in the great room were few. She drew her cloak about her; she felt mortally cold. "I think you're trying to humiliate me," Osmond went on. "It's a most absurd undertaking." "I haven't the least idea what you mean," she returned. "You've played a very deep game; you've managed it beautifully." "What is it that I've managed?" "You've not quite settled it, however; we shall see him again." And he stopped in front of her, with his hands in his pockets, looking down at her thoughtfully, in his usual way, which seemed meant to let her know that she was not an object, but only a rather disagreeable incident, of thought. "If you mean that Lord Warburton's under an obligation to come back you're wrong," Isabel said. "He's under none whatever." "That's just what I complain of. But when I say he'll come back I don't mean he'll come from a sense of duty." "There's nothing else to make him. I think he has quite exhausted Rome." "Ah no, that's a shallow judgement. Rome's inexhaustible." And Osmond began to walk about again. "However, about that perhaps there's no hurry," he added. "It's rather a good idea of his that we should go to England. If it were not for the fear of finding your cousin there I think I should try to persuade you." "It may be that you'll not find my cousin," said Isabel. "I should like to be sure of it. However, I shall be as sure as possible. At the same time I should like to see his house, that you told me so much about at one time: what do you call it?--Gardencourt. It must be a charming thing. And then, you know, I've a devotion to the memory of your uncle: you made me take a great fancy to him. I should like to see where he lived and died. That indeed is a detail. Your friend was right. Pansy ought to see England." "I've no doubt she would enjoy it," said Isabel. "But that's a long time hence; next autumn's far off," Osmond continued; "and meantime there are things that more nearly interest us. Do you think me so very proud?" he suddenly asked. "I think you very strange." "You don't understand me." "No, not even when you insult me." "I don't insult you; I'm incapable of it. I merely speak of certain facts, and if the allusion's an injury to you the fault's not mine. It's surely a fact that you have kept all this matter quite in your own hands." "Are you going back to Lord Warburton?" Isabel asked. "I'm very tired of his name." "You shall hear it again before we've done with it." She had spoken of his insulting her, but it suddenly seemed to her that this ceased to be a pain. He was going down--down; the vision of such a fall made her almost giddy: that was the only pain. He was too strange, too different; he didn't touch her. Still, the working of his morbid passion was extraordinary, and she felt a rising curiosity to know in what light he saw himself justified. "I might say to you that I judge you've nothing to say to me that's worth hearing," she returned in a moment. "But I should perhaps be wrong. There's a thing that would be worth my hearing--to know in the plainest words of what it is you accuse me." "Of having prevented Pansy's marriage to Warburton. Are those words plain enough?" "On the contrary, I took a great interest in it. I told you so; and when you told me that you counted on me--that I think was what you said--I accepted the obligation. I was a fool to do so, but I did it." "You pretended to do it, and you even pretended reluctance to make me more willing to trust you. Then you began to use your ingenuity to get him out of the way." "I think I see what you mean," said Isabel. "Where's the letter you told me he had written me?" her husband demanded. "I haven't the least idea; I haven't asked him." "You stopped it on the way," said Osmond. Isabel slowly got up; standing there in her white cloak, which covered her to her feet, she might have represented the angel of disdain, first cousin to that of pity. "Oh, Gilbert, for a man who was so fine--!" she exclaimed in a long murmur. "I was never so fine as you. You've done everything you wanted. You've got him out of the way without appearing to do so, and you've placed me in the position in which you wished to see me--that of a man who has tried to marry his daughter to a lord, but has grotesquely failed." "Pansy doesn't care for him. She's very glad he's gone," Isabel said. "That has nothing to do with the matter." "And he doesn't care for Pansy." "That won't do; you told me he did. I don't know why you wanted this particular satisfaction," Osmond continued; "you might have taken some other. It doesn't seem to me that I've been presumptuous--that I have taken too much for granted. I've been very modest about it, very quiet. The idea didn't originate with me. He began to show that he liked her before I ever thought of it. I left it all to you." "Yes, you were very glad to leave it to me. After this you must attend to such things yourself." He looked at her a moment; then he turned away. "I thought you were very fond of my daughter." "I've never been more so than to-day." "Your affection is attended with immense limitations. However, that perhaps is natural." "Is this all you wished to say to me?" Isabel asked, taking a candle that stood on one of the tables. "Are you satisfied? Am I sufficiently disappointed?" "I don't think that on the whole you're disappointed. You've had another opportunity to try to stupefy me." "It's not that. It's proved that Pansy can aim high." "Poor little Pansy!" said Isabel as she turned away with her candle.

Chapter 46

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-46-47

Osmond begins to think it is odd that Lord Warburton has not yet written to him to ask for Pansy's hand in marriage. Osmond asks Isabel to remind Lord Warburton to write. Isabel tells him to do so himself. Osmond retorts that Isabel is working against him. Isabel begins to tremble. She notes, "How much you must want to make sure of him. She feels delight at having wounded him. Lord Warburton suddenly arrives. He announces that he will be leaving soon, and he speaks as if he will not be seeing them for quite some time more. A complex operation occurs in Isabel's mind as Warburton gallantly departs. She listens to Warburton, reading between the lines of what he said. On the other side of her mind, she knows Osmond's emotions. She almost feels sorry for him as his hopes vanish. But she also sees how proportionate his inexpressiveness is to his indifference. As his hopes vanish, she sees how he had the comfort of thinking how well he had kept out of the whole affair, as if he had been indifferent the entire time. Lord Warburton begins to stay and chat for an awkwardly long time. Osmond excuses himself. Pansy is sent into the room, and Warburton tells her that Pansy has a "guardian angel". He then retreats. Pansy tells Isabel that she is her guardian angel. Pansy believes that Isabel has asked Osmond to be gentle with her, but Isabel recognizes that Osmond is only gentle because he can never be put in the wrong with his daughter. When Isabel is about to go to bed, Osmond calls her into the drawing room. He asks what she means to do. She responds that she has no intentions. Osmond believes she is trying to humiliate him, playing a very deep game. Isabel tells him that Pansy did not like Lord Warburton, and Osmond simply dismisses this as an unimportant detail

Isabel's conversation with Osmond declares her intention not to help him in his quest to marry Pansy to Lord Warburton -- he accuses her then of taking a direct action against him. This is the beginning of an open confrontation with her husband that she has never before had, and which she had feared at the beginning of Chapter 45 would occur in reference to Ralph. It is a demonstration of a kind of psychological violence that people can do to each other by acting against one another's interests, or ignoring each other's desires. Osmond shows his own limited perspective when he refuses to acknowledge Pansy's own desires as even factoring into her life: he simply believes she should follow convention and try to ambitiously climb as high in society as possible through marriage. Isabel's response to Henrietta's suggestion that she simply leave Osmond implies that Isabel believes in a certain moral standard for her own behavior. Unlike being tied to conventionality, like Osmond's understanding of marriage, Isabel takes responsibility for her actions, believing that she freely made her choice to be with Osmond and that she ought not to hypocritically act in ways contradicting the oath she made. Robert Pippin has understood Isabel to be one of Henry James' best moral heroines, who is asking the question of how she can morally assert her own freedom in life - how she can act independently, taking responsibility for her own actions. She is faced with the modern problem of decaying social relations that are empty formal conventions with no real moral values. She is faced with a problem of meaning that is unstable because nobody shares common meanings. Gilbert Osmond for example sees marriage as a financial transaction, but Isabel marries for her own ideas. Her assertion to Henrietta that she must adhere to the consequences of her actions shows Isabel's commitment to keeping her actions consistent, even in the realization that they are isolating.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/47.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_15_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 47

chapter 47

{"name": "Chapter 47", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-46-47", "summary": "During a period of Madame Merle's absence from Rome, Isabel is haunted by strange visions at night of her husband and Madame Merle together. She feels her imagination arrive at an elusive point only to be checked by a nameless dread. Henrietta arrives in Rome and visits Isabel. She informs her that Caspar Goodwood is also in Rome, but Goodwood delays in coming to see Isabel. Sometimes Isabel believes she sees him on the street. Isabel feels she must put her own spiritual affairs in order, but she is afraid that if Caspar comes to see her he will know how much such affairs are in disarray. Isabel lets Henrietta know how unhappy she is, and Henrietta responds by asking her why she does not leave. Isabel declares that she must accept her choice, because she made it freely. Henrietta shows herself to be a good friend who has made the journey from America simply because she knows her friend Isabel is unhappy. Henrietta tells Isabel about Mr. Bantling's journey to America and how he was received there as a \"simple\" man. In this chapter, we get a sense of the various ways Isabel's friends constellate with each other and with her husband. Pansy finds Henrietta fascinating, and Henrietta thinks that Pansy is suspicious, remembering everything she says. Osmond dislikes Ralph, believing he is pompous. He thinks his only redeeming quality is the fact that he is ill, but thinks he ought to prove how ill he is by dying. He is offended by Lord Warburton's behavior, comparing him to a man that has come to buy a house, gone and looked around in each and every room, only to escape having not paid for any rent. Osmond likens Henrietta to a \"steel pen\" - she is sharp and grating, and he finds her simply to be a \"monster\". Caspar finally visits Isabel and surprisingly he and Osmond get along quite well. When Osmond learns that Caspar proposed marriage, he is surprised that Isabel did not accept, saying it would have been like living under a \"tall belfry\". Caspar comes to Isabel's Thursday evening gatherings regularly. Isabel asks Caspar to visit Ralph as a favor to herself. When Caspar goes to visit Ralph, he finds Henrietta has also been keeping Ralph company. Ralph and Henrietta jokingly have declared each other enemies, and of course they seem to accord in nothing. Isabel's plan is to have Caspar accompany Ralph back to Gardencourt. This would be convenient too because it would give Caspar an occupation away from herself. She believes it would be fitting if Ralph would take his final resting place in his own home. She associates Gardencourt with a sacred time in her life", "analysis": "Isabel's conversation with Osmond declares her intention not to help him in his quest to marry Pansy to Lord Warburton -- he accuses her then of taking a direct action against him. This is the beginning of an open confrontation with her husband that she has never before had, and which she had feared at the beginning of Chapter 45 would occur in reference to Ralph. It is a demonstration of a kind of psychological violence that people can do to each other by acting against one another's interests, or ignoring each other's desires. Osmond shows his own limited perspective when he refuses to acknowledge Pansy's own desires as even factoring into her life: he simply believes she should follow convention and try to ambitiously climb as high in society as possible through marriage. Isabel's response to Henrietta's suggestion that she simply leave Osmond implies that Isabel believes in a certain moral standard for her own behavior. Unlike being tied to conventionality, like Osmond's understanding of marriage, Isabel takes responsibility for her actions, believing that she freely made her choice to be with Osmond and that she ought not to hypocritically act in ways contradicting the oath she made. Robert Pippin has understood Isabel to be one of Henry James' best moral heroines, who is asking the question of how she can morally assert her own freedom in life - how she can act independently, taking responsibility for her own actions. She is faced with the modern problem of decaying social relations that are empty formal conventions with no real moral values. She is faced with a problem of meaning that is unstable because nobody shares common meanings. Gilbert Osmond for example sees marriage as a financial transaction, but Isabel marries for her own ideas. Her assertion to Henrietta that she must adhere to the consequences of her actions shows Isabel's commitment to keeping her actions consistent, even in the realization that they are isolating."}

It was from Henrietta Stackpole that she learned how Caspar Goodwood had come to Rome; an event that took place three days after Lord Warburton's departure. This latter fact had been preceded by an incident of some importance to Isabel--the temporary absence, once again, of Madame Merle, who had gone to Naples to stay with a friend, the happy possessor of a villa at Posilippo. Madame Merle had ceased to minister to Isabel's happiness, who found herself wondering whether the most discreet of women might not also by chance be the most dangerous. Sometimes, at night, she had strange visions; she seemed to see her husband and her friend--his friend--in dim, indistinguishable combination. It seemed to her that she had not done with her; this lady had something in reserve. Isabel's imagination applied itself actively to this elusive point, but every now and then it was checked by a nameless dread, so that when the charming woman was away from Rome she had almost a consciousness of respite. She had already learned from Miss Stackpole that Caspar Goodwood was in Europe, Henrietta having written to make it known to her immediately after meeting him in Paris. He himself never wrote to Isabel, and though he was in Europe she thought it very possible he might not desire to see her. Their last interview, before her marriage, had had quite the character of a complete rupture; if she remembered rightly he had said he wished to take his last look at her. Since then he had been the most discordant survival of her earlier time--the only one in fact with which a permanent pain was associated. He had left her that morning with a sense of the most superfluous of shocks: it was like a collision between vessels in broad daylight. There had been no mist, no hidden current to excuse it, and she herself had only wished to steer wide. He had bumped against her prow, however, while her hand was on the tiller, and--to complete the metaphor--had given the lighter vessel a strain which still occasionally betrayed itself in a faint creaking. It had been horrid to see him, because he represented the only serious harm that (to her belief) she had ever done in the world: he was the only person with an unsatisfied claim on her. She had made him unhappy, she couldn't help it; and his unhappiness was a grim reality. She had cried with rage, after he had left her, at--she hardly knew what: she tried to think it had been at his want of consideration. He had come to her with his unhappiness when her own bliss was so perfect; he had done his best to darken the brightness of those pure rays. He had not been violent, and yet there had been a violence in the impression. There had been a violence at any rate in something somewhere; perhaps it was only in her own fit of weeping and in that after-sense of the same which had lasted three or four days. The effect of his final appeal had in short faded away, and all the first year of her marriage he had dropped out of her books. He was a thankless subject of reference; it was disagreeable to have to think of a person who was sore and sombre about you and whom you could yet do nothing to relieve. It would have been different if she had been able to doubt, even a little, of his unreconciled state, as she doubted of Lord Warburton's; unfortunately it was beyond question, and this aggressive, uncompromising look of it was just what made it unattractive. She could never say to herself that here was a sufferer who had compensations, as she was able to say in the case of her English suitor. She had no faith in Mr. Goodwood's compensations and no esteem for them. A cotton factory was not a compensation for anything--least of all for having failed to marry Isabel Archer. And yet, beyond that, she hardly knew what he had--save of course his intrinsic qualities. Oh, he was intrinsic enough; she never thought of his even looking for artificial aids. If he extended his business--that, to the best of her belief, was the only form exertion could take with him--it would be because it was an enterprising thing, or good for the business; not in the least because he might hope it would overlay the past. This gave his figure a kind of bareness and bleakness which made the accident of meeting it in memory or in apprehension a peculiar concussion; it was deficient in the social drapery commonly muffling, in an overcivilized age, the sharpness of human contacts. His perfect silence, moreover, the fact that she never heard from him and very seldom heard any mention of him, deepened this impression of his loneliness. She asked Lily for news of him, from time to time; but Lily knew nothing of Boston--her imagination was all bounded on the east by Madison Avenue. As time went on Isabel had thought of him oftener, and with fewer restrictions; she had had more than once the idea of writing to him. She had never told her husband about him--never let Osmond know of his visits to her in Florence; a reserve not dictated in the early period by a want of confidence in Osmond, but simply by the consideration that the young man's disappointment was not her secret but his own. It would be wrong of her, she had believed, to convey it to another, and Mr. Goodwood's affairs could have, after all, little interest for Gilbert. When it had come to the point she had never written to him; it seemed to her that, considering his grievance, the least she could do was to let him alone. Nevertheless she would have been glad to be in some way nearer to him. It was not that it ever occurred to her that she might have married him; even after the consequences of her actual union had grown vivid to her that particular reflection, though she indulged in so many, had not had the assurance to present itself. But on finding herself in trouble he had become a member of that circle of things with which she wished to set herself right. I have mentioned how passionately she needed to feel that her unhappiness should not have come to her through her own fault. She had no near prospect of dying, and yet she wished to make her peace with the world--to put her spiritual affairs in order. It came back to her from time to time that there was an account still to be settled with Caspar, and she saw herself disposed or able to settle it to-day on terms easier for him than ever before. Still, when she learned he was coming to Rome she felt all afraid; it would be more disagreeable for him than for any one else to make out--since he WOULD make it out, as over a falsified balance-sheet or something of that sort--the intimate disarray of her affairs. Deep in her breast she believed that he had invested his all in her happiness, while the others had invested only a part. He was one more person from whom she should have to conceal her stress. She was reassured, however, after he arrived in Rome, for he spent several days without coming to see her. Henrietta Stackpole, it may well be imagined, was more punctual, and Isabel was largely favoured with the society of her friend. She threw herself into it, for now that she had made such a point of keeping her conscience clear, that was one way of proving she had not been superficial--the more so as the years, in their flight, had rather enriched than blighted those peculiarities which had been humorously criticised by persons less interested than Isabel, and which were still marked enough to give loyalty a spice of heroism. Henrietta was as keen and quick and fresh as ever, and as neat and bright and fair. Her remarkably open eyes, lighted like great glazed railway-stations, had put up no shutters; her attire had lost none of its crispness, her opinions none of their national reference. She was by no means quite unchanged, however it struck Isabel she had grown vague. Of old she had never been vague; though undertaking many enquiries at once, she had managed to be entire and pointed about each. She had a reason for everything she did; she fairly bristled with motives. Formerly, when she came to Europe it was because she wished to see it, but now, having already seen it, she had no such excuse. She didn't for a moment pretend that the desire to examine decaying civilisations had anything to do with her present enterprise; her journey was rather an expression of her independence of the old world than of a sense of further obligations to it. "It's nothing to come to Europe," she said to Isabel; "it doesn't seem to me one needs so many reasons for that. It is something to stay at home; this is much more important." It was not therefore with a sense of doing anything very important that she treated herself to another pilgrimage to Rome; she had seen the place before and carefully inspected it; her present act was simply a sign of familiarity, of her knowing all about it, of her having as good a right as any one else to be there. This was all very well, and Henrietta was restless; she had a perfect right to be restless too, if one came to that. But she had after all a better reason for coming to Rome than that she cared for it so little. Her friend easily recognised it, and with it the worth of the other's fidelity. She had crossed the stormy ocean in midwinter because she had guessed that Isabel was sad. Henrietta guessed a great deal, but she had never guessed so happily as that. Isabel's satisfactions just now were few, but even if they had been more numerous there would still have been something of individual joy in her sense of being justified in having always thought highly of Henrietta. She had made large concessions with regard to her, and had yet insisted that, with all abatements, she was very valuable. It was not her own triumph, however, that she found good; it was simply the relief of confessing to this confidant, the first person to whom she had owned it, that she was not in the least at her ease. Henrietta had herself approached this point with the smallest possible delay, and had accused her to her face of being wretched. She was a woman, she was a sister; she was not Ralph, nor Lord Warburton, nor Caspar Goodwood, and Isabel could speak. "Yes, I'm wretched," she said very mildly. She hated to hear herself say it; she tried to say it as judicially as possible. "What does he do to you?" Henrietta asked, frowning as if she were enquiring into the operations of a quack doctor. "He does nothing. But he doesn't like me." "He's very hard to please!" cried Miss Stackpole. "Why don't you leave him?" "I can't change that way," Isabel said. "Why not, I should like to know? You won't confess that you've made a mistake. You're too proud." "I don't know whether I'm too proud. But I can't publish my mistake. I don't think that's decent. I'd much rather die." "You won't think so always," said Henrietta. "I don't know what great unhappiness might bring me to; but it seems to me I shall always be ashamed. One must accept one's deeds. I married him before all the world; I was perfectly free; it was impossible to do anything more deliberate. One can't change that way," Isabel repeated. "You HAVE changed, in spite of the impossibility. I hope you don't mean to say you like him." Isabel debated. "No, I don't like him. I can tell you, because I'm weary of my secret. But that's enough; I can't announce it on the housetops." Henrietta gave a laugh. "Don't you think you're rather too considerate?" "It's not of him that I'm considerate--it's of myself!" Isabel answered. It was not surprising Gilbert Osmond should not have taken comfort in Miss Stackpole; his instinct had naturally set him in opposition to a young lady capable of advising his wife to withdraw from the conjugal roof. When she arrived in Rome he had said to Isabel that he hoped she would leave her friend the interviewer alone; and Isabel had answered that he at least had nothing to fear from her. She said to Henrietta that as Osmond didn't like her she couldn't invite her to dine, but they could easily see each other in other ways. Isabel received Miss Stackpole freely in her own sitting-room, and took her repeatedly to drive, face to face with Pansy, who, bending a little forward, on the opposite seat of the carriage, gazed at the celebrated authoress with a respectful attention which Henrietta occasionally found irritating. She complained to Isabel that Miss Osmond had a little look as if she should remember everything one said. "I don't want to be remembered that way," Miss Stackpole declared; "I consider that my conversation refers only to the moment, like the morning papers. Your stepdaughter, as she sits there, looks as if she kept all the back numbers and would bring them out some day against me." She could not teach herself to think favourably of Pansy, whose absence of initiative, of conversation, of personal claims, seemed to her, in a girl of twenty, unnatural and even uncanny. Isabel presently saw that Osmond would have liked her to urge a little the cause of her friend, insist a little upon his receiving her, so that he might appear to suffer for good manners' sake. Her immediate acceptance of his objections put him too much in the wrong--it being in effect one of the disadvantages of expressing contempt that you cannot enjoy at the same time the credit of expressing sympathy. Osmond held to his credit, and yet he held to his objections--all of which were elements difficult to reconcile. The right thing would have been that Miss Stackpole should come to dine at Palazzo Roccanera once or twice, so that (in spite of his superficial civility, always so great) she might judge for herself how little pleasure it gave him. From the moment, however, that both the ladies were so unaccommodating, there was nothing for Osmond but to wish the lady from New York would take herself off. It was surprising how little satisfaction he got from his wife's friends; he took occasion to call Isabel's attention to it. "You're certainly not fortunate in your intimates; I wish you might make a new collection," he said to her one morning in reference to nothing visible at the moment, but in a tone of ripe reflection which deprived the remark of all brutal abruptness. "It's as if you had taken the trouble to pick out the people in the world that I have least in common with. Your cousin I have always thought a conceited ass--besides his being the most ill-favoured animal I know. Then it's insufferably tiresome that one can't tell him so; one must spare him on account of his health. His health seems to me the best part of him; it gives him privileges enjoyed by no one else. If he's so desperately ill there's only one way to prove it; but he seems to have no mind for that. I can't say much more for the great Warburton. When one really thinks of it, the cool insolence of that performance was something rare! He comes and looks at one's daughter as if she were a suite of apartments; he tries the door-handles and looks out of the windows, raps on the walls and almost thinks he'll take the place. Will you be so good as to draw up a lease? Then, on the whole, he decides that the rooms are too small; he doesn't think he could live on a third floor; he must look out for a piano nobile. And he goes away after having got a month's lodging in the poor little apartment for nothing. Miss Stackpole, however, is your most wonderful invention. She strikes me as a kind of monster. One hasn't a nerve in one's body that she doesn't set quivering. You know I never have admitted that she's a woman. Do you know what she reminds me of? Of a new steel pen--the most odious thing in nature. She talks as a steel pen writes; aren't her letters, by the way, on ruled paper? She thinks and moves and walks and looks exactly as she talks. You may say that she doesn't hurt me, inasmuch as I don't see her. I don't see her, but I hear her; I hear her all day long. Her voice is in my ears; I can't get rid of it. I know exactly what she says, and every inflexion of the tone in which she says it. She says charming things about me, and they give you great comfort. I don't like at all to think she talks about me--I feel as I should feel if I knew the footman were wearing my hat." Henrietta talked about Gilbert Osmond, as his wife assured him, rather less than he suspected. She had plenty of other subjects, in two of which the reader may be supposed to be especially interested. She let her friend know that Caspar Goodwood had discovered for himself that she was unhappy, though indeed her ingenuity was unable to suggest what comfort he hoped to give her by coming to Rome and yet not calling on her. They met him twice in the street, but he had no appearance of seeing them; they were driving, and he had a habit of looking straight in front of him, as if he proposed to take in but one object at a time. Isabel could have fancied she had seen him the day before; it must have been with just that face and step that he had walked out of Mrs. Touchett's door at the close of their last interview. He was dressed just as he had been dressed on that day, Isabel remembered the colour of his cravat; and yet in spite of this familiar look there was a strangeness in his figure too, something that made her feel it afresh to be rather terrible he should have come to Rome. He looked bigger and more overtopping than of old, and in those days he certainly reached high enough. She noticed that the people whom he passed looked back after him; but he went straight forward, lifting above them a face like a February sky. Miss Stackpole's other topic was very different; she gave Isabel the latest news about Mr. Bantling. He had been out in the United States the year before, and she was happy to say she had been able to show him considerable attention. She didn't know how much he had enjoyed it, but she would undertake to say it had done him good; he wasn't the same man when he left as he had been when he came. It had opened his eyes and shown him that England wasn't everything. He had been very much liked in most places, and thought extremely simple--more simple than the English were commonly supposed to be. There were people who had thought him affected; she didn't know whether they meant that his simplicity was an affectation. Some of his questions were too discouraging; he thought all the chambermaids were farmers' daughters--or all the farmers' daughters were chambermaids--she couldn't exactly remember which. He hadn't seemed able to grasp the great school system; it had been really too much for him. On the whole he had behaved as if there were too much of everything--as if he could only take in a small part. The part he had chosen was the hotel system and the river navigation. He had seemed really fascinated with the hotels; he had a photograph of every one he had visited. But the river steamers were his principal interest; he wanted to do nothing but sail on the big boats. They had travelled together from New York to Milwaukee, stopping at the most interesting cities on the route; and whenever they started afresh he had wanted to know if they could go by the steamer. He seemed to have no idea of geography--had an impression that Baltimore was a Western city and was perpetually expecting to arrive at the Mississippi. He appeared never to have heard of any river in America but the Mississippi and was unprepared to recognise the existence of the Hudson, though obliged to confess at last that it was fully equal to the Rhine. They had spent some pleasant hours in the palace-cars; he was always ordering ice-cream from the coloured man. He could never get used to that idea--that you could get ice-cream in the cars. Of course you couldn't, nor fans, nor candy, nor anything in the English cars! He found the heat quite overwhelming, and she had told him she indeed expected it was the biggest he had ever experienced. He was now in England, hunting--"hunting round" Henrietta called it. These amusements were those of the American red men; we had left that behind long ago, the pleasures of the chase. It seemed to be generally believed in England that we wore tomahawks and feathers; but such a costume was more in keeping with English habits. Mr. Bantling would not have time to join her in Italy, but when she should go to Paris again he expected to come over. He wanted very much to see Versailles again; he was very fond of the ancient regime. They didn't agree about that, but that was what she liked Versailles for, that you could see the ancient regime had been swept away. There were no dukes and marquises there now; she remembered on the contrary one day when there were five American families, walking all round. Mr. Bantling was very anxious that she should take up the subject of England again, and he thought she might get on better with it now; England had changed a good deal within two or three years. He was determined that if she went there he should go to see his sister, Lady Pensil, and that this time the invitation should come to her straight. The mystery about that other one had never been explained. Caspar Goodwood came at last to Palazzo Roccanera; he had written Isabel a note beforehand, to ask leave. This was promptly granted; she would be at home at six o'clock that afternoon. She spent the day wondering what he was coming for--what good he expected to get of it. He had presented himself hitherto as a person destitute of the faculty of compromise, who would take what he had asked for or take nothing. Isabel's hospitality, however, raised no questions, and she found no great difficulty in appearing happy enough to deceive him. It was her conviction at least that she deceived him, made him say to himself that he had been misinformed. But she also saw, so she believed, that he was not disappointed, as some other men, she was sure, would have been; he had not come to Rome to look for an opportunity. She never found out what he had come for; he offered her no explanation; there could be none but the very simple one that he wanted to see her. In other words he had come for his amusement. Isabel followed up this induction with a good deal of eagerness, and was delighted to have found a formula that would lay the ghost of this gentleman's ancient grievance. If he had come to Rome for his amusement this was exactly what she wanted; for if he cared for amusement he had got over his heartache. If he had got over his heartache everything was as it should be and her responsibilities were at an end. It was true that he took his recreation a little stiffly, but he had never been loose and easy and she had every reason to believe he was satisfied with what he saw. Henrietta was not in his confidence, though he was in hers, and Isabel consequently received no side-light upon his state of mind. He was open to little conversation on general topics; it came back to her that she had said of him once, years before, "Mr. Goodwood speaks a good deal, but he doesn't talk." He spoke a good deal now, but he talked perhaps as little as ever; considering, that is, how much there was in Rome to talk about. His arrival was not calculated to simplify her relations with her husband, for if Mr. Osmond didn't like her friends Mr. Goodwood had no claim upon his attention save as having been one of the first of them. There was nothing for her to say of him but that he was the very oldest; this rather meagre synthesis exhausted the facts. She had been obliged to introduce him to Gilbert; it was impossible she should not ask him to dinner, to her Thursday evenings, of which she had grown very weary, but to which her husband still held for the sake not so much of inviting people as of not inviting them. To the Thursdays Mr. Goodwood came regularly, solemnly, rather early; he appeared to regard them with a good deal of gravity. Isabel every now and then had a moment of anger; there was something so literal about him; she thought he might know that she didn't know what to do with him. But she couldn't call him stupid; he was not that in the least; he was only extraordinarily honest. To be as honest as that made a man very different from most people; one had to be almost equally honest with HIM. She made this latter reflection at the very time she was flattering herself she had persuaded him that she was the most light-hearted of women. He never threw any doubt on this point, never asked her any personal questions. He got on much better with Osmond than had seemed probable. Osmond had a great dislike to being counted on; in such a case he had an irresistible need of disappointing you. It was in virtue of this principle that he gave himself the entertainment of taking a fancy to a perpendicular Bostonian whom he had been depended upon to treat with coldness. He asked Isabel if Mr. Goodwood also had wanted to marry her, and expressed surprise at her not having accepted him. It would have been an excellent thing, like living under some tall belfry which would strike all the hours and make a queer vibration in the upper air. He declared he liked to talk with the great Goodwood; it wasn't easy at first, you had to climb up an interminable steep staircase up to the top of the tower; but when you got there you had a big view and felt a little fresh breeze. Osmond, as we know, had delightful qualities, and he gave Caspar Goodwood the benefit of them all. Isabel could see that Mr. Goodwood thought better of her husband than he had ever wished to; he had given her the impression that morning in Florence of being inaccessible to a good impression. Gilbert asked him repeatedly to dinner, and Mr. Goodwood smoked a cigar with him afterwards and even desired to be shown his collections. Gilbert said to Isabel that he was very original; he was as strong and of as good a style as an English portmanteau,--he had plenty of straps and buckles which would never wear out, and a capital patent lock. Caspar Goodwood took to riding on the Campagna and devoted much time to this exercise; it was therefore mainly in the evening that Isabel saw him. She bethought herself of saying to him one day that if he were willing he could render her a service. And then she added smiling: "I don't know, however, what right I have to ask a service of you." "You're the person in the world who has most right," he answered. "I've given you assurances that I've never given any one else." The service was that he should go and see her cousin Ralph, who was ill at the Hotel de Paris, alone, and be as kind to him as possible. Mr. Goodwood had never seen him, but he would know who the poor fellow was; if she was not mistaken Ralph had once invited him to Gardencourt. Caspar remembered the invitation perfectly, and, though he was not supposed to be a man of imagination, had enough to put himself in the place of a poor gentleman who lay dying at a Roman inn. He called at the Hotel de Paris and, on being shown into the presence of the master of Gardencourt, found Miss Stackpole sitting beside his sofa. A singular change had in fact occurred in this lady's relations with Ralph Touchett. She had not been asked by Isabel to go and see him, but on hearing that he was too ill to come out had immediately gone of her own motion. After this she had paid him a daily visit--always under the conviction that they were great enemies. "Oh yes, we're intimate enemies," Ralph used to say; and he accused her freely--as freely as the humour of it would allow--of coming to worry him to death. In reality they became excellent friends, Henrietta much wondering that she should never have liked him before. Ralph liked her exactly as much as he had always done; he had never doubted for a moment that she was an excellent fellow. They talked about everything and always differed; about everything, that is, but Isabel--a topic as to which Ralph always had a thin forefinger on his lips. Mr. Bantling on the other hand proved a great resource; Ralph was capable of discussing Mr. Bantling with Henrietta for hours. Discussion was stimulated of course by their inevitable difference of view--Ralph having amused himself with taking the ground that the genial ex-guardsman was a regular Machiavelli. Caspar Goodwood could contribute nothing to such a debate; but after he had been left alone with his host he found there were various other matters they could take up. It must be admitted that the lady who had just gone out was not one of these; Caspar granted all Miss Stackpole's merits in advance, but had no further remark to make about her. Neither, after the first allusions, did the two men expatiate upon Mrs. Osmond--a theme in which Goodwood perceived as many dangers as Ralph. He felt very sorry for that unclassable personage; he couldn't bear to see a pleasant man, so pleasant for all his queerness, so beyond anything to be done. There was always something to be done, for Goodwood, and he did it in this case by repeating several times his visit to the Hotel de Paris. It seemed to Isabel that she had been very clever; she had artfully disposed of the superfluous Caspar. She had given him an occupation; she had converted him into a caretaker of Ralph. She had a plan of making him travel northward with her cousin as soon as the first mild weather should allow it. Lord Warburton had brought Ralph to Rome and Mr. Goodwood should take him away. There seemed a happy symmetry in this, and she was now intensely eager that Ralph should depart. She had a constant fear he would die there before her eyes and a horror of the occurrence of this event at an inn, by her door, which he had so rarely entered. Ralph must sink to his last rest in his own dear house, in one of those deep, dim chambers of Gardencourt where the dark ivy would cluster round the edges of the glimmering window. There seemed to Isabel in these days something sacred in Gardencourt; no chapter of the past was more perfectly irrecoverable. When she thought of the months she had spent there the tears rose to her eyes. She flattered herself, as I say, upon her ingenuity, but she had need of all she could muster; for several events occurred which seemed to confront and defy her. The Countess Gemini arrived from Florence--arrived with her trunks, her dresses, her chatter, her falsehoods, her frivolity, the strange, the unholy legend of the number of her lovers. Edward Rosier, who had been away somewhere,--no one, not even Pansy, knew where,--reappeared in Rome and began to write her long letters, which she never answered. Madame Merle returned from Naples and said to her with a strange smile: "What on earth did you do with Lord Warburton?" As if it were any business of hers!

Chapter 47

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During a period of Madame Merle's absence from Rome, Isabel is haunted by strange visions at night of her husband and Madame Merle together. She feels her imagination arrive at an elusive point only to be checked by a nameless dread. Henrietta arrives in Rome and visits Isabel. She informs her that Caspar Goodwood is also in Rome, but Goodwood delays in coming to see Isabel. Sometimes Isabel believes she sees him on the street. Isabel feels she must put her own spiritual affairs in order, but she is afraid that if Caspar comes to see her he will know how much such affairs are in disarray. Isabel lets Henrietta know how unhappy she is, and Henrietta responds by asking her why she does not leave. Isabel declares that she must accept her choice, because she made it freely. Henrietta shows herself to be a good friend who has made the journey from America simply because she knows her friend Isabel is unhappy. Henrietta tells Isabel about Mr. Bantling's journey to America and how he was received there as a "simple" man. In this chapter, we get a sense of the various ways Isabel's friends constellate with each other and with her husband. Pansy finds Henrietta fascinating, and Henrietta thinks that Pansy is suspicious, remembering everything she says. Osmond dislikes Ralph, believing he is pompous. He thinks his only redeeming quality is the fact that he is ill, but thinks he ought to prove how ill he is by dying. He is offended by Lord Warburton's behavior, comparing him to a man that has come to buy a house, gone and looked around in each and every room, only to escape having not paid for any rent. Osmond likens Henrietta to a "steel pen" - she is sharp and grating, and he finds her simply to be a "monster". Caspar finally visits Isabel and surprisingly he and Osmond get along quite well. When Osmond learns that Caspar proposed marriage, he is surprised that Isabel did not accept, saying it would have been like living under a "tall belfry". Caspar comes to Isabel's Thursday evening gatherings regularly. Isabel asks Caspar to visit Ralph as a favor to herself. When Caspar goes to visit Ralph, he finds Henrietta has also been keeping Ralph company. Ralph and Henrietta jokingly have declared each other enemies, and of course they seem to accord in nothing. Isabel's plan is to have Caspar accompany Ralph back to Gardencourt. This would be convenient too because it would give Caspar an occupation away from herself. She believes it would be fitting if Ralph would take his final resting place in his own home. She associates Gardencourt with a sacred time in her life

Isabel's conversation with Osmond declares her intention not to help him in his quest to marry Pansy to Lord Warburton -- he accuses her then of taking a direct action against him. This is the beginning of an open confrontation with her husband that she has never before had, and which she had feared at the beginning of Chapter 45 would occur in reference to Ralph. It is a demonstration of a kind of psychological violence that people can do to each other by acting against one another's interests, or ignoring each other's desires. Osmond shows his own limited perspective when he refuses to acknowledge Pansy's own desires as even factoring into her life: he simply believes she should follow convention and try to ambitiously climb as high in society as possible through marriage. Isabel's response to Henrietta's suggestion that she simply leave Osmond implies that Isabel believes in a certain moral standard for her own behavior. Unlike being tied to conventionality, like Osmond's understanding of marriage, Isabel takes responsibility for her actions, believing that she freely made her choice to be with Osmond and that she ought not to hypocritically act in ways contradicting the oath she made. Robert Pippin has understood Isabel to be one of Henry James' best moral heroines, who is asking the question of how she can morally assert her own freedom in life - how she can act independently, taking responsibility for her own actions. She is faced with the modern problem of decaying social relations that are empty formal conventions with no real moral values. She is faced with a problem of meaning that is unstable because nobody shares common meanings. Gilbert Osmond for example sees marriage as a financial transaction, but Isabel marries for her own ideas. Her assertion to Henrietta that she must adhere to the consequences of her actions shows Isabel's commitment to keeping her actions consistent, even in the realization that they are isolating.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/48.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_16_part_1.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 48

chapter 48

{"name": "Chapter 48", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-48-49", "summary": "Ralph decides to return to England, and Henrietta insists that she accompany him. Caspar also will take the journey with the pair, because he has promised Isabel. Caspar tells Ralph that he knows Isabel simply wants to get rid of him. Caspar came to see if Isabel is happy. Ralph tells him that Isabel is the most \"visibly happy\" woman he knows. Before leaving, Henrietta tells the Countess Gemini that her speculations about Lord Warburton's affair with Isabel were incorrect because Lord Warburton was in fact courting Pansy. Gemini points out to Henrietta that no proposal resulted. Henrietta encourages Isabel to leave her husband before the worst occurs. Isabel insists that she will remain the same person in spite of her husband. Ralph and Isabel have parting words. Ralph speaks as if he will see her again. Isabel suddenly lets on that she is unhappy, telling him that she is afraid of herself. She is upset that she cannot accompany Ralph herself, feeling that it is her duty. Ralph tells Isabel that he has kept alive out of his interest in Isabel. Isabel tells him he can send for her, and she will come to him at Gardencourt. Ralph knows that Osmond would not consent to that. Isabel insists that she can arrange for it. Osmond has parting words with Caspar Goodwood. He tells him that he and his wife have liked him because Caspar has helped them reconcile them to the future. He sees Caspar as a really new kind of man, the most modern man he knows. Osmond claims that Isabel and he typically have the same opinion about things. Caspar, meanwhile, wants to see Isabel alone one last time. He has a dull rage of his consciousness of things. He feels suspicious of Osmond even though he knows his host has been very generous with him. The narrator tells us that Goodwood had actually wished Osmond dead and might even have liked to kill him. He does feel that he has no proof that Osmond does not in fact get along with Isabel. But he is irritated because he feels he does not even know the truth. Caspar does not manage to speak with Isabel alone until most everyone has left the party. He asks Isabel outright: \"what have you really made of your life. I can't understand, I can't penetrate you. He feels that she is inscrutable, and that is what makes him suspect she has something to hide. He declares that he has come simply because he loves her still. He realizes though it is none of his business whether or not she is happy. Isabel finally tells him that he can pity her every so often", "analysis": "Goodwood is an interesting character because he introduces the specter of a possibly violent resolution to a book that has been so far, very melodramatic. There is the suggestion that he may kill Osmond. He seethes with rage during this scene. James extensively revised sections of the book for his New York Edition anthology in 1907, and it is notable that Goodwood's sections receive much attention. Caspar wants to \"penetrate\" Isabel - there is a suggestion that he does not only want knowledge of her situation, but carnal knowledge of her. James made Goodwood's sexuality more explicit in his revision of the novel. We might read this through a psychoanalytic lens, whereby sexuality, everywhere repressed by Victorian manners, threatens to bubble to the surface in the figure of Goodwood. Isabel's realizes that Merle and Osmond are much more intimate than she ever knew because Merle begins to deliver messages to Isabel from Osmond. Merle obviously knows what is \"between\" Osmond and Isabel, and she has acted as an intermediary the whole time. Isabel cannot pinpoint the concrete nature of Merle's interest in her marriage, but she recognizes the plot. This is a demonstration of Isabel's own imagination finally pinning itself on an intricate, real idea, as shadowy as it may be. The reader will remember that at the beginning of the novel, Isabel had only ideas without any concrete articulation of these ideas. Merle has provided the \"means\" for such an articulation through arranging a marriage to Osmond. However, Isabel here discovers that the intermediary has determined the entire idea. In other words, there is no escaping the effect that a medium has upon the message it expresses. The medium can actually change the meaning of the original idea it meant to express. In other words, Henry James is considering the nature of signifiers in relation to what they ultimately signify. Osmond and Merle's conversation finally reveals the intimate nature of their relationship -- the reader can guess that they once had an affair. Osmond's reaction to Merle is interesting: the story twice ironically references the melodramatic, literary nature of Merle's complaints through the voice of Osmond. He says she likes a \"sentence in a copy book\" and that she talks of revenge \"like a third-rate novelist\" . He serves something like an editorial function to her soap opera-like thoughts. It is as if Henry James is reflecting on the melodramatic nature of his plot and trying to \"edit\" it and make it more realistic through splitting the problem between two characters. We might understand the melodramatic nature of Henry James' novel in the context of Isabel's reference to Merle as a \"wicked\" person. In our modern world, to make the distinction between good and evil is a more theological notion that does not apply in our daily lives -- it seems somewhat antiquated for example to refer to someone who is a psychologically disturbed criminal as \"evil\" or \"wicked.\" Isabel therefore notes the foreign usage of the word. Yet she applies the word because she is making a moral judgment of her friend, and morality is based on making such distinctions, between ultimately good and bad actions. To apply a standard of morality to something is generally to draw a line, a strong distinction between options. However, because this fictional world is devoid of religious guidance, it cannot be God who provides a guide for making such distinction. Instead, Henry James makes recourse to the melodrama: a genre that draws drastic distinctions and applies them to events of daily life. For more information on this idea, see Peter Brooks' book, The Melodramatic Imagination ."}

One day, toward the end of February, Ralph Touchett made up his mind to return to England. He had his own reasons for this decision, which he was not bound to communicate; but Henrietta Stackpole, to whom he mentioned his intention, flattered herself that she guessed them. She forbore to express them, however; she only said, after a moment, as she sat by his sofa: "I suppose you know you can't go alone?" "I've no idea of doing that," Ralph answered. "I shall have people with me." "What do you mean by 'people'? Servants whom you pay?" "Ah," said Ralph jocosely, "after all, they're human beings." "Are there any women among them?" Miss Stackpole desired to know. "You speak as if I had a dozen! No, I confess I haven't a soubrette in my employment." "Well," said Henrietta calmly, "you can't go to England that way. You must have a woman's care." "I've had so much of yours for the past fortnight that it will last me a good while." "You've not had enough of it yet. I guess I'll go with you," said Henrietta. "Go with me?" Ralph slowly raised himself from his sofa. "Yes, I know you don't like me, but I'll go with you all the same. It would be better for your health to lie down again." Ralph looked at her a little; then he slowly relapsed. "I like you very much," he said in a moment. Miss Stackpole gave one of her infrequent laughs. "You needn't think that by saying that you can buy me off. I'll go with you, and what is more I'll take care of you." "You're a very good woman," said Ralph. "Wait till I get you safely home before you say that. It won't be easy. But you had better go, all the same." Before she left him, Ralph said to her: "Do you really mean to take care of me?" "Well, I mean to try." "I notify you then that I submit. Oh, I submit!" And it was perhaps a sign of submission that a few minutes after she had left him alone he burst into a loud fit of laughter. It seemed to him so inconsequent, such a conclusive proof of his having abdicated all functions and renounced all exercise, that he should start on a journey across Europe under the supervision of Miss Stackpole. And the great oddity was that the prospect pleased him; he was gratefully, luxuriously passive. He felt even impatient to start; and indeed he had an immense longing to see his own house again. The end of everything was at hand; it seemed to him he could stretch out his arm and touch the goal. But he wanted to die at home; it was the only wish he had left--to extend himself in the large quiet room where he had last seen his father lie, and close his eyes upon the summer dawn. That same day Caspar Goodwood came to see him, and he informed his visitor that Miss Stackpole had taken him up and was to conduct him back to England. "Ah then," said Caspar, "I'm afraid I shall be a fifth wheel to the coach. Mrs. Osmond has made me promise to go with you." "Good heavens--it's the golden age! You're all too kind." "The kindness on my part is to her; it's hardly to you." "Granting that, SHE'S kind," smiled Ralph. "To get people to go with you? Yes, that's a sort of kindness," Goodwood answered without lending himself to the joke. "For myself, however," he added, "I'll go so far as to say that I would much rather travel with you and Miss Stackpole than with Miss Stackpole alone." "And you'd rather stay here than do either," said Ralph. "There's really no need of your coming. Henrietta's extraordinarily efficient." "I'm sure of that. But I've promised Mrs. Osmond." "You can easily get her to let you off." "She wouldn't let me off for the world. She wants me to look after you, but that isn't the principal thing. The principal thing is that she wants me to leave Rome." "Ah, you see too much in it," Ralph suggested. "I bore her," Goodwood went on; "she has nothing to say to me, so she invented that." "Oh then, if it's a convenience to her I certainly will take you with me. Though I don't see why it should be a convenience," Ralph added in a moment. "Well," said Caspar Goodwood simply, "she thinks I'm watching her." "Watching her?" "Trying to make out if she's happy." "That's easy to make out," said Ralph. "She's the most visibly happy woman I know." "Exactly so; I'm satisfied," Goodwood answered dryly. For all his dryness, however, he had more to say. "I've been watching her; I was an old friend and it seemed to me I had the right. She pretends to be happy; that was what she undertook to be; and I thought I should like to see for myself what it amounts to. I've seen," he continued with a harsh ring in his voice, "and I don't want to see any more. I'm now quite ready to go." "Do you know it strikes me as about time you should?" Ralph rejoined. And this was the only conversation these gentlemen had about Isabel Osmond. Henrietta made her preparations for departure, and among them she found it proper to say a few words to the Countess Gemini, who returned at Miss Stackpole's pension the visit which this lady had paid her in Florence. "You were very wrong about Lord Warburton," she remarked to the Countess. "I think it right you should know that." "About his making love to Isabel? My poor lady, he was at her house three times a day. He has left traces of his passage!" the Countess cried. "He wished to marry your niece; that's why he came to the house." The Countess stared, and then with an inconsiderate laugh: "Is that the story that Isabel tells? It isn't bad, as such things go. If he wishes to marry my niece, pray why doesn't he do it? Perhaps he has gone to buy the wedding-ring and will come back with it next month, after I'm gone." "No, he'll not come back. Miss Osmond doesn't wish to marry him." "She's very accommodating! I knew she was fond of Isabel, but I didn't know she carried it so far." "I don't understand you," said Henrietta coldly, and reflecting that the Countess was unpleasantly perverse. "I really must stick to my point--that Isabel never encouraged the attentions of Lord Warburton." "My dear friend, what do you and I know about it? All we know is that my brother's capable of everything." "I don't know what your brother's capable of," said Henrietta with dignity. "It's not her encouraging Warburton that I complain of; it's her sending him away. I want particularly to see him. Do you suppose she thought I would make him faithless?" the Countess continued with audacious insistence. "However, she's only keeping him, one can feel that. The house is full of him there; he's quite in the air. Oh yes, he has left traces; I'm sure I shall see him yet." "Well," said Henrietta after a little, with one of those inspirations which had made the fortune of her letters to the Interviewer, "perhaps he'll be more successful with you than with Isabel!" When she told her friend of the offer she had made Ralph Isabel replied that she could have done nothing that would have pleased her more. It had always been her faith that at bottom Ralph and this young woman were made to understand each other. "I don't care whether he understands me or not," Henrietta declared. "The great thing is that he shouldn't die in the cars." "He won't do that," Isabel said, shaking her head with an extension of faith. "He won't if I can help it. I see you want us all to go. I don't know what you want to do." "I want to be alone," said Isabel. "You won't be that so long as you've so much company at home." "Ah, they're part of the comedy. You others are spectators." "Do you call it a comedy, Isabel Archer?" Henrietta rather grimly asked. "The tragedy then if you like. You're all looking at me; it makes me uncomfortable." Henrietta engaged in this act for a while. "You're like the stricken deer, seeking the innermost shade. Oh, you do give me such a sense of helplessness!" she broke out. "I'm not at all helpless. There are many things I mean to do." "It's not you I'm speaking of; it's myself. It's too much, having come on purpose, to leave you just as I find you." "You don't do that; you leave me much refreshed," Isabel said. "Very mild refreshment--sour lemonade! I want you to promise me something." "I can't do that. I shall never make another promise. I made such a solemn one four years ago, and I've succeeded so ill in keeping it." "You've had no encouragement. In this case I should give you the greatest. Leave your husband before the worst comes; that's what I want you to promise." "The worst? What do you call the worst?" "Before your character gets spoiled." "Do you mean my disposition? It won't get spoiled," Isabel answered, smiling. "I'm taking very good care of it. I'm extremely struck," she added, turning away, "with the off-hand way in which you speak of a woman's leaving her husband. It's easy to see you've never had one!" "Well," said Henrietta as if she were beginning an argument, "nothing is more common in our Western cities, and it's to them, after all, that we must look in the future." Her argument, however, does not concern this history, which has too many other threads to unwind. She announced to Ralph Touchett that she was ready to leave Rome by any train he might designate, and Ralph immediately pulled himself together for departure. Isabel went to see him at the last, and he made the same remark that Henrietta had made. It struck him that Isabel was uncommonly glad to get rid of them all. For all answer to this she gently laid her hand on his, and said in a low tone, with a quick smile: "My dear Ralph--!" It was answer enough, and he was quite contented. But he went on in the same way, jocosely, ingenuously: "I've seen less of you than I might, but it's better than nothing. And then I've heard a great deal about you." "I don't know from whom, leading the life you've done." "From the voices of the air! Oh, from no one else; I never let other people speak of you. They always say you're 'charming,' and that's so flat." "I might have seen more of you certainly," Isabel said. "But when one's married one has so much occupation." "Fortunately I'm not married. When you come to see me in England I shall be able to entertain you with all the freedom of a bachelor." He continued to talk as if they should certainly meet again, and succeeded in making the assumption appear almost just. He made no allusion to his term being near, to the probability that he should not outlast the summer. If he preferred it so, Isabel was willing enough; the reality was sufficiently distinct without their erecting finger-posts in conversation. That had been well enough for the earlier time, though about this, as about his other affairs, Ralph had never been egotistic. Isabel spoke of his journey, of the stages into which he should divide it, of the precautions he should take. "Henrietta's my greatest precaution," he went on. "The conscience of that woman's sublime." "Certainly she'll be very conscientious." "Will be? She has been! It's only because she thinks it's her duty that she goes with me. There's a conception of duty for you." "Yes, it's a generous one," said Isabel, "and it makes me deeply ashamed. I ought to go with you, you know." "Your husband wouldn't like that." "No, he wouldn't like it. But I might go, all the same." "I'm startled by the boldness of your imagination. Fancy my being a cause of disagreement between a lady and her husband!" "That's why I don't go," said Isabel simply--yet not very lucidly. Ralph understood well enough, however. "I should think so, with all those occupations you speak of." "It isn't that. I'm afraid," said Isabel. After a pause she repeated, as if to make herself, rather than him, hear the words: "I'm afraid." Ralph could hardly tell what her tone meant; it was so strangely deliberate--apparently so void of emotion. Did she wish to do public penance for a fault of which she had not been convicted? or were her words simply an attempt at enlightened self-analysis? However this might be, Ralph could not resist so easy an opportunity. "Afraid of your husband?" "Afraid of myself!" she said, getting up. She stood there a moment and then added: "If I were afraid of my husband that would be simply my duty. That's what women are expected to be." "Ah yes," laughed Ralph; "but to make up for it there's always some man awfully afraid of some woman!" She gave no heed to this pleasantry, but suddenly took a different turn. "With Henrietta at the head of your little band," she exclaimed abruptly, "there will be nothing left for Mr. Goodwood!" "Ah, my dear Isabel," Ralph answered, "he's used to that. There is nothing left for Mr. Goodwood." She coloured and then observed, quickly, that she must leave him. They stood together a moment; both her hands were in both of his. "You've been my best friend," she said. "It was for you that I wanted--that I wanted to live. But I'm of no use to you." Then it came over her more poignantly that she should not see him again. She could not accept that; she could not part with him that way. "If you should send for me I'd come," she said at last. "Your husband won't consent to that." "Oh yes, I can arrange it." "I shall keep that for my last pleasure!" said Ralph. In answer to which she simply kissed him. It was a Thursday, and that evening Caspar Goodwood came to Palazzo Roccanera. He was among the first to arrive, and he spent some time in conversation with Gilbert Osmond, who almost always was present when his wife received. They sat down together, and Osmond, talkative, communicative, expansive, seemed possessed with a kind of intellectual gaiety. He leaned back with his legs crossed, lounging and chatting, while Goodwood, more restless, but not at all lively, shifted his position, played with his hat, made the little sofa creak beneath him. Osmond's face wore a sharp, aggressive smile; he was as a man whose perceptions have been quickened by good news. He remarked to Goodwood that he was sorry they were to lose him; he himself should particularly miss him. He saw so few intelligent men--they were surprisingly scarce in Rome. He must be sure to come back; there was something very refreshing, to an inveterate Italian like himself, in talking with a genuine outsider. "I'm very fond of Rome, you know," Osmond said; "but there's nothing I like better than to meet people who haven't that superstition. The modern world's after all very fine. Now you're thoroughly modern and yet are not at all common. So many of the moderns we see are such very poor stuff. If they're the children of the future we're willing to die young. Of course the ancients too are often very tiresome. My wife and I like everything that's really new--not the mere pretence of it. There's nothing new, unfortunately, in ignorance and stupidity. We see plenty of that in forms that offer themselves as a revelation of progress, of light. A revelation of vulgarity! There's a certain kind of vulgarity which I believe is really new; I don't think there ever was anything like it before. Indeed I don't find vulgarity, at all, before the present century. You see a faint menace of it here and there in the last, but to-day the air has grown so dense that delicate things are literally not recognised. Now, we've liked you--!" With which he hesitated a moment, laying his hand gently on Goodwood's knee and smiling with a mixture of assurance and embarrassment. "I'm going to say something extremely offensive and patronising, but you must let me have the satisfaction of it. We've liked you because--because you've reconciled us a little to the future. If there are to be a certain number of people like you--a la bonne heure! I'm talking for my wife as well as for myself, you see. She speaks for me, my wife; why shouldn't I speak for her? We're as united, you know, as the candlestick and the snuffers. Am I assuming too much when I say that I think I've understood from you that your occupations have been--a--commercial? There's a danger in that, you know; but it's the way you have escaped that strikes us. Excuse me if my little compliment seems in execrable taste; fortunately my wife doesn't hear me. What I mean is that you might have been--a--what I was mentioning just now. The whole American world was in a conspiracy to make you so. But you resisted, you've something about you that saved you. And yet you're so modern, so modern; the most modern man we know! We shall always be delighted to see you again." I have said that Osmond was in good humour, and these remarks will give ample evidence of the fact. They were infinitely more personal than he usually cared to be, and if Caspar Goodwood had attended to them more closely he might have thought that the defence of delicacy was in rather odd hands. We may believe, however, that Osmond knew very well what he was about, and that if he chose to use the tone of patronage with a grossness not in his habits he had an excellent reason for the escapade. Goodwood had only a vague sense that he was laying it on somehow; he scarcely knew where the mixture was applied. Indeed he scarcely knew what Osmond was talking about; he wanted to be alone with Isabel, and that idea spoke louder to him than her husband's perfectly-pitched voice. He watched her talking with other people and wondered when she would be at liberty and whether he might ask her to go into one of the other rooms. His humour was not, like Osmond's, of the best; there was an element of dull rage in his consciousness of things. Up to this time he had not disliked Osmond personally; he had only thought him very well-informed and obliging and more than he had supposed like the person whom Isabel Archer would naturally marry. His host had won in the open field a great advantage over him, and Goodwood had too strong a sense of fair play to have been moved to underrate him on that account. He had not tried positively to think well of him; this was a flight of sentimental benevolence of which, even in the days when he came nearest to reconciling himself to what had happened, Goodwood was quite incapable. He accepted him as rather a brilliant personage of the amateurish kind, afflicted with a redundancy of leisure which it amused him to work off in little refinements of conversation. But he only half trusted him; he could never make out why the deuce Osmond should lavish refinements of any sort upon HIM. It made him suspect that he found some private entertainment in it, and it ministered to a general impression that his triumphant rival had in his composition a streak of perversity. He knew indeed that Osmond could have no reason to wish him evil; he had nothing to fear from him. He had carried off a supreme advantage and could afford to be kind to a man who had lost everything. It was true that Goodwood had at times grimly wished he were dead and would have liked to kill him; but Osmond had no means of knowing this, for practice had made the younger man perfect in the art of appearing inaccessible to-day to any violent emotion. He cultivated this art in order to deceive himself, but it was others that he deceived first. He cultivated it, moreover, with very limited success; of which there could be no better proof than the deep, dumb irritation that reigned in his soul when he heard Osmond speak of his wife's feelings as if he were commissioned to answer for them. That was all he had had an ear for in what his host said to him this evening; he had been conscious that Osmond made more of a point even than usual of referring to the conjugal harmony prevailing at Palazzo Roccanera. He had been more careful than ever to speak as if he and his wife had all things in sweet community and it were as natural to each of them to say "we" as to say "I". In all this there was an air of intention that had puzzled and angered our poor Bostonian, who could only reflect for his comfort that Mrs. Osmond's relations with her husband were none of his business. He had no proof whatever that her husband misrepresented her, and if he judged her by the surface of things was bound to believe that she liked her life. She had never given him the faintest sign of discontent. Miss Stackpole had told him that she had lost her illusions, but writing for the papers had made Miss Stackpole sensational. She was too fond of early news. Moreover, since her arrival in Rome she had been much on her guard; she had pretty well ceased to flash her lantern at him. This indeed, it may be said for her, would have been quite against her conscience. She had now seen the reality of Isabel's situation, and it had inspired her with a just reserve. Whatever could be done to improve it the most useful form of assistance would not be to inflame her former lovers with a sense of her wrongs. Miss Stackpole continued to take a deep interest in the state of Mr. Goodwood's feelings, but she showed it at present only by sending him choice extracts, humorous and other, from the American journals, of which she received several by every post and which she always perused with a pair of scissors in her hand. The articles she cut out she placed in an envelope addressed to Mr. Goodwood, which she left with her own hand at his hotel. He never asked her a question about Isabel: hadn't he come five thousand miles to see for himself? He was thus not in the least authorised to think Mrs. Osmond unhappy; but the very absence of authorisation operated as an irritant, ministered to the harsh-ness with which, in spite of his theory that he had ceased to care, he now recognised that, so far as she was concerned, the future had nothing more for him. He had not even the satisfaction of knowing the truth; apparently he could not even be trusted to respect her if she WERE unhappy. He was hopeless, helpless, useless. To this last character she had called his attention by her ingenious plan for making him leave Rome. He had no objection whatever to doing what he could for her cousin, but it made him grind his teeth to think that of all the services she might have asked of him this was the one she had been eager to select. There had been no danger of her choosing one that would have kept him in Rome. To-night what he was chiefly thinking of was that he was to leave her to-morrow and that he had gained nothing by coming but the knowledge that he was as little wanted as ever. About herself he had gained no knowledge; she was imperturbable, inscrutable, impenetrable. He felt the old bitterness, which he had tried so hard to swallow, rise again in his throat, and he knew there are disappointments that last as long as life. Osmond went on talking; Goodwood was vaguely aware that he was touching again upon his perfect intimacy with his wife. It seemed to him for a moment that the man had a kind of demonic imagination; it was impossible that without malice he should have selected so unusual a topic. But what did it matter, after all, whether he were demonic or not, and whether she loved him or hated him? She might hate him to the death without one's gaining a straw one's self. "You travel, by the by, with Ralph Touchett," Osmond said. "I suppose that means you'll move slowly?" "I don't know. I shall do just as he likes." "You're very accommodating. We're immensely obliged to you; you must really let me say it. My wife has probably expressed to you what we feel. Touchett has been on our minds all winter; it has looked more than once as if he would never leave Rome. He ought never to have come; it's worse than an imprudence for people in that state to travel; it's a kind of indelicacy. I wouldn't for the world be under such an obligation to Touchett as he has been to--to my wife and me. Other people inevitably have to look after him, and every one isn't so generous as you." "I've nothing else to do," Caspar said dryly. Osmond looked at him a moment askance. "You ought to marry, and then you'd have plenty to do! It's true that in that case you wouldn't be quite so available for deeds of mercy." "Do you find that as a married man you're so much occupied?" the young man mechanically asked. "Ah, you see, being married's in itself an occupation. It isn't always active; it's often passive; but that takes even more attention. Then my wife and I do so many things together. We read, we study, we make music, we walk, we drive--we talk even, as when we first knew each other. I delight, to this hour, in my wife's conversation. If you're ever bored take my advice and get married. Your wife indeed may bore you, in that case; but you'll never bore yourself. You'll always have something to say to yourself--always have a subject of reflection." "I'm not bored," said Goodwood. "I've plenty to think about and to say to myself." "More than to say to others!" Osmond exclaimed with a light laugh. "Where shall you go next? I mean after you've consigned Touchett to his natural caretakers--I believe his mother's at last coming back to look after him. That little lady's superb; she neglects her duties with a finish--! Perhaps you'll spend the summer in England?" "I don't know. I've no plans." "Happy man! That's a little bleak, but it's very free." "Oh yes, I'm very free." "Free to come back to Rome I hope," said Osmond as he saw a group of new visitors enter the room. "Remember that when you do come we count on you!" Goodwood had meant to go away early, but the evening elapsed without his having a chance to speak to Isabel otherwise than as one of several associated interlocutors. There was something perverse in the inveteracy with which she avoided him; his unquenchable rancour discovered an intention where there was certainly no appearance of one. There was absolutely no appearance of one. She met his eyes with her clear hospitable smile, which seemed almost to ask that he would come and help her to entertain some of her visitors. To such suggestions, however, he opposed but a stiff impatience. He wandered about and waited; he talked to the few people he knew, who found him for the first time rather self-contradictory. This was indeed rare with Caspar Goodwood, though he often contradicted others. There was often music at Palazzo Roccanera, and it was usually very good. Under cover of the music he managed to contain himself; but toward the end, when he saw the people beginning to go, he drew near to Isabel and asked her in a low tone if he might not speak to her in one of the other rooms, which he had just assured himself was empty. She smiled as if she wished to oblige him but found her self absolutely prevented. "I'm afraid it's impossible. People are saying good-night, and I must be where they can see me." "I shall wait till they are all gone then." She hesitated a moment. "Ah, that will be delightful!" she exclaimed. And he waited, though it took a long time yet. There were several people, at the end, who seemed tethered to the carpet. The Countess Gemini, who was never herself till midnight, as she said, displayed no consciousness that the entertainment was over; she had still a little circle of gentlemen in front of the fire, who every now and then broke into a united laugh. Osmond had disappeared--he never bade good-bye to people; and as the Countess was extending her range, according to her custom at this period of the evening, Isabel had sent Pansy to bed. Isabel sat a little apart; she too appeared to wish her sister-in-law would sound a lower note and let the last loiterers depart in peace. "May I not say a word to you now?" Goodwood presently asked her. She got up immediately, smiling. "Certainly, we'll go somewhere else if you like." They went together, leaving the Countess with her little circle, and for a moment after they had crossed the threshold neither of them spoke. Isabel would not sit down; she stood in the middle of the room slowly fanning herself; she had for him the same familiar grace. She seemed to wait for him to speak. Now that he was alone with her all the passion he had never stifled surged into his senses; it hummed in his eyes and made things swim round him. The bright, empty room grew dim and blurred, and through the heaving veil he felt her hover before him with gleaming eyes and parted lips. If he had seen more distinctly he would have perceived her smile was fixed and a trifle forced--that she was frightened at what she saw in his own face. "I suppose you wish to bid me goodbye?" she said. "Yes--but I don't like it. I don't want to leave Rome," he answered with almost plaintive honesty. "I can well imagine. It's wonderfully good of you. I can't tell you how kind I think you." For a moment more he said nothing. "With a few words like that you make me go." "You must come back some day," she brightly returned. "Some day? You mean as long a time hence as possible." "Oh no; I don't mean all that." "What do you mean? I don't understand! But I said I'd go, and I'll go," Goodwood added. "Come back whenever you like," said Isabel with attempted lightness. "I don't care a straw for your cousin!" Caspar broke out. "Is that what you wished to tell me?" "No, no; I didn't want to tell you anything; I wanted to ask you--" he paused a moment, and then--"what have you really made of your life?" he said, in a low, quick tone. He paused again, as if for an answer; but she said nothing, and he went on: "I can't understand, I can't penetrate you! What am I to believe--what do you want me to think?" Still she said nothing; she only stood looking at him, now quite without pretending to ease. "I'm told you're unhappy, and if you are I should like to know it. That would be something for me. But you yourself say you're happy, and you're somehow so still, so smooth, so hard. You're completely changed. You conceal everything; I haven't really come near you." "You come very near," Isabel said gently, but in a tone of warning. "And yet I don't touch you! I want to know the truth. Have you done well?" "You ask a great deal." "Yes--I've always asked a great deal. Of course you won't tell me. I shall never know if you can help it. And then it's none of my business." He had spoken with a visible effort to control himself, to give a considerate form to an inconsiderate state of mind. But the sense that it was his last chance, that he loved her and had lost her, that she would think him a fool whatever he should say, suddenly gave him a lash and added a deep vibration to his low voice. "You're perfectly inscrutable, and that's what makes me think you've something to hide. I tell you I don't care a straw for your cousin, but I don't mean that I don't like him. I mean that it isn't because I like him that I go away with him. I'd go if he were an idiot and you should have asked me. If you should ask me I'd go to Siberia tomorrow. Why do you want me to leave the place? You must have some reason for that; if you were as contented as you pretend you are you wouldn't care. I'd rather know the truth about you, even if it's damnable, than have come here for nothing. That isn't what I came for. I thought I shouldn't care. I came because I wanted to assure myself that I needn't think of you any more. I haven't thought of anything else, and you're quite right to wish me to go away. But if I must go, there's no harm in my letting myself out for a single moment, is there? If you're really hurt--if HE hurts you--nothing I say will hurt you. When I tell you I love you it's simply what I came for. I thought it was for something else; but it was for that. I shouldn't say it if I didn't believe I should never see you again. It's the last time--let me pluck a single flower! I've no right to say that, I know; and you've no right to listen. But you don't listen; you never listen, you're always thinking of something else. After this I must go, of course; so I shall at least have a reason. Your asking me is no reason, not a real one. I can't judge by your husband," he went on irrelevantly, almost incoherently; "I don't understand him; he tells me you adore each other. Why does he tell me that? What business is it of mine? When I say that to you, you look strange. But you always look strange. Yes, you've something to hide. It's none of my business--very true. But I love you," said Caspar Goodwood. As he said, she looked strange. She turned her eyes to the door by which they had entered and raised her fan as if in warning. "You've behaved so well; don't spoil it," she uttered softly. "No one hears me. It's wonderful what you tried to put me off with. I love you as I've never loved you." "I know it. I knew it as soon as you consented to go." "You can't help it--of course not. You would if you could, but you can't, unfortunately. Unfortunately for me, I mean. I ask nothing--nothing, that is, I shouldn't. But I do ask one sole satisfaction:--that you tell me--that you tell me--!" "That I tell you what?" "Whether I may pity you." "Should you like that?" Isabel asked, trying to smile again. "To pity you? Most assuredly! That at least would be doing something. I'd give my life to it." She raised her fan to her face, which it covered all except her eyes. They rested a moment on his. "Don't give your life to it; but give a thought to it every now and then." And with that she went back to the Countess Gemini.

Chapter 48

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-48-49

Ralph decides to return to England, and Henrietta insists that she accompany him. Caspar also will take the journey with the pair, because he has promised Isabel. Caspar tells Ralph that he knows Isabel simply wants to get rid of him. Caspar came to see if Isabel is happy. Ralph tells him that Isabel is the most "visibly happy" woman he knows. Before leaving, Henrietta tells the Countess Gemini that her speculations about Lord Warburton's affair with Isabel were incorrect because Lord Warburton was in fact courting Pansy. Gemini points out to Henrietta that no proposal resulted. Henrietta encourages Isabel to leave her husband before the worst occurs. Isabel insists that she will remain the same person in spite of her husband. Ralph and Isabel have parting words. Ralph speaks as if he will see her again. Isabel suddenly lets on that she is unhappy, telling him that she is afraid of herself. She is upset that she cannot accompany Ralph herself, feeling that it is her duty. Ralph tells Isabel that he has kept alive out of his interest in Isabel. Isabel tells him he can send for her, and she will come to him at Gardencourt. Ralph knows that Osmond would not consent to that. Isabel insists that she can arrange for it. Osmond has parting words with Caspar Goodwood. He tells him that he and his wife have liked him because Caspar has helped them reconcile them to the future. He sees Caspar as a really new kind of man, the most modern man he knows. Osmond claims that Isabel and he typically have the same opinion about things. Caspar, meanwhile, wants to see Isabel alone one last time. He has a dull rage of his consciousness of things. He feels suspicious of Osmond even though he knows his host has been very generous with him. The narrator tells us that Goodwood had actually wished Osmond dead and might even have liked to kill him. He does feel that he has no proof that Osmond does not in fact get along with Isabel. But he is irritated because he feels he does not even know the truth. Caspar does not manage to speak with Isabel alone until most everyone has left the party. He asks Isabel outright: "what have you really made of your life. I can't understand, I can't penetrate you. He feels that she is inscrutable, and that is what makes him suspect she has something to hide. He declares that he has come simply because he loves her still. He realizes though it is none of his business whether or not she is happy. Isabel finally tells him that he can pity her every so often

Goodwood is an interesting character because he introduces the specter of a possibly violent resolution to a book that has been so far, very melodramatic. There is the suggestion that he may kill Osmond. He seethes with rage during this scene. James extensively revised sections of the book for his New York Edition anthology in 1907, and it is notable that Goodwood's sections receive much attention. Caspar wants to "penetrate" Isabel - there is a suggestion that he does not only want knowledge of her situation, but carnal knowledge of her. James made Goodwood's sexuality more explicit in his revision of the novel. We might read this through a psychoanalytic lens, whereby sexuality, everywhere repressed by Victorian manners, threatens to bubble to the surface in the figure of Goodwood. Isabel's realizes that Merle and Osmond are much more intimate than she ever knew because Merle begins to deliver messages to Isabel from Osmond. Merle obviously knows what is "between" Osmond and Isabel, and she has acted as an intermediary the whole time. Isabel cannot pinpoint the concrete nature of Merle's interest in her marriage, but she recognizes the plot. This is a demonstration of Isabel's own imagination finally pinning itself on an intricate, real idea, as shadowy as it may be. The reader will remember that at the beginning of the novel, Isabel had only ideas without any concrete articulation of these ideas. Merle has provided the "means" for such an articulation through arranging a marriage to Osmond. However, Isabel here discovers that the intermediary has determined the entire idea. In other words, there is no escaping the effect that a medium has upon the message it expresses. The medium can actually change the meaning of the original idea it meant to express. In other words, Henry James is considering the nature of signifiers in relation to what they ultimately signify. Osmond and Merle's conversation finally reveals the intimate nature of their relationship -- the reader can guess that they once had an affair. Osmond's reaction to Merle is interesting: the story twice ironically references the melodramatic, literary nature of Merle's complaints through the voice of Osmond. He says she likes a "sentence in a copy book" and that she talks of revenge "like a third-rate novelist" . He serves something like an editorial function to her soap opera-like thoughts. It is as if Henry James is reflecting on the melodramatic nature of his plot and trying to "edit" it and make it more realistic through splitting the problem between two characters. We might understand the melodramatic nature of Henry James' novel in the context of Isabel's reference to Merle as a "wicked" person. In our modern world, to make the distinction between good and evil is a more theological notion that does not apply in our daily lives -- it seems somewhat antiquated for example to refer to someone who is a psychologically disturbed criminal as "evil" or "wicked." Isabel therefore notes the foreign usage of the word. Yet she applies the word because she is making a moral judgment of her friend, and morality is based on making such distinctions, between ultimately good and bad actions. To apply a standard of morality to something is generally to draw a line, a strong distinction between options. However, because this fictional world is devoid of religious guidance, it cannot be God who provides a guide for making such distinction. Instead, Henry James makes recourse to the melodrama: a genre that draws drastic distinctions and applies them to events of daily life. For more information on this idea, see Peter Brooks' book, The Melodramatic Imagination .

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/49.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_16_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 49

chapter 49

{"name": "Chapter 49", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-48-49", "summary": "Madame Merle returns to Rome and she asks Isabel what happened with Lord Warburton. She pretends to take the whole affair lightly, but Isabel notices that she takes a more zealous interest than she should in Pansy's marriage. Isabel suspects even more than Merle has had a hand in Isabel's own marriage. She no longer feels that Merle's proximity to her is a mere \"accident\" , but rather that it is intentionally plotted. She has no definite suspicion, but she still feels there had been some sort of intention on Merle's part. Merle lets Isabel know that her husband is disappointed in her. Isabel feels bitter upon hearing how Osmond has been speaking ill of his wife. Merle insists on knowing whether Lord Warburton left on his own or whether Isabel advised it. She thinks it would help Osmond know what his daughter's prospects are if he knew what had occurred. Isabel turns pale. She asks Merle: \"Who are you--what are you. What have you to do with my husband. What have you to do with me. Merle responds: \"Everything. The truth came over Isabel like a \"high-surging wave\". Merle had been responsible for her marriage. Isabel goes for a drive alone that afternoon. The image of Madame Merle hovered before her. She wonders if the word \"wicked\" could be applied to her friend. She realizes that Merle has been deeply false to her. Isabel still wonders why Merle would want to bring about the event of her marriage so much that she should behave so badly. She thinks to herself that it must have something to do with money; Merle had married her to an intimate companion who might give Merle some money. She wonders if Gilbert had only wanted her money, would he let her go if she gave him all of it. She feels sorry for Merle, though, because she thinks she must not have gotten the money she had wanted. The narrator then leads the reader to a scene simultaneously occurring between Gilbert and Merle. Merle thinks Gilbert is ungrateful for what she has given him. Osmond is annoyed with her and asks what is wrong with her. She declares that she would give anything to be able to weep, but that she cannot do so anymore, since she has met Mr. Osmond. Merle recognizes that she was horrible to Isabel and she claims Gilbert has dried up her soul. Merle claims that Osmond has taken out his revenge upon Isabel, making his wife afraid of him and treating her badly. Osmond claims that she loses sight of the real and that he is in fact very simple. He asks only that his wife adore him. Merle says that she herself never adored him, and Osmond points out that she pretended to. Merle mourns the fact that she is being taught a lesson of having represented herself falsely, and Osmond critiques her for sounding like a \"sentence in a copy book\"", "analysis": "Goodwood is an interesting character because he introduces the specter of a possibly violent resolution to a book that has been so far, very melodramatic. There is the suggestion that he may kill Osmond. He seethes with rage during this scene. James extensively revised sections of the book for his New York Edition anthology in 1907, and it is notable that Goodwood's sections receive much attention. Caspar wants to \"penetrate\" Isabel - there is a suggestion that he does not only want knowledge of her situation, but carnal knowledge of her. James made Goodwood's sexuality more explicit in his revision of the novel. We might read this through a psychoanalytic lens, whereby sexuality, everywhere repressed by Victorian manners, threatens to bubble to the surface in the figure of Goodwood. Isabel's realizes that Merle and Osmond are much more intimate than she ever knew because Merle begins to deliver messages to Isabel from Osmond. Merle obviously knows what is \"between\" Osmond and Isabel, and she has acted as an intermediary the whole time. Isabel cannot pinpoint the concrete nature of Merle's interest in her marriage, but she recognizes the plot. This is a demonstration of Isabel's own imagination finally pinning itself on an intricate, real idea, as shadowy as it may be. The reader will remember that at the beginning of the novel, Isabel had only ideas without any concrete articulation of these ideas. Merle has provided the \"means\" for such an articulation through arranging a marriage to Osmond. However, Isabel here discovers that the intermediary has determined the entire idea. In other words, there is no escaping the effect that a medium has upon the message it expresses. The medium can actually change the meaning of the original idea it meant to express. In other words, Henry James is considering the nature of signifiers in relation to what they ultimately signify. Osmond and Merle's conversation finally reveals the intimate nature of their relationship -- the reader can guess that they once had an affair. Osmond's reaction to Merle is interesting: the story twice ironically references the melodramatic, literary nature of Merle's complaints through the voice of Osmond. He says she likes a \"sentence in a copy book\" and that she talks of revenge \"like a third-rate novelist\" . He serves something like an editorial function to her soap opera-like thoughts. It is as if Henry James is reflecting on the melodramatic nature of his plot and trying to \"edit\" it and make it more realistic through splitting the problem between two characters. We might understand the melodramatic nature of Henry James' novel in the context of Isabel's reference to Merle as a \"wicked\" person. In our modern world, to make the distinction between good and evil is a more theological notion that does not apply in our daily lives -- it seems somewhat antiquated for example to refer to someone who is a psychologically disturbed criminal as \"evil\" or \"wicked.\" Isabel therefore notes the foreign usage of the word. Yet she applies the word because she is making a moral judgment of her friend, and morality is based on making such distinctions, between ultimately good and bad actions. To apply a standard of morality to something is generally to draw a line, a strong distinction between options. However, because this fictional world is devoid of religious guidance, it cannot be God who provides a guide for making such distinction. Instead, Henry James makes recourse to the melodrama: a genre that draws drastic distinctions and applies them to events of daily life. For more information on this idea, see Peter Brooks' book, The Melodramatic Imagination ."}

Madame Merle had not made her appearance at Palazzo Roccanera on the evening of that Thursday of which I have narrated some of the incidents, and Isabel, though she observed her absence, was not surprised by it. Things had passed between them which added no stimulus to sociability, and to appreciate which we must glance a little backward. It has been mentioned that Madame Merle returned from Naples shortly after Lord Warburton had left Rome, and that on her first meeting with Isabel (whom, to do her justice, she came immediately to see) her first utterance had been an enquiry as to the whereabouts of this nobleman, for whom she appeared to hold her dear friend accountable. "Please don't talk of him," said Isabel for answer; "we've heard so much of him of late." Madame Merle bent her head on one side a little, protestingly, and smiled at the left corner of her mouth. "You've heard, yes. But you must remember that I've not, in Naples. I hoped to find him here and to be able to congratulate Pansy." "You may congratulate Pansy still; but not on marrying Lord Warburton." "How you say that! Don't you know I had set my heart on it?" Madame Merle asked with a great deal of spirit, but still with the intonation of good-humour. Isabel was discomposed, but she was determined to be good-humoured too. "You shouldn't have gone to Naples then. You should have stayed here to watch the affair." "I had too much confidence in you. But do you think it's too late?" "You had better ask Pansy," said Isabel. "I shall ask her what you've said to her." These words seemed to justify the impulse of self-defence aroused on Isabel's part by her perceiving that her visitor's attitude was a critical one. Madame Merle, as we know, had been very discreet hitherto; she had never criticised; she had been markedly afraid of intermeddling. But apparently she had only reserved herself for this occasion, since she now had a dangerous quickness in her eye and an air of irritation which even her admirable ease was not able to transmute. She had suffered a disappointment which excited Isabel's surprise--our heroine having no knowledge of her zealous interest in Pansy's marriage; and she betrayed it in a manner which quickened Mrs. Osmond's alarm. More clearly than ever before Isabel heard a cold, mocking voice proceed from she knew not where, in the dim void that surrounded her, and declare that this bright, strong, definite, worldly woman, this incarnation of the practical, the personal, the immediate, was a powerful agent in her destiny. She was nearer to her than Isabel had yet discovered, and her nearness was not the charming accident she had so long supposed. The sense of accident indeed had died within her that day when she happened to be struck with the manner in which the wonderful lady and her own husband sat together in private. No definite suspicion had as yet taken its place; but it was enough to make her view this friend with a different eye, to have been led to reflect that there was more intention in her past behaviour than she had allowed for at the time. Ah yes, there had been intention, there had been intention, Isabel said to herself; and she seemed to wake from a long pernicious dream. What was it that brought home to her that Madame Merle's intention had not been good? Nothing but the mistrust which had lately taken body and which married itself now to the fruitful wonder produced by her visitor's challenge on behalf of poor Pansy. There was something in this challenge which had at the very outset excited an answering defiance; a nameless vitality which she could see to have been absent from her friend's professions of delicacy and caution. Madame Merle had been unwilling to interfere, certainly, but only so long as there was nothing to interfere with. It will perhaps seem to the reader that Isabel went fast in casting doubt, on mere suspicion, on a sincerity proved by several years of good offices. She moved quickly indeed, and with reason, for a strange truth was filtering into her soul. Madame Merle's interest was identical with Osmond's: that was enough. "I think Pansy will tell you nothing that will make you more angry," she said in answer to her companion's last remark. "I'm not in the least angry. I've only a great desire to retrieve the situation. Do you consider that Warburton has left us for ever?" "I can't tell you; I don't understand you. It's all over; please let it rest. Osmond has talked to me a great deal about it, and I've nothing more to say or to hear. I've no doubt," Isabel added, "that he'll be very happy to discuss the subject with you." "I know what he thinks; he came to see me last evening." "As soon as you had arrived? Then you know all about it and you needn't apply to me for information." "It isn't information I want. At bottom it's sympathy. I had set my heart on that marriage; the idea did what so few things do--it satisfied the imagination." "Your imagination, yes. But not that of the persons concerned." "You mean by that of course that I'm not concerned. Of course not directly. But when one's such an old friend one can't help having something at stake. You forget how long I've known Pansy. You mean, of course," Madame Merle added, "that YOU are one of the persons concerned." "No; that's the last thing I mean. I'm very weary of it all." Madame Merle hesitated a little. "Ah yes, your work's done." "Take care what you say," said Isabel very gravely. "Oh, I take care; never perhaps more than when it appears least. Your husband judges you severely." Isabel made for a moment no answer to this; she felt choked with bitterness. It was not the insolence of Madame Merle's informing her that Osmond had been taking her into his confidence as against his wife that struck her most; for she was not quick to believe that this was meant for insolence. Madame Merle was very rarely insolent, and only when it was exactly right. It was not right now, or at least it was not right yet. What touched Isabel like a drop of corrosive acid upon an open wound was the knowledge that Osmond dishonoured her in his words as well as in his thoughts. "Should you like to know how I judge HIM?" she asked at last. "No, because you'd never tell me. And it would be painful for me to know." There was a pause, and for the first time since she had known her Isabel thought Madame Merle disagreeable. She wished she would leave her. "Remember how attractive Pansy is, and don't despair," she said abruptly, with a desire that this should close their interview. But Madame Merle's expansive presence underwent no contraction. She only gathered her mantle about her and, with the movement, scattered upon the air a faint, agreeable fragrance. "I don't despair; I feel encouraged. And I didn't come to scold you; I came if possible to learn the truth. I know you'll tell it if I ask you. It's an immense blessing with you that one can count upon that. No, you won't believe what a comfort I take in it." "What truth do you speak of?" Isabel asked, wondering. "Just this: whether Lord Warburton changed his mind quite of his own movement or because you recommended it. To please himself I mean, or to please you. Think of the confidence I must still have in you, in spite of having lost a little of it," Madame Merle continued with a smile, "to ask such a question as that!" She sat looking at her friend, to judge the effect of her words, and then went on: "Now don't be heroic, don't be unreasonable, don't take offence. It seems to me I do you an honour in speaking so. I don't know another woman to whom I would do it. I haven't the least idea that any other woman would tell me the truth. And don't you see how well it is that your husband should know it? It's true that he doesn't appear to have had any tact whatever in trying to extract it; he has indulged in gratuitous suppositions. But that doesn't alter the fact that it would make a difference in his view of his daughter's prospects to know distinctly what really occurred. If Lord Warburton simply got tired of the poor child, that's one thing, and it's a pity. If he gave her up to please you it's another. That's a pity too, but in a different way. Then, in the latter case, you'd perhaps resign yourself to not being pleased--to simply seeing your step-daughter married. Let him off--let us have him!" Madame Merle had proceeded very deliberately, watching her companion and apparently thinking she could proceed safely. As she went on Isabel grew pale; she clasped her hands more tightly in her lap. It was not that her visitor had at last thought it the right time to be insolent; for this was not what was most apparent. It was a worse horror than that. "Who are you--what are you?" Isabel murmured. "What have you to do with my husband?" It was strange that for the moment she drew as near to him as if she had loved him. "Ah then, you take it heroically! I'm very sorry. Don't think, however, that I shall do so." "What have you to do with me?" Isabel went on. Madame Merle slowly got up, stroking her muff, but not removing her eyes from Isabel's face. "Everything!" she answered. Isabel sat there looking up at her, without rising; her face was almost a prayer to be enlightened. But the light of this woman's eyes seemed only a darkness. "Oh misery!" she murmured at last; and she fell back, covering her face with her hands. It had come over her like a high-surging wave that Mrs. Touchett was right. Madame Merle had married her. Before she uncovered her face again that lady had left the room. Isabel took a drive alone that afternoon; she wished to be far away, under the sky, where she could descend from her carriage and tread upon the daisies. She had long before this taken old Rome into her confidence, for in a world of ruins the ruin of her happiness seemed a less unnatural catastrophe. She rested her weariness upon things that had crumbled for centuries and yet still were upright; she dropped her secret sadness into the silence of lonely places, where its very modern quality detached itself and grew objective, so that as she sat in a sun-warmed angle on a winter's day, or stood in a mouldy church to which no one came, she could almost smile at it and think of its smallness. Small it was, in the large Roman record, and her haunting sense of the continuity of the human lot easily carried her from the less to the greater. She had become deeply, tenderly acquainted with Rome; it interfused and moderated her passion. But she had grown to think of it chiefly as the place where people had suffered. This was what came to her in the starved churches, where the marble columns, transferred from pagan ruins, seemed to offer her a companionship in endurance and the musty incense to be a compound of long-unanswered prayers. There was no gentler nor less consistent heretic than Isabel; the firmest of worshippers, gazing at dark altar-pictures or clustered candles, could not have felt more intimately the suggestiveness of these objects nor have been more liable at such moments to a spiritual visitation. Pansy, as we know, was almost always her companion, and of late the Countess Gemini, balancing a pink parasol, had lent brilliancy to their equipage; but she still occasionally found herself alone when it suited her mood and where it suited the place. On such occasions she had several resorts; the most accessible of which perhaps was a seat on the low parapet which edges the wide grassy space before the high, cold front of Saint John Lateran, whence you look across the Campagna at the far-trailing outline of the Alban Mount and at that mighty plain, between, which is still so full of all that has passed from it. After the departure of her cousin and his companions she roamed more than usual; she carried her sombre spirit from one familiar shrine to the other. Even when Pansy and the Countess were with her she felt the touch of a vanished world. The carriage, leaving the walls of Rome behind, rolled through narrow lanes where the wild honeysuckle had begun to tangle itself in the hedges, or waited for her in quiet places where the fields lay near, while she strolled further and further over the flower-freckled turf, or sat on a stone that had once had a use and gazed through the veil of her personal sadness at the splendid sadness of the scene--at the dense, warm light, the far gradations and soft confusions of colour, the motionless shepherds in lonely attitudes, the hills where the cloud-shadows had the lightness of a blush. On the afternoon I began with speaking of, she had taken a resolution not to think of Madame Merle; but the resolution proved vain, and this lady's image hovered constantly before her. She asked herself, with an almost childlike horror of the supposition, whether to this intimate friend of several years the great historical epithet of wicked were to be applied. She knew the idea only by the Bible and other literary works; to the best of her belief she had had no personal acquaintance with wickedness. She had desired a large acquaintance with human life, and in spite of her having flattered herself that she cultivated it with some success this elementary privilege had been denied her. Perhaps it was not wicked--in the historic sense--to be even deeply false; for that was what Madame Merle had been--deeply, deeply, deeply. Isabel's Aunt Lydia had made this discovery long before, and had mentioned it to her niece; but Isabel had flattered herself at this time that she had a much richer view of things, especially of the spontaneity of her own career and the nobleness of her own interpretations, than poor stiffly-reasoning Mrs. Touchett. Madame Merle had done what she wanted; she had brought about the union of her two friends; a reflection which could not fail to make it a matter of wonder that she should so much have desired such an event. There were people who had the match-making passion, like the votaries of art for art; but Madame Merle, great artist as she was, was scarcely one of these. She thought too ill of marriage, too ill even of life; she had desired that particular marriage but had not desired others. She had therefore had a conception of gain, and Isabel asked herself where she had found her profit. It took her naturally a long time to discover, and even then her discovery was imperfect. It came back to her that Madame Merle, though she had seemed to like her from their first meeting at Gardencourt, had been doubly affectionate after Mr. Touchett's death and after learning that her young friend had been subject to the good old man's charity. She had found her profit not in the gross device of borrowing money, but in the more refined idea of introducing one of her intimates to the young woman's fresh and ingenuous fortune. She had naturally chosen her closest intimate, and it was already vivid enough to Isabel that Gilbert occupied this position. She found herself confronted in this manner with the conviction that the man in the world whom she had supposed to be the least sordid had married her, like a vulgar adventurer, for her money. Strange to say, it had never before occurred to her; if she had thought a good deal of harm of Osmond she had not done him this particular injury. This was the worst she could think of, and she had been saying to herself that the worst was still to come. A man might marry a woman for her money perfectly well; the thing was often done. But at least he should let her know. She wondered whether, since he had wanted her money, her money would now satisfy him. Would he take her money and let her go. Ah, if Mr. Touchett's great charity would but help her to-day it would be blessed indeed! It was not slow to occur to her that if Madame Merle had wished to do Gilbert a service his recognition to her of the boon must have lost its warmth. What must be his feelings to-day in regard to his too zealous benefactress, and what expression must they have found on the part of such a master of irony? It is a singular, but a characteristic, fact that before Isabel returned from her silent drive she had broken its silence by the soft exclamation: "Poor, poor Madame Merle!" Her compassion would perhaps have been justified if on this same afternoon she had been concealed behind one of the valuable curtains of time-softened damask which dressed the interesting little salon of the lady to whom it referred; the carefully-arranged apartment to which we once paid a visit in company with the discreet Mr. Rosier. In that apartment, towards six o'clock, Gilbert Osmond was seated, and his hostess stood before him as Isabel had seen her stand on an occasion commemorated in this history with an emphasis appropriate not so much to its apparent as to its real importance. "I don't believe you're unhappy; I believe you like it," said Madame Merle. "Did I say I was unhappy?" Osmond asked with a face grave enough to suggest that he might have been. "No, but you don't say the contrary, as you ought in common gratitude." "Don't talk about gratitude," he returned dryly. "And don't aggravate me," he added in a moment. Madame Merle slowly seated herself, with her arms folded and her white hands arranged as a support to one of them and an ornament, as it were, to the other. She looked exquisitely calm but impressively sad. "On your side, don't try to frighten me. I wonder if you guess some of my thoughts." "I trouble about them no more than I can help. I've quite enough of my own." "That's because they're so delightful." Osmond rested his head against the back of his chair and looked at his companion with a cynical directness which seemed also partly an expression of fatigue. "You do aggravate me," he remarked in a moment. "I'm very tired." "Eh moi donc!" cried Madame Merle. "With you it's because you fatigue yourself. With me it's not my own fault." "When I fatigue myself it's for you. I've given you an interest. That's a great gift." "Do you call it an interest?" Osmond enquired with detachment. "Certainly, since it helps you to pass your time." "The time has never seemed longer to me than this winter." "You've never looked better; you've never been so agreeable, so brilliant." "Damn my brilliancy!" he thoughtfully murmured. "How little, after all, you know me!" "If I don't know you I know nothing," smiled Madame Merle. "You've the feeling of complete success." "No, I shall not have that till I've made you stop judging me." "I did that long ago. I speak from old knowledge. But you express yourself more too." Osmond just hung fire. "I wish you'd express yourself less!" "You wish to condemn me to silence? Remember that I've never been a chatterbox. At any rate there are three or four things I should like to say to you first. Your wife doesn't know what to do with herself," she went on with a change of tone. "Pardon me; she knows perfectly. She has a line sharply drawn. She means to carry out her ideas." "Her ideas to-day must be remarkable." "Certainly they are. She has more of them than ever." "She was unable to show me any this morning," said Madame Merle. "She seemed in a very simple, almost in a stupid, state of mind. She was completely bewildered." "You had better say at once that she was pathetic." "Ah no, I don't want to encourage you too much." He still had his head against the cushion behind him; the ankle of one foot rested on the other knee. So he sat for a while. "I should like to know what's the matter with you," he said at last. "The matter--the matter--!" And here Madame Merle stopped. Then she went on with a sudden outbreak of passion, a burst of summer thunder in a clear sky: "The matter is that I would give my right hand to be able to weep, and that I can't!" "What good would it do you to weep?" "It would make me feel as I felt before I knew you." "If I've dried your tears, that's something. But I've seen you shed them." "Oh, I believe you'll make me cry still. I mean make me howl like a wolf. I've a great hope, I've a great need, of that. I was vile this morning; I was horrid," she said. "If Isabel was in the stupid state of mind you mention she probably didn't perceive it," Osmond answered. "It was precisely my deviltry that stupefied her. I couldn't help it; I was full of something bad. Perhaps it was something good; I don't know. You've not only dried up my tears; you've dried up my soul." "It's not I then that am responsible for my wife's condition," Osmond said. "It's pleasant to think that I shall get the benefit of your influence upon her. Don't you know the soul is an immortal principle? How can it suffer alteration?" "I don't believe at all that it's an immortal principle. I believe it can perfectly be destroyed. That's what has happened to mine, which was a very good one to start with; and it's you I have to thank for it. You're VERY bad," she added with gravity in her emphasis. "Is this the way we're to end?" Osmond asked with the same studied coldness. "I don't know how we're to end. I wish I did--How do bad people end?--especially as to their COMMON crimes. You have made me as bad as yourself." "I don't understand you. You seem to me quite good enough," said Osmond, his conscious indifference giving an extreme effect to the words. Madame Merle's self-possession tended on the contrary to diminish, and she was nearer losing it than on any occasion on which we have had the pleasure of meeting her. The glow of her eye turners sombre; her smile betrayed a painful effort. "Good enough for anything that I've done with myself? I suppose that's what you mean." "Good enough to be always charming!" Osmond exclaimed, smiling too. "Oh God!" his companion murmured; and, sitting there in her ripe freshness, she had recourse to the same gesture she had provoked on Isabel's part in the morning: she bent her face and covered it with her hands. "Are you going to weep after all?" Osmond asked; and on her remaining motionless he went on: "Have I ever complained to you?" She dropped her hands quickly. "No, you've taken your revenge otherwise--you have taken it on HER." Osmond threw back his head further; he looked a while at the ceiling and might have been supposed to be appealing, in an informal way, to the heavenly powers. "Oh, the imagination of women! It's always vulgar, at bottom. You talk of revenge like a third-rate novelist." "Of course you haven't complained. You've enjoyed your triumph too much." "I'm rather curious to know what you call my triumph." "You've made your wife afraid of you." Osmond changed his position; he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees and looking a while at a beautiful old Persian rug, at his feet. He had an air of refusing to accept any one's valuation of anything, even of time, and of preferring to abide by his own; a peculiarity which made him at moments an irritating person to converse with. "Isabel's not afraid of me, and it's not what I wish," he said at last. "To what do you want to provoke me when you say such things as that?" "I've thought over all the harm you can do me," Madame Merle answered. "Your wife was afraid of me this morning, but in me it was really you she feared." "You may have said things that were in very bad taste; I'm not responsible for that. I didn't see the use of your going to see her at all: you're capable of acting without her. I've not made you afraid of me that I can see," he went on; "how then should I have made her? You're at least as brave. I can't think where you've picked up such rubbish; one might suppose you knew me by this time." He got up as he spoke and walked to the chimney, where he stood a moment bending his eye, as if he had seen them for the first time, on the delicate specimens of rare porcelain with which it was covered. He took up a small cup and held it in his hand; then, still holding it and leaning his arm on the mantel, he pursued: "You always see too much in everything; you overdo it; you lose sight of the real. I'm much simpler than you think." "I think you're very simple." And Madame Merle kept her eye on her cup. "I've come to that with time. I judged you, as I say, of old; but it's only since your marriage that I've understood you. I've seen better what you have been to your wife than I ever saw what you were for me. Please be very careful of that precious object." "It already has a wee bit of a tiny crack," said Osmond dryly as he put it down. "If you didn't understand me before I married it was cruelly rash of you to put me into such a box. However, I took a fancy to my box myself; I thought it would be a comfortable fit. I asked very little; I only asked that she should like me." "That she should like you so much!" "So much, of course; in such a case one asks the maximum. That she should adore me, if you will. Oh yes, I wanted that." "I never adored you," said Madame Merle. "Ah, but you pretended to!" "It's true that you never accused me of being a comfortable fit," Madame Merle went on. "My wife has declined--declined to do anything of the sort," said Osmond. "If you're determined to make a tragedy of that, the tragedy's hardly for her." "The tragedy's for me!" Madame Merle exclaimed, rising with a long low sigh but having a glance at the same time for the contents of her mantel-shelf. "It appears that I'm to be severely taught the disadvantages of a false position." "You express yourself like a sentence in a copybook. We must look for our comfort where we can find it. If my wife doesn't like me, at least my child does. I shall look for compensations in Pansy. Fortunately I haven't a fault to find with her." "Ah," she said softly, "if I had a child--!" Osmond waited, and then, with a little formal air, "The children of others may be a great interest!" he announced. "You're more like a copy-book than I. There's something after all that holds us together." "Is it the idea of the harm I may do you?" Osmond asked. "No; it's the idea of the good I may do for you. It's that," Madame Merle pursued, "that made me so jealous of Isabel. I want it to be MY work," she added, with her face, which had grown hard and bitter, relaxing to its habit of smoothness. Her friend took up his hat and his umbrella, and after giving the former article two or three strokes with his coat-cuff, "On the whole, I think," he said, "you had better leave it to me." After he had left her she went, the first thing, and lifted from the mantel-shelf the attenuated coffee-cup in which he had mentioned the existence of a crack; but she looked at it rather abstractedly. "Have I been so vile all for nothing?" she vaguely wailed.

Chapter 49

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-48-49

Madame Merle returns to Rome and she asks Isabel what happened with Lord Warburton. She pretends to take the whole affair lightly, but Isabel notices that she takes a more zealous interest than she should in Pansy's marriage. Isabel suspects even more than Merle has had a hand in Isabel's own marriage. She no longer feels that Merle's proximity to her is a mere "accident" , but rather that it is intentionally plotted. She has no definite suspicion, but she still feels there had been some sort of intention on Merle's part. Merle lets Isabel know that her husband is disappointed in her. Isabel feels bitter upon hearing how Osmond has been speaking ill of his wife. Merle insists on knowing whether Lord Warburton left on his own or whether Isabel advised it. She thinks it would help Osmond know what his daughter's prospects are if he knew what had occurred. Isabel turns pale. She asks Merle: "Who are you--what are you. What have you to do with my husband. What have you to do with me. Merle responds: "Everything. The truth came over Isabel like a "high-surging wave". Merle had been responsible for her marriage. Isabel goes for a drive alone that afternoon. The image of Madame Merle hovered before her. She wonders if the word "wicked" could be applied to her friend. She realizes that Merle has been deeply false to her. Isabel still wonders why Merle would want to bring about the event of her marriage so much that she should behave so badly. She thinks to herself that it must have something to do with money; Merle had married her to an intimate companion who might give Merle some money. She wonders if Gilbert had only wanted her money, would he let her go if she gave him all of it. She feels sorry for Merle, though, because she thinks she must not have gotten the money she had wanted. The narrator then leads the reader to a scene simultaneously occurring between Gilbert and Merle. Merle thinks Gilbert is ungrateful for what she has given him. Osmond is annoyed with her and asks what is wrong with her. She declares that she would give anything to be able to weep, but that she cannot do so anymore, since she has met Mr. Osmond. Merle recognizes that she was horrible to Isabel and she claims Gilbert has dried up her soul. Merle claims that Osmond has taken out his revenge upon Isabel, making his wife afraid of him and treating her badly. Osmond claims that she loses sight of the real and that he is in fact very simple. He asks only that his wife adore him. Merle says that she herself never adored him, and Osmond points out that she pretended to. Merle mourns the fact that she is being taught a lesson of having represented herself falsely, and Osmond critiques her for sounding like a "sentence in a copy book"

Goodwood is an interesting character because he introduces the specter of a possibly violent resolution to a book that has been so far, very melodramatic. There is the suggestion that he may kill Osmond. He seethes with rage during this scene. James extensively revised sections of the book for his New York Edition anthology in 1907, and it is notable that Goodwood's sections receive much attention. Caspar wants to "penetrate" Isabel - there is a suggestion that he does not only want knowledge of her situation, but carnal knowledge of her. James made Goodwood's sexuality more explicit in his revision of the novel. We might read this through a psychoanalytic lens, whereby sexuality, everywhere repressed by Victorian manners, threatens to bubble to the surface in the figure of Goodwood. Isabel's realizes that Merle and Osmond are much more intimate than she ever knew because Merle begins to deliver messages to Isabel from Osmond. Merle obviously knows what is "between" Osmond and Isabel, and she has acted as an intermediary the whole time. Isabel cannot pinpoint the concrete nature of Merle's interest in her marriage, but she recognizes the plot. This is a demonstration of Isabel's own imagination finally pinning itself on an intricate, real idea, as shadowy as it may be. The reader will remember that at the beginning of the novel, Isabel had only ideas without any concrete articulation of these ideas. Merle has provided the "means" for such an articulation through arranging a marriage to Osmond. However, Isabel here discovers that the intermediary has determined the entire idea. In other words, there is no escaping the effect that a medium has upon the message it expresses. The medium can actually change the meaning of the original idea it meant to express. In other words, Henry James is considering the nature of signifiers in relation to what they ultimately signify. Osmond and Merle's conversation finally reveals the intimate nature of their relationship -- the reader can guess that they once had an affair. Osmond's reaction to Merle is interesting: the story twice ironically references the melodramatic, literary nature of Merle's complaints through the voice of Osmond. He says she likes a "sentence in a copy book" and that she talks of revenge "like a third-rate novelist" . He serves something like an editorial function to her soap opera-like thoughts. It is as if Henry James is reflecting on the melodramatic nature of his plot and trying to "edit" it and make it more realistic through splitting the problem between two characters. We might understand the melodramatic nature of Henry James' novel in the context of Isabel's reference to Merle as a "wicked" person. In our modern world, to make the distinction between good and evil is a more theological notion that does not apply in our daily lives -- it seems somewhat antiquated for example to refer to someone who is a psychologically disturbed criminal as "evil" or "wicked." Isabel therefore notes the foreign usage of the word. Yet she applies the word because she is making a moral judgment of her friend, and morality is based on making such distinctions, between ultimately good and bad actions. To apply a standard of morality to something is generally to draw a line, a strong distinction between options. However, because this fictional world is devoid of religious guidance, it cannot be God who provides a guide for making such distinction. Instead, Henry James makes recourse to the melodrama: a genre that draws drastic distinctions and applies them to events of daily life. For more information on this idea, see Peter Brooks' book, The Melodramatic Imagination .

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/50.txt

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 50

chapter 50

{"name": "Chapter 50", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-50-51", "summary": "The Countess Gemini is visiting Isabel at the opening of this chapter. Pansy, Isabel and the Countess climb the Coliseum stairs together. Isabel notices, as Pansy and Countess ascend, that Edward Rosier is in the Coliseum as well, and he is watching them. He comes over to Isabel and tells her that he has sold all of his bibelots. He has done so that he will have money instead, enough for Mr. Osmond to think he is rich. Isabel tells him that Mr. Osmond will think him unwise now. Pansy and the Countess approach them, and Edward quickly leaves. On the way home, Pansy shoots Isabel a look of melancholy. Isabel feels sorry for Pansy, but also envious for her timid passion. The Countess and Edward go off together. Later, it seems that the Countess has sided with Edward. The next week, Pansy informs Isabel that her father is sending her back to the convent. Pansy says it will give her time to reflect. She will be very quiet and think a great deal. Isabel promises to visit her. That evening, Isabel tells Osmond that she will miss Pansy very much. He says that he is sending Pansy away because she is \"dusty\" and \"disheveled\" from being out in the world too much. The narrator tells us though that his explanation is not so much a real explanation as it is an attempt to put his idea into words, so that he may see how it might look. He declares that he wants Pansy to look at the world in the right way. Isabel finds Osmond's \"sketch\" very interesting. She feels as if it is being presented to her so as to mystify her, to make her imagination work. The Countess Gemini interrupts Osmond to say that he ought to say he is just banishing Pansy because of Mr. Rosier. Osmond replies that it would be easier to banish the Countess herself", "analysis": "Osmond's decision to send Pansy away is his attempt to exercise more control over Pansy and her understanding of the world. Pansy, ever the obedient daughter, does not take it bitterly and resolves herself to do what her father tells her. Osmond though wants to present his idea as if it is for his daughter's own interest, and he creates a \"portrait.\" This is an extended metaphor that is employed by the narrator to describe Osmond's actions. This metaphor then is presented to Isabel, who realizes the aesthetic illusion this sketch is supposed to create. The metaphor then serves to allow us to view these people's social relations and their attempts to manipulate the truth as similar to the way we approach a work of art. The reader of this ClassicNote will remember that aesthetics is the philosophical inquiry into what makes something beautiful, and what makes something into a work of art. Henry James, through this metaphor, is showing how Osmond can use aesthetic means to manipulate an ugly truth, to make an ugly truth appear better. Isabel, who once was convinced by Osmond's good taste , now is suspicious of it. She knows that it is a trick designed to work on her imagination, to make her believe that values are there which are not actually there. Osmond is able to control Isabel by appealing to her sense of higher values -- values that she realizes he does not share, but which he can nevertheless use against her. She tries to point out his hypocrisy, but he is somehow maintains the upper hand. The Countess arrives to put one of the final pieces of the puzzle together for Isabel. The use of a minor character to tie up this loose end and give a concrete reality to a suspicion that is only shadowy in Isabel's mind is a technique that is common to James' novels. In his New York Edition Prefaces, he calls it the use of a 'ficelle': a character that helps advance the plot, economizing on the infinite possibilities of what might happen by being minor themselves and somewhat two-dimensional. When Isabel learns the truth, she shows her truly good nature by exercising her empathy for Madame Merle, who has so wickedly deceived her. She recognizes that not even Pansy likes Madame Merle - Pansy, Merle's very own daughter. Isabel has been successful exactly where Merle has not been: she has money, has received marriage proposals from prominent men, and she is often thought of as Pansy's guardian and stepmother."}

As the Countess Gemini was not acquainted with the ancient monuments Isabel occasionally offered to introduce her to these interesting relics and to give their afternoon drive an antiquarian aim. The Countess, who professed to think her sister-in-law a prodigy of learning, never made an objection, and gazed at masses of Roman brickwork as patiently as if they had been mounds of modern drapery. She had not the historic sense, though she had in some directions the anecdotic, and as regards herself the apologetic, but she was so delighted to be in Rome that she only desired to float with the current. She would gladly have passed an hour every day in the damp darkness of the Baths of Titus if it had been a condition of her remaining at Palazzo Roccanera. Isabel, however, was not a severe cicerone; she used to visit the ruins chiefly because they offered an excuse for talking about other matters than the love affairs of the ladies of Florence, as to which her companion was never weary of offering information. It must be added that during these visits the Countess forbade herself every form of active research; her preference was to sit in the carriage and exclaim that everything was most interesting. It was in this manner that she had hitherto examined the Coliseum, to the infinite regret of her niece, who--with all the respect that she owed her--could not see why she should not descend from the vehicle and enter the building. Pansy had so little chance to ramble that her view of the case was not wholly disinterested; it may be divined that she had a secret hope that, once inside, her parents' guest might be induced to climb to the upper tiers. There came a day when the Countess announced her willingness to undertake this feat--a mild afternoon in March when the windy month expressed itself in occasional puffs of spring. The three ladies went into the Coliseum together, but Isabel left her companions to wander over the place. She had often ascended to those desolate ledges from which the Roman crowd used to bellow applause and where now the wild flowers (when they are allowed) bloom in the deep crevices; and to-day she felt weary and disposed to sit in the despoiled arena. It made an intermission too, for the Countess often asked more from one's attention than she gave in return; and Isabel believed that when she was alone with her niece she let the dust gather for a moment on the ancient scandals of the Arnide. She so remained below therefore, while Pansy guided her undiscriminating aunt to the steep brick staircase at the foot of which the custodian unlocks the tall wooden gate. The great enclosure was half in shadow; the western sun brought out the pale red tone of the great blocks of travertine--the latent colour that is the only living element in the immense ruin. Here and there wandered a peasant or a tourist, looking up at the far sky-line where, in the clear stillness, a multitude of swallows kept circling and plunging. Isabel presently became aware that one of the other visitors, planted in the middle of the arena, had turned his attention to her own person and was looking at her with a certain little poise of the head which she had some weeks before perceived to be characteristic of baffled but indestructible purpose. Such an attitude, to-day, could belong only to Mr. Edward Rosier; and this gentleman proved in fact to have been considering the question of speaking to her. When he had assured himself that she was unaccompanied he drew near, remarking that though she would not answer his letters she would perhaps not wholly close her ears to his spoken eloquence. She replied that her stepdaughter was close at hand and that she could only give him five minutes; whereupon he took out his watch and sat down upon a broken block. "It's very soon told," said Edward Rosier. "I've sold all my bibelots!" Isabel gave instinctively an exclamation of horror; it was as if he had told her he had had all his teeth drawn. "I've sold them by auction at the Hotel Drouot," he went on. "The sale took place three days ago, and they've telegraphed me the result. It's magnificent." "I'm glad to hear it; but I wish you had kept your pretty things." "I have the money instead--fifty thousand dollars. Will Mr. Osmond think me rich enough now?" "Is it for that you did it?" Isabel asked gently. "For what else in the world could it be? That's the only thing I think of. I went to Paris and made my arrangements. I couldn't stop for the sale; I couldn't have seen them going off; I think it would have killed me. But I put them into good hands, and they brought high prices. I should tell you I have kept my enamels. Now I have the money in my pocket, and he can't say I'm poor!" the young man exclaimed defiantly. "He'll say now that you're not wise," said Isabel, as if Gilbert Osmond had never said this before. Rosier gave her a sharp look. "Do you mean that without my bibelots I'm nothing? Do you mean they were the best thing about me? That's what they told me in Paris; oh they were very frank about it. But they hadn't seen HER!" "My dear friend, you deserve to succeed," said Isabel very kindly. "You say that so sadly that it's the same as if you said I shouldn't." And he questioned her eyes with the clear trepidation of his own. He had the air of a man who knows he has been the talk of Paris for a week and is full half a head taller in consequence, but who also has a painful suspicion that in spite of this increase of stature one or two persons still have the perversity to think him diminutive. "I know what happened here while I was away," he went on; "What does Mr. Osmond expect after she has refused Lord Warburton?" Isabel debated. "That she'll marry another nobleman." "What other nobleman?" "One that he'll pick out." Rosier slowly got up, putting his watch into his waistcoat-pocket. "You're laughing at some one, but this time I don't think it's at me." "I didn't mean to laugh," said Isabel. "I laugh very seldom. Now you had better go away." "I feel very safe!" Rosier declared without moving. This might be; but it evidently made him feel more so to make the announcement in rather a loud voice, balancing himself a little complacently on his toes and looking all round the Coliseum as if it were filled with an audience. Suddenly Isabel saw him change colour; there was more of an audience than he had suspected. She turned and perceived that her two companions had returned from their excursion. "You must really go away," she said quickly. "Ah, my dear lady, pity me!" Edward Rosier murmured in a voice strangely at variance with the announcement I have just quoted. And then he added eagerly, like a man who in the midst of his misery is seized by a happy thought: "Is that lady the Countess Gemini? I've a great desire to be presented to her." Isabel looked at him a moment. "She has no influence with her brother." "Ah, what a monster you make him out!" And Rosier faced the Countess, who advanced, in front of Pansy, with an animation partly due perhaps to the fact that she perceived her sister-in-law to be engaged in conversation with a very pretty young man. "I'm glad you've kept your enamels!" Isabel called as she left him. She went straight to Pansy, who, on seeing Edward Rosier, had stopped short, with lowered eyes. "We'll go back to the carriage," she said gently. "Yes, it's getting late," Pansy returned more gently still. And she went on without a murmur, without faltering or glancing back. Isabel, however, allowing herself this last liberty, saw that a meeting had immediately taken place between the Countess and Mr. Rosier. He had removed his hat and was bowing and smiling; he had evidently introduced himself, while the Countess's expressive back displayed to Isabel's eye a gracious inclination. These facts, none the less, were presently lost to sight, for Isabel and Pansy took their places again in the carriage. Pansy, who faced her stepmother, at first kept her eyes fixed on her lap; then she raised them and rested them on Isabel's. There shone out of each of them a little melancholy ray--a spark of timid passion which touched Isabel to the heart. At the same time a wave of envy passed over her soul, as she compared the tremulous longing, the definite ideal of the child with her own dry despair. "Poor little Pansy!" she affectionately said. "Oh never mind!" Pansy answered in the tone of eager apology. And then there was a silence; the Countess was a long time coming. "Did you show your aunt everything, and did she enjoy it?" Isabel asked at last. "Yes, I showed her everything. I think she was very much pleased." "And you're not tired, I hope." "Oh no, thank you, I'm not tired." The Countess still remained behind, so that Isabel requested the footman to go into the Coliseum and tell her they were waiting. He presently returned with the announcement that the Signora Contessa begged them not to wait--she would come home in a cab! About a week after this lady's quick sympathies had enlisted themselves with Mr. Rosier, Isabel, going rather late to dress for dinner, found Pansy sitting in her room. The girl seemed to have been awaiting her; she got up from her low chair. "Pardon my taking the liberty," she said in a small voice. "It will be the last--for some time." Her voice was strange, and her eyes, widely opened, had an excited, frightened look. "You're not going away!" Isabel exclaimed. "I'm going to the convent." "To the convent?" Pansy drew nearer, till she was near enough to put her arms round Isabel and rest her head on her shoulder. She stood this way a moment, perfectly still; but her companion could feel her tremble. The quiver of her little body expressed everything she was unable to say. Isabel nevertheless pressed her. "Why are you going to the convent?" "Because papa thinks it best. He says a young girl's better, every now and then, for making a little retreat. He says the world, always the world, is very bad for a young girl. This is just a chance for a little seclusion--a little reflexion." Pansy spoke in short detached sentences, as if she could scarce trust herself; and then she added with a triumph of self-control: "I think papa's right; I've been so much in the world this winter." Her announcement had a strange effect on Isabel; it seemed to carry a larger meaning than the girl herself knew. "When was this decided?" she asked. "I've heard nothing of it." "Papa told me half an hour ago; he thought it better it shouldn't be too much talked about in advance. Madame Catherine's to come for me at a quarter past seven, and I'm only to take two frocks. It's only for a few weeks; I'm sure it will be very good. I shall find all those ladies who used to be so kind to me, and I shall see the little girls who are being educated. I'm very fond of little girls," said Pansy with an effect of diminutive grandeur. "And I'm also very fond of Mother Catherine. I shall be very quiet and think a great deal." Isabel listened to her, holding her breath; she was almost awe-struck. "Think of ME sometimes." "Ah, come and see me soon!" cried Pansy; and the cry was very different from the heroic remarks of which she had just delivered herself. Isabel could say nothing more; she understood nothing; she only felt how little she yet knew her husband. Her answer to his daughter was a long, tender kiss. Half an hour later she learned from her maid that Madame Catherine had arrived in a cab and had departed again with the signorina. On going to the drawing-room before dinner she found the Countess Gemini alone, and this lady characterised the incident by exclaiming, with a wonderful toss of the head, "En voila, ma chere, une pose!" But if it was an affectation she was at a loss to see what her husband affected. She could only dimly perceive that he had more traditions than she supposed. It had become her habit to be so careful as to what she said to him that, strange as it may appear, she hesitated, for several minutes after he had come in, to allude to his daughter's sudden departure: she spoke of it only after they were seated at table. But she had forbidden herself ever to ask Osmond a question. All she could do was to make a declaration, and there was one that came very naturally. "I shall miss Pansy very much." He looked a while, with his head inclined a little, at the basket of flowers in the middle of the table. "Ah yes," he said at last, "I had thought of that. You must go and see her, you know; but not too often. I dare say you wonder why I sent her to the good sisters; but I doubt if I can make you understand. It doesn't matter; don't trouble yourself about it. That's why I had not spoken of it. I didn't believe you would enter into it. But I've always had the idea; I've always thought it a part of the education of one's daughter. One's daughter should be fresh and fair; she should be innocent and gentle. With the manners of the present time she is liable to become so dusty and crumpled. Pansy's a little dusty, a little dishevelled; she has knocked about too much. This bustling, pushing rabble that calls itself society--one should take her out of it occasionally. Convents are very quiet, very convenient, very salutary. I like to think of her there, in the old garden, under the arcade, among those tranquil virtuous women. Many of them are gentlewomen born; several of them are noble. She will have her books and her drawing, she will have her piano. I've made the most liberal arrangements. There is to be nothing ascetic; there's just to be a certain little sense of sequestration. She'll have time to think, and there's something I want her to think about." Osmond spoke deliberately, reasonably, still with his head on one side, as if he were looking at the basket of flowers. His tone, however, was that of a man not so much offering an explanation as putting a thing into words--almost into pictures--to see, himself, how it would look. He considered a while the picture he had evoked and seemed greatly pleased with it. And then he went on: "The Catholics are very wise after all. The convent is a great institution; we can't do without it; it corresponds to an essential need in families, in society. It's a school of good manners; it's a school of repose. Oh, I don't want to detach my daughter from the world," he added; "I don't want to make her fix her thoughts on any other. This one's very well, as SHE should take it, and she may think of it as much as she likes. Only she must think of it in the right way." Isabel gave an extreme attention to this little sketch; she found it indeed intensely interesting. It seemed to show her how far her husband's desire to be effective was capable of going--to the point of playing theoretic tricks on the delicate organism of his daughter. She could not understand his purpose, no--not wholly; but she understood it better than he supposed or desired, inasmuch as she was convinced that the whole proceeding was an elaborate mystification, addressed to herself and destined to act upon her imagination. He had wanted to do something sudden and arbitrary, something unexpected and refined; to mark the difference between his sympathies and her own, and show that if he regarded his daughter as a precious work of art it was natural he should be more and more careful about the finishing touches. If he wished to be effective he had succeeded; the incident struck a chill into Isabel's heart. Pansy had known the convent in her childhood and had found a happy home there; she was fond of the good sisters, who were very fond of her, and there was therefore for the moment no definite hardship in her lot. But all the same the girl had taken fright; the impression her father desired to make would evidently be sharp enough. The old Protestant tradition had never faded from Isabel's imagination, and as her thoughts attached themselves to this striking example of her husband's genius--she sat looking, like him, at the basket of flowers--poor little Pansy became the heroine of a tragedy. Osmond wished it to be known that he shrank from nothing, and his wife found it hard to pretend to eat her dinner. There was a certain relief presently, in hearing the high, strained voice of her sister-in-law. The Countess too, apparently, had been thinking the thing out, but had arrived at a different conclusion from Isabel. "It's very absurd, my dear Osmond," she said, "to invent so many pretty reasons for poor Pansy's banishment. Why don't you say at once that you want to get her out of my way? Haven't you discovered that I think very well of Mr. Rosier? I do indeed; he seems to me simpaticissimo. He has made me believe in true love; I never did before! Of course you've made up your mind that with those convictions I'm dreadful company for Pansy." Osmond took a sip of a glass of wine; he looked perfectly good-humoured. "My dear Amy," he answered, smiling as if he were uttering a piece of gallantry, "I don't know anything about your convictions, but if I suspected that they interfere with mine it would be much simpler to banish YOU."

Chapter 50

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-50-51

The Countess Gemini is visiting Isabel at the opening of this chapter. Pansy, Isabel and the Countess climb the Coliseum stairs together. Isabel notices, as Pansy and Countess ascend, that Edward Rosier is in the Coliseum as well, and he is watching them. He comes over to Isabel and tells her that he has sold all of his bibelots. He has done so that he will have money instead, enough for Mr. Osmond to think he is rich. Isabel tells him that Mr. Osmond will think him unwise now. Pansy and the Countess approach them, and Edward quickly leaves. On the way home, Pansy shoots Isabel a look of melancholy. Isabel feels sorry for Pansy, but also envious for her timid passion. The Countess and Edward go off together. Later, it seems that the Countess has sided with Edward. The next week, Pansy informs Isabel that her father is sending her back to the convent. Pansy says it will give her time to reflect. She will be very quiet and think a great deal. Isabel promises to visit her. That evening, Isabel tells Osmond that she will miss Pansy very much. He says that he is sending Pansy away because she is "dusty" and "disheveled" from being out in the world too much. The narrator tells us though that his explanation is not so much a real explanation as it is an attempt to put his idea into words, so that he may see how it might look. He declares that he wants Pansy to look at the world in the right way. Isabel finds Osmond's "sketch" very interesting. She feels as if it is being presented to her so as to mystify her, to make her imagination work. The Countess Gemini interrupts Osmond to say that he ought to say he is just banishing Pansy because of Mr. Rosier. Osmond replies that it would be easier to banish the Countess herself

Osmond's decision to send Pansy away is his attempt to exercise more control over Pansy and her understanding of the world. Pansy, ever the obedient daughter, does not take it bitterly and resolves herself to do what her father tells her. Osmond though wants to present his idea as if it is for his daughter's own interest, and he creates a "portrait." This is an extended metaphor that is employed by the narrator to describe Osmond's actions. This metaphor then is presented to Isabel, who realizes the aesthetic illusion this sketch is supposed to create. The metaphor then serves to allow us to view these people's social relations and their attempts to manipulate the truth as similar to the way we approach a work of art. The reader of this ClassicNote will remember that aesthetics is the philosophical inquiry into what makes something beautiful, and what makes something into a work of art. Henry James, through this metaphor, is showing how Osmond can use aesthetic means to manipulate an ugly truth, to make an ugly truth appear better. Isabel, who once was convinced by Osmond's good taste , now is suspicious of it. She knows that it is a trick designed to work on her imagination, to make her believe that values are there which are not actually there. Osmond is able to control Isabel by appealing to her sense of higher values -- values that she realizes he does not share, but which he can nevertheless use against her. She tries to point out his hypocrisy, but he is somehow maintains the upper hand. The Countess arrives to put one of the final pieces of the puzzle together for Isabel. The use of a minor character to tie up this loose end and give a concrete reality to a suspicion that is only shadowy in Isabel's mind is a technique that is common to James' novels. In his New York Edition Prefaces, he calls it the use of a 'ficelle': a character that helps advance the plot, economizing on the infinite possibilities of what might happen by being minor themselves and somewhat two-dimensional. When Isabel learns the truth, she shows her truly good nature by exercising her empathy for Madame Merle, who has so wickedly deceived her. She recognizes that not even Pansy likes Madame Merle - Pansy, Merle's very own daughter. Isabel has been successful exactly where Merle has not been: she has money, has received marriage proposals from prominent men, and she is often thought of as Pansy's guardian and stepmother.

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all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/51.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_17_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 51

chapter 51

{"name": "Chapter 51", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-50-51", "summary": "A week after Pansy's departure, Isabel receives a telegram from Mrs. Touchett. Ralph has taken a turn for the worse and will die soon. Isabel goes to Osmond's study so as to inform him of Ralph's condition and to declare her intention to go to Gardencourt to visit Ralph. Osmond thinks the only reason she is going is so that she will take her revenge out on her husband. Osmond tells her that if she leaves for Rome it will mean that she has taken a calculated opposition against her husband. Isabel tells him that it is his own opposition that is malignant and calculated. This is her worst thought -- she has never before spoken to her husband in this manner. Osmond reminds her that their union is of \"deliberate making\" and that as her husband, he wants her to take their marriage seriously. He claims that he values honor above all. Isabel feels that this is really his egotism speaking, but also constitutes an appeal to her sense of honor. She recognizes that he speaks in the name of the most sacred things--the observance of a magnificent form. She had previously felt she could take action in visiting Ralph, but now she feels that this action's meaning has changed suddenly, \"transformed by the blight of Osmond's touch\". Isabel though does not give up easily, and she accuses her husband of speaking of their union when he accuses her of falsity. Isabel says that if she goes, Osmond must expect her never to come back. Osmond, who has turned to drawing a little sketch of something, thinks she is out of her mind. Isabel leaves, feeling as if Osmond can use any of her weaknesses against her. On her way out, she encounters Countess Gemini. She tells the Countess about Ralph's bad condition. The Countess for a minute realizes that Isabel will soon go into mourning and there will be no more dinner parties for her to attend. She also thinks about Isabel's troubled condition. Isabel returns to her room and thinks about how one must choose one's husband over all else. She feels afraid of the violence of her going when Osmond wished her to stay. Isabel buries herself into a pile of cushions. The Countess Gemini is hovering above her when she looks up. The Countess has come to comfort her and to encourage Isabel to do what she likes, to visit Ralph. She then tells Isabel that her first sister-in-law, the first wife of Osmond, had no children. Pansy is the daughter of Osmond and the wife of another man -- Madame Merle. Osmond had managed to disguise Pansy as the daughter of his deceased wife. Madame Merle had not been able to pass off the child as her own because she had been too long separated from her husband for it to be his. Isabel wonders that the Countess tells her this now. The Countess admits that she is bored with Isabel not knowing, and she is surprised at all the things that Isabel has succeeded in not knowing. Isabel pities Madame Merle, and the Countess is entertained by Isabel's kindness. Isabel wonders why Osmond never married Madame Merle, and the Countess responds that Merle does not have money. Merle herself also still wanted to marry a great man. The Countess concludes the conversation by asking Isabel if she will go on her journey after all. Isabel looks ill, and declares with an \"infinite sadness\" that she must see Ralph", "analysis": "Osmond's decision to send Pansy away is his attempt to exercise more control over Pansy and her understanding of the world. Pansy, ever the obedient daughter, does not take it bitterly and resolves herself to do what her father tells her. Osmond though wants to present his idea as if it is for his daughter's own interest, and he creates a \"portrait.\" This is an extended metaphor that is employed by the narrator to describe Osmond's actions. This metaphor then is presented to Isabel, who realizes the aesthetic illusion this sketch is supposed to create. The metaphor then serves to allow us to view these people's social relations and their attempts to manipulate the truth as similar to the way we approach a work of art. The reader of this ClassicNote will remember that aesthetics is the philosophical inquiry into what makes something beautiful, and what makes something into a work of art. Henry James, through this metaphor, is showing how Osmond can use aesthetic means to manipulate an ugly truth, to make an ugly truth appear better. Isabel, who once was convinced by Osmond's good taste , now is suspicious of it. She knows that it is a trick designed to work on her imagination, to make her believe that values are there which are not actually there. Osmond is able to control Isabel by appealing to her sense of higher values -- values that she realizes he does not share, but which he can nevertheless use against her. She tries to point out his hypocrisy, but he is somehow maintains the upper hand. The Countess arrives to put one of the final pieces of the puzzle together for Isabel. The use of a minor character to tie up this loose end and give a concrete reality to a suspicion that is only shadowy in Isabel's mind is a technique that is common to James' novels. In his New York Edition Prefaces, he calls it the use of a 'ficelle': a character that helps advance the plot, economizing on the infinite possibilities of what might happen by being minor themselves and somewhat two-dimensional. When Isabel learns the truth, she shows her truly good nature by exercising her empathy for Madame Merle, who has so wickedly deceived her. She recognizes that not even Pansy likes Madame Merle - Pansy, Merle's very own daughter. Isabel has been successful exactly where Merle has not been: she has money, has received marriage proposals from prominent men, and she is often thought of as Pansy's guardian and stepmother."}

The Countess was not banished, but she felt the insecurity of her tenure of her brother's hospitality. A week after this incident Isabel received a telegram from England, dated from Gardencourt and bearing the stamp of Mrs. Touchett's authorship. "Ralph cannot last many days," it ran, "and if convenient would like to see you. Wishes me to say that you must come only if you've not other duties. Say, for myself, that you used to talk a good deal about your duty and to wonder what it was; shall be curious to see whether you've found it out. Ralph is really dying, and there's no other company." Isabel was prepared for this news, having received from Henrietta Stackpole a detailed account of her journey to England with her appreciative patient. Ralph had arrived more dead than alive, but she had managed to convey him to Gardencourt, where he had taken to his bed, which, as Miss Stackpole wrote, he evidently would never leave again. She added that she had really had two patients on her hands instead of one, inasmuch as Mr. Goodwood, who had been of no earthly use, was quite as ailing, in a different way, as Mr. Touchett. Afterwards she wrote that she had been obliged to surrender the field to Mrs. Touchett, who had just returned from America and had promptly given her to understand that she didn't wish any interviewing at Gardencourt. Isabel had written to her aunt shortly after Ralph came to Rome, letting her know of his critical condition and suggesting that she should lose no time in returning to Europe. Mrs. Touchett had telegraphed an acknowledgement of this admonition, and the only further news Isabel received from her was the second telegram I have just quoted. Isabel stood a moment looking at the latter missive; then, thrusting it into her pocket, she went straight to the door of her husband's study. Here she again paused an instant, after which she opened the door and went in. Osmond was seated at the table near the window with a folio volume before him, propped against a pile of books. This volume was open at a page of small coloured plates, and Isabel presently saw that he had been copying from it the drawing of an antique coin. A box of water-colours and fine brushes lay before him, and he had already transferred to a sheet of immaculate paper the delicate, finely-tinted disk. His back was turned toward the door, but he recognised his wife without looking round. "Excuse me for disturbing you," she said. "When I come to your room I always knock," he answered, going on with his work. "I forgot; I had something else to think of. My cousin's dying." "Ah, I don't believe that," said Osmond, looking at his drawing through a magnifying glass. "He was dying when we married; he'll outlive us all." Isabel gave herself no time, no thought, to appreciate the careful cynicism of this declaration; she simply went on quickly, full of her own intention "My aunt has telegraphed for me; I must go to Gardencourt." "Why must you go to Gardencourt?" Osmond asked in the tone of impartial curiosity. "To see Ralph before he dies." To this, for some time, he made no rejoinder; he continued to give his chief attention to his work, which was of a sort that would brook no negligence. "I don't see the need of it," he said at last. "He came to see you here. I didn't like that; I thought his being in Rome a great mistake. But I tolerated it because it was to be the last time you should see him. Now you tell me it's not to have been the last. Ah, you're not grateful!" "What am I to be grateful for?" Gilbert Osmond laid down his little implements, blew a speck of dust from his drawing, slowly got up, and for the first time looked at his wife. "For my not having interfered while he was here." "Oh yes, I am. I remember perfectly how distinctly you let me know you didn't like it. I was very glad when he went away." "Leave him alone then. Don't run after him." Isabel turned her eyes away from him; they rested upon his little drawing. "I must go to England," she said, with a full consciousness that her tone might strike an irritable man of taste as stupidly obstinate. "I shall not like it if you do," Osmond remarked. "Why should I mind that? You won't like it if I don't. You like nothing I do or don't do. You pretend to think I lie." Osmond turned slightly pale; he gave a cold smile. "That's why you must go then? Not to see your cousin, but to take a revenge on me." "I know nothing about revenge." "I do," said Osmond. "Don't give me an occasion." "You're only too eager to take one. You wish immensely that I would commit some folly." "I should be gratified in that case if you disobeyed me." "If I disobeyed you?" said Isabel in a low tone which had the effect of mildness. "Let it be clear. If you leave Rome to-day it will be a piece of the most deliberate, the most calculated, opposition." "How can you call it calculated? I received my aunt's telegram but three minutes ago." "You calculate rapidly; it's a great accomplishment. I don't see why we should prolong our discussion; you know my wish." And he stood there as if he expected to see her withdraw. But she never moved; she couldn't move, strange as it may seem; she still wished to justify herself; he had the power, in an extraordinary degree, of making her feel this need. There was something in her imagination he could always appeal to against her judgement. "You've no reason for such a wish," said Isabel, "and I've every reason for going. I can't tell you how unjust you seem to me. But I think you know. It's your own opposition that's calculated. It's malignant." She had never uttered her worst thought to her husband before, and the sensation of hearing it was evidently new to Osmond. But he showed no surprise, and his coolness was apparently a proof that he had believed his wife would in fact be unable to resist for ever his ingenious endeavour to draw her out. "It's all the more intense then," he answered. And he added almost as if he were giving her a friendly counsel: "This is a very important matter." She recognised that; she was fully conscious of the weight of the occasion; she knew that between them they had arrived at a crisis. Its gravity made her careful; she said nothing, and he went on. "You say I've no reason? I have the very best. I dislike, from the bottom of my soul, what you intend to do. It's dishonourable; it's indelicate; it's indecent. Your cousin is nothing whatever to me, and I'm under no obligation to make concessions to him. I've already made the very handsomest. Your relations with him, while he was here, kept me on pins and needles; but I let that pass, because from week to week I expected him to go. I've never liked him and he has never liked me. That's why you like him--because he hates me," said Osmond with a quick, barely audible tremor in his voice. "I've an ideal of what my wife should do and should not do. She should not travel across Europe alone, in defiance of my deepest desire, to sit at the bedside of other men. Your cousin's nothing to you; he's nothing to us. You smile most expressively when I talk about US, but I assure you that WE, WE, Mrs. Osmond, is all I know. I take our marriage seriously; you appear to have found a way of not doing so. I'm not aware that we're divorced or separated; for me we're indissolubly united. You are nearer to me than any human creature, and I'm nearer to you. It may be a disagreeable proximity; it's one, at any rate, of our own deliberate making. You don't like to be reminded of that, I know; but I'm perfectly willing, because--because--" And he paused a moment, looking as if he had something to say which would be very much to the point. "Because I think we should accept the consequences of our actions, and what I value most in life is the honour of a thing!" He spoke gravely and almost gently; the accent of sarcasm had dropped out of his tone. It had a gravity which checked his wife's quick emotion; the resolution with which she had entered the room found itself caught in a mesh of fine threads. His last words were not a command, they constituted a kind of appeal; and, though she felt that any expression of respect on his part could only be a refinement of egotism, they represented something transcendent and absolute, like the sign of the cross or the flag of one's country. He spoke in the name of something sacred and precious--the observance of a magnificent form. They were as perfectly apart in feeling as two disillusioned lovers had ever been; but they had never yet separated in act. Isabel had not changed; her old passion for justice still abode within her; and now, in the very thick of her sense of her husband's blasphemous sophistry, it began to throb to a tune which for a moment promised him the victory. It came over her that in his wish to preserve appearances he was after all sincere, and that this, as far as it went, was a merit. Ten minutes before she had felt all the joy of irreflective action--a joy to which she had so long been a stranger; but action had been suddenly changed to slow renunciation, transformed by the blight of Osmond's touch. If she must renounce, however, she would let him know she was a victim rather than a dupe. "I know you're a master of the art of mockery," she said. "How can you speak of an indissoluble union--how can you speak of your being contented? Where's our union when you accuse me of falsity? Where's your contentment when you have nothing but hideous suspicion in your heart?" "It is in our living decently together, in spite of such drawbacks." "We don't live decently together!" cried Isabel. "Indeed we don't if you go to England." "That's very little; that's nothing. I might do much more." He raised his eyebrows and even his shoulders a little: he had lived long enough in Italy to catch this trick. "Ah, if you've come to threaten me I prefer my drawing." And he walked back to his table, where he took up the sheet of paper on which he had been working and stood studying it. "I suppose that if I go you'll not expect me to come back," said Isabel. He turned quickly round, and she could see this movement at least was not designed. He looked at her a little, and then, "Are you out of your mind?" he enquired. "How can it be anything but a rupture?" she went on; "especially if all you say is true?" She was unable to see how it could be anything but a rupture; she sincerely wished to know what else it might be. He sat down before his table. "I really can't argue with you on the hypothesis of your defying me," he said. And he took up one of his little brushes again. She lingered but a moment longer; long enough to embrace with her eye his whole deliberately indifferent yet most expressive figure; after which she quickly left the room. Her faculties, her energy, her passion, were all dispersed again; she felt as if a cold, dark mist had suddenly encompassed her. Osmond possessed in a supreme degree the art of eliciting any weakness. On her way back to her room she found the Countess Gemini standing in the open doorway of a little parlour in which a small collection of heterogeneous books had been arranged. The Countess had an open volume in her hand; she appeared to have been glancing down a page which failed to strike her as interesting. At the sound of Isabel's step she raised her head. "Ah my dear," she said, "you, who are so literary, do tell me some amusing book to read! Everything here's of a dreariness--! Do you think this would do me any good?" Isabel glanced at the title of the volume she held out, but without reading or understanding it. "I'm afraid I can't advise you. I've had bad news. My cousin, Ralph Touchett, is dying." The Countess threw down her book. "Ah, he was so simpatico. I'm awfully sorry for you." "You would be sorrier still if you knew." "What is there to know? You look very badly," the Countess added. "You must have been with Osmond." Half an hour before Isabel would have listened very coldly to an intimation that she should ever feel a desire for the sympathy of her sister-in-law, and there can be no better proof of her present embarrassment than the fact that she almost clutched at this lady's fluttering attention. "I've been with Osmond," she said, while the Countess's bright eyes glittered at her. "I'm sure then he has been odious!" the Countess cried. "Did he say he was glad poor Mr. Touchett's dying?" "He said it's impossible I should go to England." The Countess's mind, when her interests were concerned, was agile; she already foresaw the extinction of any further brightness in her visit to Rome. Ralph Touchett would die, Isabel would go into mourning, and then there would be no more dinner-parties. Such a prospect produced for a moment in her countenance an expressive grimace; but this rapid, picturesque play of feature was her only tribute to disappointment. After all, she reflected, the game was almost played out; she had already overstayed her invitation. And then she cared enough for Isabel's trouble to forget her own, and she saw that Isabel's trouble was deep. It seemed deeper than the mere death of a cousin, and the Countess had no hesitation in connecting her exasperating brother with the expression of her sister-in-law's eyes. Her heart beat with an almost joyous expectation, for if she had wished to see Osmond overtopped the conditions looked favourable now. Of course if Isabel should go to England she herself would immediately leave Palazzo Roccanera; nothing would induce her to remain there with Osmond. Nevertheless she felt an immense desire to hear that Isabel would go to England. "Nothing's impossible for you, my dear," she said caressingly. "Why else are you rich and clever and good?" "Why indeed? I feel stupidly weak." "Why does Osmond say it's impossible?" the Countess asked in a tone which sufficiently declared that she couldn't imagine. From the moment she thus began to question her, however, Isabel drew back; she disengaged her hand, which the Countess had affectionately taken. But she answered this enquiry with frank bitterness. "Because we're so happy together that we can't separate even for a fortnight." "Ah," cried the Countess while Isabel turned away, "when I want to make a journey my husband simply tells me I can have no money!" Isabel went to her room, where she walked up and down for an hour. It may appear to some readers that she gave herself much trouble, and it is certain that for a woman of a high spirit she had allowed herself easily to be arrested. It seemed to her that only now she fully measured the great undertaking of matrimony. Marriage meant that in such a case as this, when one had to choose, one chose as a matter of course for one's husband. "I'm afraid--yes, I'm afraid," she said to herself more than once, stopping short in her walk. But what she was afraid of was not her husband--his displeasure, his hatred, his revenge; it was not even her own later judgement of her conduct a consideration which had often held her in check; it was simply the violence there would be in going when Osmond wished her to remain. A gulf of difference had opened between them, but nevertheless it was his desire that she should stay, it was a horror to him that she should go. She knew the nervous fineness with which he could feel an objection. What he thought of her she knew, what he was capable of saying to her she had felt; yet they were married, for all that, and marriage meant that a woman should cleave to the man with whom, uttering tremendous vows, she had stood at the altar. She sank down on her sofa at last and buried her head in a pile of cushions. When she raised her head again the Countess Gemini hovered before her. She had come in all unperceived; she had a strange smile on her thin lips and her whole face had grown in an hour a shining intimation. She lived assuredly, it might be said, at the window of her spirit, but now she was leaning far out. "I knocked," she began, "but you didn't answer me. So I ventured in. I've been looking at you for the past five minutes. You're very unhappy." "Yes; but I don't think you can comfort me." "Will you give me leave to try?" And the Countess sat down on the sofa beside her. She continued to smile, and there was something communicative and exultant in her expression. She appeared to have a deal to say, and it occurred to Isabel for the first time that her sister-in-law might say something really human. She made play with her glittering eyes, in which there was an unpleasant fascination. "After all," she soon resumed, "I must tell you, to begin with, that I don't understand your state of mind. You seem to have so many scruples, so many reasons, so many ties. When I discovered, ten years ago, that my husband's dearest wish was to make me miserable--of late he has simply let me alone--ah, it was a wonderful simplification! My poor Isabel, you're not simple enough." "No, I'm not simple enough," said Isabel. "There's something I want you to know," the Countess declared--"because I think you ought to know it. Perhaps you do; perhaps you've guessed it. But if you have, all I can say is that I understand still less why you shouldn't do as you like." "What do you wish me to know?" Isabel felt a foreboding that made her heart beat faster. The Countess was about to justify herself, and this alone was portentous. But she was nevertheless disposed to play a little with her subject. "In your place I should have guessed it ages ago. Have you never really suspected?" "I've guessed nothing. What should I have suspected? I don't know what you mean." "That's because you've such a beastly pure mind. I never saw a woman with such a pure mind!" cried the Countess. Isabel slowly got up. "You're going to tell me something horrible." "You can call it by whatever name you will!" And the Countess rose also, while her gathered perversity grew vivid and dreadful. She stood a moment in a sort of glare of intention and, as seemed to Isabel even then, of ugliness; after which she said: "My first sister-in-law had no children." Isabel stared back at her; the announcement was an anticlimax. "Your first sister-in-law?" "I suppose you know at least, if one may mention it, that Osmond has been married before! I've never spoken to you of his wife; I thought it mightn't be decent or respectful. But others, less particular, must have done so. The poor little woman lived hardly three years and died childless. It wasn't till after her death that Pansy arrived." Isabel's brow had contracted to a frown; her lips were parted in pale, vague wonder. She was trying to follow; there seemed so much more to follow than she could see. "Pansy's not my husband's child then?" "Your husband's--in perfection! But no one else's husband's. Some one else's wife's. Ah, my good Isabel," cried the Countess, "with you one must dot one's i's!" "I don't understand. Whose wife's?" Isabel asked. "The wife of a horrid little Swiss who died--how long?--a dozen, more than fifteen, years ago. He never recognised Miss Pansy, nor, knowing what he was about, would have anything to say to her; and there was no reason why he should. Osmond did, and that was better; though he had to fit on afterwards the whole rigmarole of his own wife's having died in childbirth, and of his having, in grief and horror, banished the little girl from his sight for as long as possible before taking her home from nurse. His wife had really died, you know, of quite another matter and in quite another place: in the Piedmontese mountains, where they had gone, one August, because her health appeared to require the air, but where she was suddenly taken worse--fatally ill. The story passed, sufficiently; it was covered by the appearances so long as nobody heeded, as nobody cared to look into it. But of course I knew--without researches," the Countess lucidly proceeded; "as also, you'll understand, without a word said between us--I mean between Osmond and me. Don't you see him looking at me, in silence, that way, to settle it?--that is to settle ME if I should say anything. I said nothing, right or left--never a word to a creature, if you can believe that of me: on my honour, my dear, I speak of the thing to you now, after all this time, as I've never, never spoken. It was to be enough for me, from the first, that the child was my niece--from the moment she was my brother's daughter. As for her veritable mother--!" But with this Pansy's wonderful aunt dropped--as, involuntarily, from the impression of her sister-in-law's face, out of which more eyes might have seemed to look at her than she had ever had to meet. She had spoken no name, yet Isabel could but check, on her own lips, an echo of the unspoken. She sank to her seat again, hanging her head. "Why have you told me this?" she asked in a voice the Countess hardly recognised. "Because I've been so bored with your not knowing. I've been bored, frankly, my dear, with not having told you; as if, stupidly, all this time I couldn't have managed! Ca me depasse, if you don't mind my saying so, the things, all round you, that you've appeared to succeed in not knowing. It's a sort of assistance--aid to innocent ignorance--that I've always been a bad hand at rendering; and in this connexion, that of keeping quiet for my brother, my virtue has at any rate finally found itself exhausted. It's not a black lie, moreover, you know," the Countess inimitably added. "The facts are exactly what I tell you." "I had no idea," said Isabel presently; and looked up at her in a manner that doubtless matched the apparent witlessness of this confession. "So I believed--though it was hard to believe. Had it never occurred to you that he was for six or seven years her lover?" "I don't know. Things HAVE occurred to me, and perhaps that was what they all meant." "She has been wonderfully clever, she has been magnificent, about Pansy!" the Countess, before all this view of it, cried. "Oh, no idea, for me," Isabel went on, "ever DEFINITELY took that form." She appeared to be making out to herself what had been and what hadn't. "And as it is--I don't understand." She spoke as one troubled and puzzled, yet the poor Countess seemed to have seen her revelation fall below its possibilities of effect. She had expected to kindle some responsive blaze, but had barely extracted a spark. Isabel showed as scarce more impressed than she might have been, as a young woman of approved imagination, with some fine sinister passage of public history. "Don't you recognise how the child could never pass for HER husband's?--that is with M. Merle himself," her companion resumed. "They had been separated too long for that, and he had gone to some far country--I think to South America. If she had ever had children--which I'm not sure of--she had lost them. The conditions happened to make it workable, under stress (I mean at so awkward a pinch), that Osmond should acknowledge the little girl. His wife was dead--very true; but she had not been dead too long to put a certain accommodation of dates out of the question--from the moment, I mean, that suspicion wasn't started; which was what they had to take care of. What was more natural than that poor Mrs. Osmond, at a distance and for a world not troubling about trifles, should have left behind her, poverina, the pledge of her brief happiness that had cost her her life? With the aid of a change of residence--Osmond had been living with her at Naples at the time of their stay in the Alps, and he in due course left it for ever--the whole history was successfully set going. My poor sister-in-law, in her grave, couldn't help herself, and the real mother, to save HER skin, renounced all visible property in the child." "Ah, poor, poor woman!" cried Isabel, who herewith burst into tears. It was a long time since she had shed any; she had suffered a high reaction from weeping. But now they flowed with an abundance in which the Countess Gemini found only another discomfiture. "It's very kind of you to pity her!" she discordantly laughed. "Yes indeed, you have a way of your own--!" "He must have been false to his wife--and so very soon!" said Isabel with a sudden check. "That's all that's wanting--that you should take up her cause!" the Countess went on. "I quite agree with you, however, that it was much too soon." "But to me, to me--?" And Isabel hesitated as if she had not heard; as if her question--though it was sufficiently there in her eyes--were all for herself. "To you he has been faithful? Well, it depends, my dear, on what you call faithful. When he married you he was no longer the lover of another woman--SUCH a lover as he had been, cara mia, between their risks and their precautions, while the thing lasted! That state of affairs had passed away; the lady had repented, or at all events, for reasons of her own, drawn back: she had always had, too, a worship of appearances so intense that even Osmond himself had got bored with it. You may therefore imagine what it was--when he couldn't patch it on conveniently to ANY of those he goes in for! But the whole past was between them." "Yes," Isabel mechanically echoed, "the whole past is between them." "Ah, this later past is nothing. But for six or seven years, as I say, they had kept it up." She was silent a little. "Why then did she want him to marry me?" "Ah my dear, that's her superiority! Because you had money; and because she believed you would be good to Pansy." "Poor woman--and Pansy who doesn't like her!" cried Isabel. "That's the reason she wanted some one whom Pansy would like. She knows it; she knows everything." "Will she know that you've told me this?" "That will depend upon whether you tell her. She's prepared for it, and do you know what she counts upon for her defence? On your believing that I lie. Perhaps you do; don't make yourself uncomfortable to hide it. Only, as it happens this time, I don't. I've told plenty of little idiotic fibs, but they've never hurt any one but myself." Isabel sat staring at her companion's story as at a bale of fantastic wares some strolling gypsy might have unpacked on the carpet at her feet. "Why did Osmond never marry her?" she finally asked. "Because she had no money." The Countess had an answer for everything, and if she lied she lied well. "No one knows, no one has ever known, what she lives on, or how she has got all those beautiful things. I don't believe Osmond himself knows. Besides, she wouldn't have married him." "How can she have loved him then?" "She doesn't love him in that way. She did at first, and then, I suppose, she would have married him; but at that time her husband was living. By the time M. Merle had rejoined--I won't say his ancestors, because he never had any--her relations with Osmond had changed, and she had grown more ambitious. Besides, she has never had, about him," the Countess went on, leaving Isabel to wince for it so tragically afterwards--"she HAD never had, what you might call any illusions of INTELLIGENCE. She hoped she might marry a great man; that has always been her idea. She has waited and watched and plotted and prayed; but she has never succeeded. I don't call Madame Merle a success, you know. I don't know what she may accomplish yet, but at present she has very little to show. The only tangible result she has ever achieved--except, of course, getting to know every one and staying with them free of expense--has been her bringing you and Osmond together. Oh, she did that, my dear; you needn't look as if you doubted it. I've watched them for years; I know everything--everything. I'm thought a great scatterbrain, but I've had enough application of mind to follow up those two. She hates me, and her way of showing it is to pretend to be for ever defending me. When people say I've had fifteen lovers she looks horrified and declares that quite half of them were never proved. She has been afraid of me for years, and she has taken great comfort in the vile, false things people have said about me. She has been afraid I'd expose her, and she threatened me one day when Osmond began to pay his court to you. It was at his house in Florence; do you remember that afternoon when she brought you there and we had tea in the garden? She let me know then that if I should tell tales two could play at that game. She pretends there's a good deal more to tell about me than about her. It would be an interesting comparison! I don't care a fig what she may say, simply because I know YOU don't care a fig. You can't trouble your head about me less than you do already. So she may take her revenge as she chooses; I don't think she'll frighten you very much. Her great idea has been to be tremendously irreproachable--a kind of full-blown lily--the incarnation of propriety. She has always worshipped that god. There should be no scandal about Caesar's wife, you know; and, as I say, she has always hoped to marry Caesar. That was one reason she wouldn't marry Osmond; the fear that on seeing her with Pansy people would put things together--would even see a resemblance. She has had a terror lest the mother should betray herself. She has been awfully careful; the mother has never done so." "Yes, yes, the mother has done so," said Isabel, who had listened to all this with a face more and more wan. "She betrayed herself to me the other day, though I didn't recognise her. There appeared to have been a chance of Pansy's making a great marriage, and in her disappointment at its not coming off she almost dropped the mask." "Ah, that's where she'd dish herself!" cried the Countess. "She has failed so dreadfully that she's determined her daughter shall make it up." Isabel started at the words "her daughter," which her guest threw off so familiarly. "It seems very wonderful," she murmured; and in this bewildering impression she had almost lost her sense of being personally touched by the story. "Now don't go and turn against the poor innocent child!" the Countess went on. "She's very nice, in spite of her deplorable origin. I myself have liked Pansy; not, naturally, because she was hers, but because she had become yours." "Yes, she has become mine. And how the poor woman must have suffered at seeing me--!" Isabel exclaimed while she flushed at the thought. "I don't believe she has suffered; on the contrary, she has enjoyed. Osmond's marriage has given his daughter a great little lift. Before that she lived in a hole. And do you know what the mother thought? That you might take such a fancy to the child that you'd do something for her. Osmond of course could never give her a portion. Osmond was really extremely poor; but of course you know all about that. Ah, my dear," cried the Countess, "why did you ever inherit money?" She stopped a moment as if she saw something singular in Isabel's face. "Don't tell me now that you'll give her a dot. You're capable of that, but I would refuse to believe it. Don't try to be too good. Be a little easy and natural and nasty; feel a little wicked, for the comfort of it, once in your life!" "It's very strange. I suppose I ought to know, but I'm sorry," Isabel said. "I'm much obliged to you." "Yes, you seem to be!" cried the Countess with a mocking laugh. "Perhaps you are--perhaps you're not. You don't take it as I should have thought." "How should I take it?" Isabel asked. "Well, I should say as a woman who has been made use of." Isabel made no answer to this; she only listened, and the Countess went on. "They've always been bound to each other; they remained so even after she broke off--or HE did. But he has always been more for her than she has been for him. When their little carnival was over they made a bargain that each should give the other complete liberty, but that each should also do everything possible to help the other on. You may ask me how I know such a thing as that. I know it by the way they've behaved. Now see how much better women are than men! She has found a wife for Osmond, but Osmond has never lifted a little finger for HER. She has worked for him, plotted for him, suffered for him; she has even more than once found money for him; and the end of it is that he's tired of her. She's an old habit; there are moments when he needs her, but on the whole he wouldn't miss her if she were removed. And, what's more, today she knows it. So you needn't be jealous!" the Countess added humorously. Isabel rose from her sofa again; she felt bruised and scant of breath; her head was humming with new knowledge. "I'm much obliged to you," she repeated. And then she added abruptly, in quite a different tone: "How do you know all this?" This enquiry appeared to ruffle the Countess more than Isabel's expression of gratitude pleased her. She gave her companion a bold stare, with which, "Let us assume that I've invented it!" she cried. She too, however, suddenly changed her tone and, laying her hand on Isabel's arm, said with the penetration of her sharp bright smile: "Now will you give up your journey?" Isabel started a little; she turned away. But she felt weak and in a moment had to lay her arm upon the mantel-shelf for support. She stood a minute so, and then upon her arm she dropped her dizzy head, with closed eyes and pale lips. "I've done wrong to speak--I've made you ill!" the Countess cried. "Ah, I must see Ralph!" Isabel wailed; not in resentment, not in the quick passion her companion had looked for; but in a tone of far-reaching, infinite sadness.

Chapter 51

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-50-51

A week after Pansy's departure, Isabel receives a telegram from Mrs. Touchett. Ralph has taken a turn for the worse and will die soon. Isabel goes to Osmond's study so as to inform him of Ralph's condition and to declare her intention to go to Gardencourt to visit Ralph. Osmond thinks the only reason she is going is so that she will take her revenge out on her husband. Osmond tells her that if she leaves for Rome it will mean that she has taken a calculated opposition against her husband. Isabel tells him that it is his own opposition that is malignant and calculated. This is her worst thought -- she has never before spoken to her husband in this manner. Osmond reminds her that their union is of "deliberate making" and that as her husband, he wants her to take their marriage seriously. He claims that he values honor above all. Isabel feels that this is really his egotism speaking, but also constitutes an appeal to her sense of honor. She recognizes that he speaks in the name of the most sacred things--the observance of a magnificent form. She had previously felt she could take action in visiting Ralph, but now she feels that this action's meaning has changed suddenly, "transformed by the blight of Osmond's touch". Isabel though does not give up easily, and she accuses her husband of speaking of their union when he accuses her of falsity. Isabel says that if she goes, Osmond must expect her never to come back. Osmond, who has turned to drawing a little sketch of something, thinks she is out of her mind. Isabel leaves, feeling as if Osmond can use any of her weaknesses against her. On her way out, she encounters Countess Gemini. She tells the Countess about Ralph's bad condition. The Countess for a minute realizes that Isabel will soon go into mourning and there will be no more dinner parties for her to attend. She also thinks about Isabel's troubled condition. Isabel returns to her room and thinks about how one must choose one's husband over all else. She feels afraid of the violence of her going when Osmond wished her to stay. Isabel buries herself into a pile of cushions. The Countess Gemini is hovering above her when she looks up. The Countess has come to comfort her and to encourage Isabel to do what she likes, to visit Ralph. She then tells Isabel that her first sister-in-law, the first wife of Osmond, had no children. Pansy is the daughter of Osmond and the wife of another man -- Madame Merle. Osmond had managed to disguise Pansy as the daughter of his deceased wife. Madame Merle had not been able to pass off the child as her own because she had been too long separated from her husband for it to be his. Isabel wonders that the Countess tells her this now. The Countess admits that she is bored with Isabel not knowing, and she is surprised at all the things that Isabel has succeeded in not knowing. Isabel pities Madame Merle, and the Countess is entertained by Isabel's kindness. Isabel wonders why Osmond never married Madame Merle, and the Countess responds that Merle does not have money. Merle herself also still wanted to marry a great man. The Countess concludes the conversation by asking Isabel if she will go on her journey after all. Isabel looks ill, and declares with an "infinite sadness" that she must see Ralph

Osmond's decision to send Pansy away is his attempt to exercise more control over Pansy and her understanding of the world. Pansy, ever the obedient daughter, does not take it bitterly and resolves herself to do what her father tells her. Osmond though wants to present his idea as if it is for his daughter's own interest, and he creates a "portrait." This is an extended metaphor that is employed by the narrator to describe Osmond's actions. This metaphor then is presented to Isabel, who realizes the aesthetic illusion this sketch is supposed to create. The metaphor then serves to allow us to view these people's social relations and their attempts to manipulate the truth as similar to the way we approach a work of art. The reader of this ClassicNote will remember that aesthetics is the philosophical inquiry into what makes something beautiful, and what makes something into a work of art. Henry James, through this metaphor, is showing how Osmond can use aesthetic means to manipulate an ugly truth, to make an ugly truth appear better. Isabel, who once was convinced by Osmond's good taste , now is suspicious of it. She knows that it is a trick designed to work on her imagination, to make her believe that values are there which are not actually there. Osmond is able to control Isabel by appealing to her sense of higher values -- values that she realizes he does not share, but which he can nevertheless use against her. She tries to point out his hypocrisy, but he is somehow maintains the upper hand. The Countess arrives to put one of the final pieces of the puzzle together for Isabel. The use of a minor character to tie up this loose end and give a concrete reality to a suspicion that is only shadowy in Isabel's mind is a technique that is common to James' novels. In his New York Edition Prefaces, he calls it the use of a 'ficelle': a character that helps advance the plot, economizing on the infinite possibilities of what might happen by being minor themselves and somewhat two-dimensional. When Isabel learns the truth, she shows her truly good nature by exercising her empathy for Madame Merle, who has so wickedly deceived her. She recognizes that not even Pansy likes Madame Merle - Pansy, Merle's very own daughter. Isabel has been successful exactly where Merle has not been: she has money, has received marriage proposals from prominent men, and she is often thought of as Pansy's guardian and stepmother.

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The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 52

chapter 52

{"name": "Chapter 52", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-52-55", "summary": "Before departing for London, Isabel decides to visit Pansy. As she is waiting for Pansy, she is surprised to happen upon Madame Merle. Seeing this woman who was so present to her imagination all day in the flesh is like seeing \"a painted picture move\". Isabel feels that this is like evidence in court against Merle, of Merle's own interest in Pansy's affairs. Merle offers up the excuse that she should have told Isabel she meant to visit Pansy, and that she only thought Pansy might be lonely. Merle talks at length about Pansy and the convent. Isabel then noted a sudden break in her voice -- a modulation that marked Merle's perception of Isabel's changed attitude towards her. She realizes that Isabel knows her secret. She falters for a moment, but then she regains herself. She realizes that she is only safe if she does not betray herself. Isabel sees this all as if it is reflected in a \"clear glass\". Isabel enjoys the knowledge that Madame Merle had felt herself being exposed. Isabel is looking out the window though, and she sees - not the garden outside, but rather, the \"dry staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool\". Her only revenge though is not to react, to sit there silently. Merle realizes that Isabel will never reproach her, never given her the opportunity to defend herself. Isabel goes to see Pansy, and she feels that the girl has been \"vanquished\" by her father's will. Pansy is worried that Isabel will leave her forever when she says that she will go to England. Pansy says it will be easier for her to do as Osmond and Merle like if Isabel is around. She declares that she does not like Merle, and Isabel cautions her to never say that again. Merle appeals to Isabel before she leaves the convent again. Merle tells Isabel that her cousin Ralph once did he a great service, and asks Isabel if she knows what it is. She goes on to tell Isabel that Ralph is the one who made her a rich woman -- it was Ralph's idea to give her the money, and Isabel ought to thank him for making a brilliant match. Isabel ironically replies that she thinks it is Merle that she has to thank. Merle lowers her eyes, recognizes Isabel is unhappy, and declares that she will go to America", "analysis": "The scene between Madame Merle and Isabel in Chapter 52 is a very important one for understanding James' project. In the preface, he has declared that Isabel is made extraordinary by her perceptiveness. Yet, we have learned that she often does not see what is right in front of her, being willfully ignorant, and she often sees more than what is right in front of her, allowing her imagination to work on the material right in front of her. In this scene however, Isabel finally is victorious in understanding the situation and allowing herself to be seen as an all-knowing and seeing entity. Merle sees that Isabel knows what she is - she knows her true nature. However, Merle cannot resist taking her down a notch, proving to her that her vision is not so extraordinary after all, by telling her about Ralph's gift to her. It is as if Isabel is a \"clear glass\" that allows Merle to see herself as a monstrosity for the first time. The end of the novel seems haunted by the past. The so-called \"ghost\" of Ralph Touchett appears. Recall that Isabel had earlier thought that the house of Gardencourt might be haunted, and Ralph had joked that she might live to see the ghost. However, while Isabel had expected the ghost of European history to make its appearance in the house -- for she had associated European convention with haunted houses and Romances - now, this ghost has come to stand for the American experience in Europe. We might read this in terms of an understanding of Americans making their mark on the history of Europe, in line with the Old World vs. New World theme. Goodwood's forced kiss at the end of the novel and his speech to Isabel suggests that he thinks it is perfectly acceptable to begin an extramarital affair with her. Isabel however, fights against this possibility. Her running away from him suggests that she is willing to accept the consequences of her marriage to Osmond once and for all, and upholds the honor of her actions of marrying Osmond. She wants to uphold a conventional notion of duty. This is representative of Isabel's final moral action. We can also read the ending though as Isabel's weakness rather than her strength. Every time she has a scene with Caspar Goodwood, she has a very physical reaction to him. It is as if she is attracted to him physically but cannot accept this about herself. Goodwood thus seems to represent her unconscious desires from which she runs away."}

There was a train for Turin and Paris that evening; and after the Countess had left her Isabel had a rapid and decisive conference with her maid, who was discreet, devoted and active. After this she thought (except of her journey) only of one thing. She must go and see Pansy; from her she couldn't turn away. She had not seen her yet, as Osmond had given her to understand that it was too soon to begin. She drove at five o'clock to a high floor in a narrow street in the quarter of the Piazza Navona, and was admitted by the portress of the convent, a genial and obsequious person. Isabel had been at this institution before; she had come with Pansy to see the sisters. She knew they were good women, and she saw that the large rooms were clean and cheerful and that the well-used garden had sun for winter and shade for spring. But she disliked the place, which affronted and almost frightened her; not for the world would she have spent a night there. It produced to-day more than before the impression of a well-appointed prison; for it was not possible to pretend Pansy was free to leave it. This innocent creature had been presented to her in a new and violent light, but the secondary effect of the revelation was to make her reach out a hand. The portress left her to wait in the parlour of the convent while she went to make it known that there was a visitor for the dear young lady. The parlour was a vast, cold apartment, with new-looking furniture; a large clean stove of white porcelain, unlighted, a collection of wax flowers under glass, and a series of engravings from religious pictures on the walls. On the other occasion Isabel had thought it less like Rome than like Philadelphia, but to-day she made no reflexions; the apartment only seemed to her very empty and very soundless. The portress returned at the end of some five minutes, ushering in another person. Isabel got up, expecting to see one of the ladies of the sisterhood, but to her extreme surprise found herself confronted with Madame Merle. The effect was strange, for Madame Merle was already so present to her vision that her appearance in the flesh was like suddenly, and rather awfully, seeing a painted picture move. Isabel had been thinking all day of her falsity, her audacity, her ability, her probable suffering; and these dark things seemed to flash with a sudden light as she entered the room. Her being there at all had the character of ugly evidence, of handwritings, of profaned relics, of grim things produced in court. It made Isabel feel faint; if it had been necessary to speak on the spot she would have been quite unable. But no such necessity was distinct to her; it seemed to her indeed that she had absolutely nothing to say to Madame Merle. In one's relations with this lady, however, there were never any absolute necessities; she had a manner which carried off not only her own deficiencies but those of other people. But she was different from usual; she came in slowly, behind the portress, and Isabel instantly perceived that she was not likely to depend upon her habitual resources. For her too the occasion was exceptional, and she had undertaken to treat it by the light of the moment. This gave her a peculiar gravity; she pretended not even to smile, and though Isabel saw that she was more than ever playing a part it seemed to her that on the whole the wonderful woman had never been so natural. She looked at her young friend from head to foot, but not harshly nor defiantly; with a cold gentleness rather, and an absence of any air of allusion to their last meeting. It was as if she had wished to mark a distinction. She had been irritated then, she was reconciled now. "You can leave us alone," she said to the portress; "in five minutes this lady will ring for you." And then she turned to Isabel, who, after noting what has just been mentioned, had ceased to notice and had let her eyes wander as far as the limits of the room would allow. She wished never to look at Madame Merle again. "You're surprised to find me here, and I'm afraid you're not pleased," this lady went on. "You don't see why I should have come; it's as if I had anticipated you. I confess I've been rather indiscreet--I ought to have asked your permission." There was none of the oblique movement of irony in this; it was said simply and mildly; but Isabel, far afloat on a sea of wonder and pain, could not have told herself with what intention it was uttered. "But I've not been sitting long," Madame Merle continued; "that is I've not been long with Pansy. I came to see her because it occurred to me this afternoon that she must be rather lonely and perhaps even a little miserable. It may be good for a small girl; I know so little about small girls; I can't tell. At any rate it's a little dismal. Therefore I came--on the chance. I knew of course that you'd come, and her father as well; still, I had not been told other visitors were forbidden. The good woman--what's her name? Madame Catherine--made no objection whatever. I stayed twenty minutes with Pansy; she has a charming little room, not in the least conventual, with a piano and flowers. She has arranged it delightfully; she has so much taste. Of course it's all none of my business, but I feel happier since I've seen her. She may even have a maid if she likes; but of course she has no occasion to dress. She wears a little black frock; she looks so charming. I went afterwards to see Mother Catherine, who has a very good room too; I assure you I don't find the poor sisters at all monastic. Mother Catherine has a most coquettish little toilet-table, with something that looked uncommonly like a bottle of eau-de-Cologne. She speaks delightfully of Pansy; says it's a great happiness for them to have her. She's a little saint of heaven and a model to the oldest of them. Just as I was leaving Madame Catherine the portress came to say to her that there was a lady for the signorina. Of course I knew it must be you, and I asked her to let me go and receive you in her place. She demurred greatly--I must tell you that--and said it was her duty to notify the Mother Superior; it was of such high importance that you should be treated with respect. I requested her to let the Mother Superior alone and asked her how she supposed I would treat you!" So Madame Merle went on, with much of the brilliancy of a woman who had long been a mistress of the art of conversation. But there were phases and gradations in her speech, not one of which was lost upon Isabel's ear, though her eyes were absent from her companion's face. She had not proceeded far before Isabel noted a sudden break in her voice, a lapse in her continuity, which was in itself a complete drama. This subtle modulation marked a momentous discovery--the perception of an entirely new attitude on the part of her listener. Madame Merle had guessed in the space of an instant that everything was at end between them, and in the space of another instant she had guessed the reason why. The person who stood there was not the same one she had seen hitherto, but was a very different person--a person who knew her secret. This discovery was tremendous, and from the moment she made it the most accomplished of women faltered and lost her courage. But only for that moment. Then the conscious stream of her perfect manner gathered itself again and flowed on as smoothly as might be to the end. But it was only because she had the end in view that she was able to proceed. She had been touched with a point that made her quiver, and she needed all the alertness of her will to repress her agitation. Her only safety was in her not betraying herself. She resisted this, but the startled quality of her voice refused to improve--she couldn't help it--while she heard herself say she hardly knew what. The tide of her confidence ebbed, and she was able only just to glide into port, faintly grazing the bottom. Isabel saw it all as distinctly as if it had been reflected in a large clear glass. It might have been a great moment for her, for it might have been a moment of triumph. That Madame Merle had lost her pluck and saw before her the phantom of exposure--this in itself was a revenge, this in itself was almost the promise of a brighter day. And for a moment during which she stood apparently looking out of the window, with her back half-turned, Isabel enjoyed that knowledge. On the other side of the window lay the garden of the convent; but this is not what she saw; she saw nothing of the budding plants and the glowing afternoon. She saw, in the crude light of that revelation which had already become a part of experience and to which the very frailty of the vessel in which it had been offered her only gave an intrinsic price, the dry staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool, as senseless and convenient as mere shaped wood and iron. All the bitterness of this knowledge surged into her soul again; it was as if she felt on her lips the taste of dishonour. There was a moment during which, if she had turned and spoken, she would have said something that would hiss like a lash. But she closed her eyes, and then the hideous vision dropped. What remained was the cleverest woman in the world standing there within a few feet of her and knowing as little what to think as the meanest. Isabel's only revenge was to be silent still--to leave Madame Merle in this unprecedented situation. She left her there for a period that must have seemed long to this lady, who at last seated herself with a movement which was in itself a confession of helplessness. Then Isabel turned slow eyes, looking down at her. Madame Merle was very pale; her own eyes covered Isabel's face. She might see what she would, but her danger was over. Isabel would never accuse her, never reproach her; perhaps because she never would give her the opportunity to defend herself. "I'm come to bid Pansy good-bye," our young woman said at last. "I go to England to-night." "Go to England to-night!" Madame Merle repeated sitting there and looking up at her. "I'm going to Gardencourt. Ralph Touchett's dying." "Ah, you'll feel that." Madame Merle recovered herself; she had a chance to express sympathy. "Do you go alone?" "Yes; without my husband." Madame Merle gave a low vague murmur; a sort of recognition of the general sadness of things. "Mr. Touchett never liked me, but I'm sorry he's dying. Shall you see his mother?" "Yes; she has returned from America." "She used to be very kind to me; but she has changed. Others too have changed," said Madame Merle with a quiet noble pathos. She paused a moment, then added: "And you'll see dear old Gardencourt again!" "I shall not enjoy it much," Isabel answered. "Naturally--in your grief. But it's on the whole, of all the houses I know, and I know many, the one I should have liked best to live in. I don't venture to send a message to the people," Madame Merle added; "but I should like to give my love to the place." Isabel turned away. "I had better go to Pansy. I've not much time." While she looked about her for the proper egress, the door opened and admitted one of the ladies of the house, who advanced with a discreet smile, gently rubbing, under her long loose sleeves, a pair of plump white hands. Isabel recognised Madame Catherine, whose acquaintance she had already made, and begged that she would immediately let her see Miss Osmond. Madame Catherine looked doubly discreet, but smiled very blandly and said: "It will be good for her to see you. I'll take you to her myself." Then she directed her pleased guarded vision to Madame Merle. "Will you let me remain a little?" this lady asked. "It's so good to be here." "You may remain always if you like!" And the good sister gave a knowing laugh. She led Isabel out of the room, through several corridors, and up a long staircase. All these departments were solid and bare, light and clean; so, thought Isabel, are the great penal establishments. Madame Catherine gently pushed open the door of Pansy's room and ushered in the visitor; then stood smiling with folded hands while the two others met and embraced. "She's glad to see you," she repeated; "it will do her good." And she placed the best chair carefully for Isabel. But she made no movement to seat herself; she seemed ready to retire. "How does this dear child look?" she asked of Isabel, lingering a moment. "She looks pale," Isabel answered. "That's the pleasure of seeing you. She's very happy. Elle eclaire la maison," said the good sister. Pansy wore, as Madame Merle had said, a little black dress; it was perhaps this that made her look pale. "They're very good to me--they think of everything!" she exclaimed with all her customary eagerness to accommodate. "We think of you always--you're a precious charge," Madame Catherine remarked in the tone of a woman with whom benevolence was a habit and whose conception of duty was the acceptance of every care. It fell with a leaden weight on Isabel's ears; it seemed to represent the surrender of a personality, the authority of the Church. When Madame Catherine had left them together Pansy kneeled down and hid her head in her stepmother's lap. So she remained some moments, while Isabel gently stroked her hair. Then she got up, averting her face and looking about the room. "Don't you think I've arranged it well? I've everything I have at home." "It's very pretty; you're very comfortable." Isabel scarcely knew what she could say to her. On the one hand she couldn't let her think she had come to pity her, and on the other it would be a dull mockery to pretend to rejoice with her. So she simply added after a moment: "I've come to bid you good-bye. I'm going to England." Pansy's white little face turned red. "To England! Not to come back?" "I don't know when I shall come back." "Ah, I'm sorry," Pansy breathed with faintness. She spoke as if she had no right to criticise; but her tone expressed a depth of disappointment. "My cousin, Mr. Touchett, is very ill; he'll probably die. I wish to see him," Isabel said. "Ah yes; you told me he would die. Of course you must go. And will papa go?" "No; I shall go alone." For a moment the girl said nothing. Isabel had often wondered what she thought of the apparent relations of her father with his wife; but never by a glance, by an intimation, had she let it be seen that she deemed them deficient in an air of intimacy. She made her reflexions, Isabel was sure; and she must have had a conviction that there were husbands and wives who were more intimate than that. But Pansy was not indiscreet even in thought; she would as little have ventured to judge her gentle stepmother as to criticise her magnificent father. Her heart may have stood almost as still as it would have done had she seen two of the saints in the great picture in the convent chapel turn their painted heads and shake them at each other. But as in this latter case she would (for very solemnity's sake) never have mentioned the awful phenomenon, so she put away all knowledge of the secrets of larger lives than her own. "You'll be very far away," she presently went on. "Yes; I shall be far away. But it will scarcely matter," Isabel explained; "since so long as you're here I can't be called near you." "Yes, but you can come and see me; though you've not come very often." "I've not come because your father forbade it. To-day I bring nothing with me. I can't amuse you." "I'm not to be amused. That's not what papa wishes." "Then it hardly matters whether I'm in Rome or in England." "You're not happy, Mrs. Osmond," said Pansy. "Not very. But it doesn't matter." "That's what I say to myself. What does it matter? But I should like to come out." "I wish indeed you might." "Don't leave me here," Pansy went on gently. Isabel said nothing for a minute; her heart beat fast. "Will you come away with me now?" she asked. Pansy looked at her pleadingly. "Did papa tell you to bring me?" "No; it's my own proposal." "I think I had better wait then. Did papa send me no message?" "I don't think he knew I was coming." "He thinks I've not had enough," said Pansy. "But I have. The ladies are very kind to me and the little girls come to see me. There are some very little ones--such charming children. Then my room--you can see for yourself. All that's very delightful. But I've had enough. Papa wished me to think a little--and I've thought a great deal." "What have you thought?" "Well, that I must never displease papa." "You knew that before." "Yes; but I know it better. I'll do anything--I'll do anything," said Pansy. Then, as she heard her own words, a deep, pure blush came into her face. Isabel read the meaning of it; she saw the poor girl had been vanquished. It was well that Mr. Edward Rosier had kept his enamels! Isabel looked into her eyes and saw there mainly a prayer to be treated easily. She laid her hand on Pansy's as if to let her know that her look conveyed no diminution of esteem; for the collapse of the girl's momentary resistance (mute and modest thought it had been) seemed only her tribute to the truth of things. She didn't presume to judge others, but she had judged herself; she had seen the reality. She had no vocation for struggling with combinations; in the solemnity of sequestration there was something that overwhelmed her. She bowed her pretty head to authority and only asked of authority to be merciful. Yes; it was very well that Edward Rosier had reserved a few articles! Isabel got up; her time was rapidly shortening. "Good-bye then. I leave Rome to-night." Pansy took hold of her dress; there was a sudden change in the child's face. "You look strange, you frighten me." "Oh, I'm very harmless," said Isabel. "Perhaps you won't come back?" "Perhaps not. I can't tell." "Ah, Mrs. Osmond, you won't leave me!" Isabel now saw she had guessed everything. "My dear child, what can I do for you?" she asked. "I don't know--but I'm happier when I think of you." "You can always think of me." "Not when you're so far. I'm a little afraid," said Pansy. "What are you afraid of?" "Of papa--a little. And of Madame Merle. She has just been to see me." "You must not say that," Isabel observed. "Oh, I'll do everything they want. Only if you're here I shall do it more easily." Isabel considered. "I won't desert you," she said at last. "Good-bye, my child." Then they held each other a moment in a silent embrace, like two sisters; and afterwards Pansy walked along the corridor with her visitor to the top of the staircase. "Madame Merle has been here," she remarked as they went; and as Isabel answered nothing she added abruptly: "I don't like Madame Merle!" Isabel hesitated, then stopped. "You must never say that--that you don't like Madame Merle." Pansy looked at her in wonder; but wonder with Pansy had never been a reason for non-compliance. "I never will again," she said with exquisite gentleness. At the top of the staircase they had to separate, as it appeared to be part of the mild but very definite discipline under which Pansy lived that she should not go down. Isabel descended, and when she reached the bottom the girl was standing above. "You'll come back?" she called out in a voice that Isabel remembered afterwards. "Yes--I'll come back." Madame Catherine met Mrs. Osmond below and conducted her to the door of the parlour, outside of which the two stood talking a minute. "I won't go in," said the good sister. "Madame Merle's waiting for you." At this announcement Isabel stiffened; she was on the point of asking if there were no other egress from the convent. But a moment's reflexion assured her that she would do well not to betray to the worthy nun her desire to avoid Pansy's other friend. Her companion grasped her arm very gently and, fixing her a moment with wise, benevolent eyes, said in French and almost familiarly: "Eh bien, chere Madame, qu'en pensez-vous?" "About my step-daughter? Oh, it would take long to tell you." "We think it's enough," Madame Catherine distinctly observed. And she pushed open the door of the parlour. Madame Merle was sitting just as Isabel had left her, like a woman so absorbed in thought that she had not moved a little finger. As Madame Catherine closed the door she got up, and Isabel saw that she had been thinking to some purpose. She had recovered her balance; she was in full possession of her resources. "I found I wished to wait for you," she said urbanely. "But it's not to talk about Pansy." Isabel wondered what it could be to talk about, and in spite of Madame Merle's declaration she answered after a moment: "Madame Catherine says it's enough." "Yes; it also seems to me enough. I wanted to ask you another word about poor Mr. Touchett," Madame Merle added. "Have you reason to believe that he's really at his last?" "I've no information but a telegram. Unfortunately it only confirms a probability." "I'm going to ask you a strange question," said Madame Merle. "Are you very fond of your cousin?" And she gave a smile as strange as her utterance. "Yes, I'm very fond of him. But I don't understand you." She just hung fire. "It's rather hard to explain. Something has occurred to me which may not have occurred to you, and I give you the benefit of my idea. Your cousin did you once a great service. Have you never guessed it?" "He has done me many services." "Yes; but one was much above the rest. He made you a rich woman." "HE made me--?" Madame Merle appearing to see herself successful, she went on more triumphantly: "He imparted to you that extra lustre which was required to make you a brilliant match. At bottom it's him you've to thank." She stopped; there was something in Isabel's eyes. "I don't understand you. It was my uncle's money." "Yes; it was your uncle's money, but it was your cousin's idea. He brought his father over to it. Ah, my dear, the sum was large!" Isabel stood staring; she seemed to-day to live in a world illumined by lurid flashes. "I don't know why you say such things. I don't know what you know." "I know nothing but what I've guessed. But I've guessed that." Isabel went to the door and, when she had opened it, stood a moment with her hand on the latch. Then she said--it was her only revenge: "I believed it was you I had to thank!" Madame Merle dropped her eyes; she stood there in a kind of proud penance. "You're very unhappy, I know. But I'm more so." "Yes; I can believe that. I think I should like never to see you again." Madame Merle raised her eyes. "I shall go to America," she quietly remarked while Isabel passed out.

Chapter 52

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-52-55

Before departing for London, Isabel decides to visit Pansy. As she is waiting for Pansy, she is surprised to happen upon Madame Merle. Seeing this woman who was so present to her imagination all day in the flesh is like seeing "a painted picture move". Isabel feels that this is like evidence in court against Merle, of Merle's own interest in Pansy's affairs. Merle offers up the excuse that she should have told Isabel she meant to visit Pansy, and that she only thought Pansy might be lonely. Merle talks at length about Pansy and the convent. Isabel then noted a sudden break in her voice -- a modulation that marked Merle's perception of Isabel's changed attitude towards her. She realizes that Isabel knows her secret. She falters for a moment, but then she regains herself. She realizes that she is only safe if she does not betray herself. Isabel sees this all as if it is reflected in a "clear glass". Isabel enjoys the knowledge that Madame Merle had felt herself being exposed. Isabel is looking out the window though, and she sees - not the garden outside, but rather, the "dry staring fact that she had been an applied handled hung-up tool". Her only revenge though is not to react, to sit there silently. Merle realizes that Isabel will never reproach her, never given her the opportunity to defend herself. Isabel goes to see Pansy, and she feels that the girl has been "vanquished" by her father's will. Pansy is worried that Isabel will leave her forever when she says that she will go to England. Pansy says it will be easier for her to do as Osmond and Merle like if Isabel is around. She declares that she does not like Merle, and Isabel cautions her to never say that again. Merle appeals to Isabel before she leaves the convent again. Merle tells Isabel that her cousin Ralph once did he a great service, and asks Isabel if she knows what it is. She goes on to tell Isabel that Ralph is the one who made her a rich woman -- it was Ralph's idea to give her the money, and Isabel ought to thank him for making a brilliant match. Isabel ironically replies that she thinks it is Merle that she has to thank. Merle lowers her eyes, recognizes Isabel is unhappy, and declares that she will go to America

The scene between Madame Merle and Isabel in Chapter 52 is a very important one for understanding James' project. In the preface, he has declared that Isabel is made extraordinary by her perceptiveness. Yet, we have learned that she often does not see what is right in front of her, being willfully ignorant, and she often sees more than what is right in front of her, allowing her imagination to work on the material right in front of her. In this scene however, Isabel finally is victorious in understanding the situation and allowing herself to be seen as an all-knowing and seeing entity. Merle sees that Isabel knows what she is - she knows her true nature. However, Merle cannot resist taking her down a notch, proving to her that her vision is not so extraordinary after all, by telling her about Ralph's gift to her. It is as if Isabel is a "clear glass" that allows Merle to see herself as a monstrosity for the first time. The end of the novel seems haunted by the past. The so-called "ghost" of Ralph Touchett appears. Recall that Isabel had earlier thought that the house of Gardencourt might be haunted, and Ralph had joked that she might live to see the ghost. However, while Isabel had expected the ghost of European history to make its appearance in the house -- for she had associated European convention with haunted houses and Romances - now, this ghost has come to stand for the American experience in Europe. We might read this in terms of an understanding of Americans making their mark on the history of Europe, in line with the Old World vs. New World theme. Goodwood's forced kiss at the end of the novel and his speech to Isabel suggests that he thinks it is perfectly acceptable to begin an extramarital affair with her. Isabel however, fights against this possibility. Her running away from him suggests that she is willing to accept the consequences of her marriage to Osmond once and for all, and upholds the honor of her actions of marrying Osmond. She wants to uphold a conventional notion of duty. This is representative of Isabel's final moral action. We can also read the ending though as Isabel's weakness rather than her strength. Every time she has a scene with Caspar Goodwood, she has a very physical reaction to him. It is as if she is attracted to him physically but cannot accept this about herself. Goodwood thus seems to represent her unconscious desires from which she runs away.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/53.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_18_part_2.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 53

chapter 53

{"name": "Chapter 53", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-52-55", "summary": "On Isabel's journey to Gardencourt, she has many disconnected visions as she looks out the window -- not of what is outside, but rather she has \"sightless eyes. She thinks back to many memories and of her own expectations, realizing the mutual relations and interconnectedness of things that she did not notice before. This rises before her like a vast architectural vastness. She wishes to give it all up, to not know anything. She thinks of her time in Rome as a time in which she was as good as dead - she was motionless and passive. Yet she feels now she will go on living much longer, and this gives her hope of happiness in the future. She is still optimistic that to live does not mean only to suffer. When she arrives in England, Henrietta Stackpole and Mr. Bantling greet her at the train station. Isabel lets Henrietta know that Osmond will make a scene when she returns, but that she has promised Pansy she will return. Henrietta announces that she will marry Mr. Bantling and relocate to London. Isabel is somewhat disappointed, thinking that a marriage to Mr. Bantling is somewhat unoriginal. Nevertheless she admires Henrietta because it seems that Henrietta is planning to \"attack\" London", "analysis": "The scene between Madame Merle and Isabel in Chapter 52 is a very important one for understanding James' project. In the preface, he has declared that Isabel is made extraordinary by her perceptiveness. Yet, we have learned that she often does not see what is right in front of her, being willfully ignorant, and she often sees more than what is right in front of her, allowing her imagination to work on the material right in front of her. In this scene however, Isabel finally is victorious in understanding the situation and allowing herself to be seen as an all-knowing and seeing entity. Merle sees that Isabel knows what she is - she knows her true nature. However, Merle cannot resist taking her down a notch, proving to her that her vision is not so extraordinary after all, by telling her about Ralph's gift to her. It is as if Isabel is a \"clear glass\" that allows Merle to see herself as a monstrosity for the first time. The end of the novel seems haunted by the past. The so-called \"ghost\" of Ralph Touchett appears. Recall that Isabel had earlier thought that the house of Gardencourt might be haunted, and Ralph had joked that she might live to see the ghost. However, while Isabel had expected the ghost of European history to make its appearance in the house -- for she had associated European convention with haunted houses and Romances - now, this ghost has come to stand for the American experience in Europe. We might read this in terms of an understanding of Americans making their mark on the history of Europe, in line with the Old World vs. New World theme. Goodwood's forced kiss at the end of the novel and his speech to Isabel suggests that he thinks it is perfectly acceptable to begin an extramarital affair with her. Isabel however, fights against this possibility. Her running away from him suggests that she is willing to accept the consequences of her marriage to Osmond once and for all, and upholds the honor of her actions of marrying Osmond. She wants to uphold a conventional notion of duty. This is representative of Isabel's final moral action. We can also read the ending though as Isabel's weakness rather than her strength. Every time she has a scene with Caspar Goodwood, she has a very physical reaction to him. It is as if she is attracted to him physically but cannot accept this about herself. Goodwood thus seems to represent her unconscious desires from which she runs away."}

It was not with surprise, it was with a feeling which in other circumstances would have had much of the effect of joy, that as Isabel descended from the Paris Mail at Charing Cross she stepped into the arms, as it were--or at any rate into the hands--of Henrietta Stackpole. She had telegraphed to her friend from Turin, and though she had not definitely said to herself that Henrietta would meet her, she had felt her telegram would produce some helpful result. On her long journey from Rome her mind had been given up to vagueness; she was unable to question the future. She performed this journey with sightless eyes and took little pleasure in the countries she traversed, decked out though they were in the richest freshness of spring. Her thoughts followed their course through other countries--strange-looking, dimly-lighted, pathless lands, in which there was no change of seasons, but only, as it seemed, a perpetual dreariness of winter. She had plenty to think about; but it was neither reflexion nor conscious purpose that filled her mind. Disconnected visions passed through it, and sudden dull gleams of memory, of expectation. The past and the future came and went at their will, but she saw them only in fitful images, which rose and fell by a logic of their own. It was extraordinary the things she remembered. Now that she was in the secret, now that she knew something that so much concerned her and the eclipse of which had made life resemble an attempt to play whist with an imperfect pack of cards, the truth of things, their mutual relations, their meaning, and for the most part their horror, rose before her with a kind of architectural vastness. She remembered a thousand trifles; they started to life with the spontaneity of a shiver. She had thought them trifles at the time; now she saw that they had been weighted with lead. Yet even now they were trifles after all, for of what use was it to her to understand them? Nothing seemed of use to her to-day. All purpose, all intention, was suspended; all desire too save the single desire to reach her much-embracing refuge. Gardencourt had been her starting-point, and to those muffled chambers it was at least a temporary solution to return. She had gone forth in her strength; she would come back in her weakness, and if the place had been a rest to her before, it would be a sanctuary now. She envied Ralph his dying, for if one were thinking of rest that was the most perfect of all. To cease utterly, to give it all up and not know anything more--this idea was as sweet as the vision of a cool bath in a marble tank, in a darkened chamber, in a hot land. She had moments indeed in her journey from Rome which were almost as good as being dead. She sat in her corner, so motionless, so passive, simply with the sense of being carried, so detached from hope and regret, that she recalled to herself one of those Etruscan figures couched upon the receptacle of their ashes. There was nothing to regret now--that was all over. Not only the time of her folly, but the time of her repentance was far. The only thing to regret was that Madame Merle had been so--well, so unimaginable. Just here her intelligence dropped, from literal inability to say what it was that Madame Merle had been. Whatever it was it was for Madame Merle herself to regret it; and doubtless she would do so in America, where she had announced she was going. It concerned Isabel no more; she only had an impression that she should never again see Madame Merle. This impression carried her into the future, of which from time to time she had a mutilated glimpse. She saw herself, in the distant years, still in the attitude of a woman who had her life to live, and these intimations contradicted the spirit of the present hour. It might be desirable to get quite away, really away, further away than little grey-green England, but this privilege was evidently to be denied her. Deep in her soul--deeper than any appetite for renunciation--was the sense that life would be her business for a long time to come. And at moments there was something inspiring, almost enlivening, in the conviction. It was a proof of strength--it was a proof she should some day be happy again. It couldn't be she was to live only to suffer; she was still young, after all, and a great many things might happen to her yet. To live only to suffer--only to feel the injury of life repeated and enlarged--it seemed to her she was too valuable, too capable, for that. Then she wondered if it were vain and stupid to think so well of herself. When had it even been a guarantee to be valuable? Wasn't all history full of the destruction of precious things? Wasn't it much more probable that if one were fine one would suffer? It involved then perhaps an admission that one had a certain grossness; but Isabel recognised, as it passed before her eyes, the quick vague shadow of a long future. She should never escape; she should last to the end. Then the middle years wrapped her about again and the grey curtain of her indifference closed her in. Henrietta kissed her, as Henrietta usually kissed, as if she were afraid she should be caught doing it; and then Isabel stood there in the crowd, looking about her, looking for her servant. She asked nothing; she wished to wait. She had a sudden perception that she should be helped. She rejoiced Henrietta had come; there was something terrible in an arrival in London. The dusky, smoky, far-arching vault of the station, the strange, livid light, the dense, dark, pushing crowd, filled her with a nervous fear and made her put her arm into her friend's. She remembered she had once liked these things; they seemed part of a mighty spectacle in which there was something that touched her. She remembered how she walked away from Euston, in the winter dusk, in the crowded streets, five years before. She could not have done that to-day, and the incident came before her as the deed of another person. "It's too beautiful that you should have come," said Henrietta, looking at her as if she thought Isabel might be prepared to challenge the proposition. "If you hadn't--if you hadn't; well, I don't know," remarked Miss Stackpole, hinting ominously at her powers of disapproval. Isabel looked about without seeing her maid. Her eyes rested on another figure, however, which she felt she had seen before; and in a moment she recognised the genial countenance of Mr. Bantling. He stood a little apart, and it was not in the power of the multitude that pressed about him to make him yield an inch of the ground he had taken--that of abstracting himself discreetly while the two ladies performed their embraces. "There's Mr. Bantling," said Isabel, gently, irrelevantly, scarcely caring much now whether she should find her maid or not. "Oh yes, he goes everywhere with me. Come here, Mr. Bantling!" Henrietta exclaimed. Whereupon the gallant bachelor advanced with a smile--a smile tempered, however, by the gravity of the occasion. "Isn't it lovely she has come?" Henrietta asked. "He knows all about it," she added; "we had quite a discussion. He said you wouldn't, I said you would." "I thought you always agreed," Isabel smiled in return. She felt she could smile now; she had seen in an instant, in Mr. Bantling's brave eyes, that he had good news for her. They seemed to say he wished her to remember he was an old friend of her cousin--that he understood, that it was all right. Isabel gave him her hand; she thought of him, extravagantly, as a beautiful blameless knight. "Oh, I always agree," said Mr. Bantling. "But she doesn't, you know." "Didn't I tell you that a maid was a nuisance?" Henrietta enquired. "Your young lady has probably remained at Calais." "I don't care," said Isabel, looking at Mr. Bantling, whom she had never found so interesting. "Stay with her while I go and see," Henrietta commanded, leaving the two for a moment together. They stood there at first in silence, and then Mr. Bantling asked Isabel how it had been on the Channel. "Very fine. No, I believe it was very rough," she said, to her companion's obvious surprise. After which she added: "You've been to Gardencourt, I know." "Now how do you know that?" "I can't tell you--except that you look like a person who has been to Gardencourt." "Do you think I look awfully sad? It's awfully sad there, you know." "I don't believe you ever look awfully sad. You look awfully kind," said Isabel with a breadth that cost her no effort. It seemed to her she should never again feel a superficial embarrassment. Poor Mr. Bantling, however, was still in this inferior stage. He blushed a good deal and laughed, he assured her that he was often very blue, and that when he was blue he was awfully fierce. "You can ask Miss Stackpole, you know. I was at Gardencourt two days ago." "Did you see my cousin?" "Only for a little. But he had been seeing people; Warburton had been there the day before. Ralph was just the same as usual, except that he was in bed and that he looks tremendously ill and that he can't speak," Mr. Bantling pursued. "He was awfully jolly and funny all the same. He was just as clever as ever. It's awfully wretched." Even in the crowded, noisy station this simple picture was vivid. "Was that late in the day?" "Yes; I went on purpose. We thought you'd like to know." "I'm greatly obliged to you. Can I go down tonight?" "Ah, I don't think SHE'LL let you go," said Mr. Bantling. "She wants you to stop with her. I made Touchett's man promise to telegraph me to-day, and I found the telegram an hour ago at my club. 'Quiet and easy,' that's what it says, and it's dated two o'clock. So you see you can wait till to-morrow. You must be awfully tired." "Yes, I'm awfully tired. And I thank you again." "Oh," said Mr. Bantling, "We were certain you would like the last news." On which Isabel vaguely noted that he and Henrietta seemed after all to agree. Miss Stackpole came back with Isabel's maid, whom she had caught in the act of proving her utility. This excellent person, instead of losing herself in the crowd, had simply attended to her mistress's luggage, so that the latter was now at liberty to leave the station. "You know you're not to think of going to the country to-night," Henrietta remarked to her. "It doesn't matter whether there's a train or not. You're to come straight to me in Wimpole Street. There isn't a corner to be had in London, but I've got you one all the same. It isn't a Roman palace, but it will do for a night." "I'll do whatever you wish," Isabel said. "You'll come and answer a few questions; that's what I wish." "She doesn't say anything about dinner, does she, Mrs. Osmond?" Mr. Bantling enquired jocosely. Henrietta fixed him a moment with her speculative gaze. "I see you're in a great hurry to get your own. You'll be at the Paddington Station to-morrow morning at ten." "Don't come for my sake, Mr. Bantling," said Isabel. "He'll come for mine," Henrietta declared as she ushered her friend into a cab. And later, in a large dusky parlour in Wimpole Street--to do her justice there had been dinner enough--she asked those questions to which she had alluded at the station. "Did your husband make you a scene about your coming?" That was Miss Stackpole's first enquiry. "No; I can't say he made a scene." "He didn't object then?" "Yes, he objected very much. But it was not what you'd call a scene." "What was it then?" "It was a very quiet conversation." Henrietta for a moment regarded her guest. "It must have been hellish," she then remarked. And Isabel didn't deny that it had been hellish. But she confined herself to answering Henrietta's questions, which was easy, as they were tolerably definite. For the present she offered her no new information. "Well," said Miss Stackpole at last, "I've only one criticism to make. I don't see why you promised little Miss Osmond to go back." "I'm not sure I myself see now," Isabel replied. "But I did then." "If you've forgotten your reason perhaps you won't return." Isabel waited a moment. "Perhaps I shall find another." "You'll certainly never find a good one." "In default of a better my having promised will do," Isabel suggested. "Yes; that's why I hate it." "Don't speak of it now. I've a little time. Coming away was a complication, but what will going back be?" "You must remember, after all, that he won't make you a scene!" said Henrietta with much intention. "He will, though," Isabel answered gravely. "It won't be the scene of a moment; it will be a scene of the rest of my life." For some minutes the two women sat and considered this remainder, and then Miss Stackpole, to change the subject, as Isabel had requested, announced abruptly: "I've been to stay with Lady Pensil!" "Ah, the invitation came at last!" "Yes; it took five years. But this time she wanted to see me." "Naturally enough." "It was more natural than I think you know," said Henrietta, who fixed her eyes on a distant point. And then she added, turning suddenly: "Isabel Archer, I beg your pardon. You don't know why? Because I criticised you, and yet I've gone further than you. Mr. Osmond, at least, was born on the other side!" It was a moment before Isabel grasped her meaning; this sense was so modestly, or at least so ingeniously, veiled. Isabel's mind was not possessed at present with the comicality of things; but she greeted with a quick laugh the image that her companion had raised. She immediately recovered herself, however, and with the right excess of intensity, "Henrietta Stackpole," she asked, "are you going to give up your country?" "Yes, my poor Isabel, I am. I won't pretend to deny it; I look the fact in the face. I'm going to marry Mr. Bantling and locate right here in London." "It seems very strange," said Isabel, smiling now. "Well yes, I suppose it does. I've come to it little by little. I think I know what I'm doing; but I don't know as I can explain." "One can't explain one's marriage," Isabel answered. "And yours doesn't need to be explained. Mr. Bantling isn't a riddle." "No, he isn't a bad pun--or even a high flight of American humour. He has a beautiful nature," Henrietta went on. "I've studied him for many years and I see right through him. He's as clear as the style of a good prospectus. He's not intellectual, but he appreciates intellect. On the other hand he doesn't exaggerate its claims. I sometimes think we do in the United States." "Ah," said Isabel, "you're changed indeed! It's the first time I've ever heard you say anything against your native land." "I only say that we're too infatuated with mere brain-power; that, after all, isn't a vulgar fault. But I AM changed; a woman has to change a good deal to marry." "I hope you'll be very happy. You will at last--over here--see something of the inner life." Henrietta gave a little significant sigh. "That's the key to the mystery, I believe. I couldn't endure to be kept off. Now I've as good a right as any one!" she added with artless elation. Isabel was duly diverted, but there was a certain melancholy in her view. Henrietta, after all, had confessed herself human and feminine, Henrietta whom she had hitherto regarded as a light keen flame, a disembodied voice. It was a disappointment to find she had personal susceptibilities, that she was subject to common passions, and that her intimacy with Mr. Bantling had not been completely original. There was a want of originality in her marrying him--there was even a kind of stupidity; and for a moment, to Isabel's sense, the dreariness of the world took on a deeper tinge. A little later indeed she reflected that Mr. Bantling himself at least was original. But she didn't see how Henrietta could give up her country. She herself had relaxed her hold of it, but it had never been her country as it had been Henrietta's. She presently asked her if she had enjoyed her visit to Lady Pensil. "Oh yes," said Henrietta, "she didn't know what to make of me." "And was that very enjoyable?" "Very much so, because she's supposed to be a master mind. She thinks she knows everything; but she doesn't understand a woman of my modern type. It would be so much easier for her if I were only a little better or a little worse. She's so puzzled; I believe she thinks it's my duty to go and do something immoral. She thinks it's immoral that I should marry her brother; but, after all, that isn't immoral enough. And she'll never understand my mixture--never!" "She's not so intelligent as her brother then," said Isabel. "He appears to have understood." "Oh no, he hasn't!" cried Miss Stackpole with decision. "I really believe that's what he wants to marry me for--just to find out the mystery and the proportions of it. That's a fixed idea--a kind of fascination." "It's very good in you to humour it." "Oh well," said Henrietta, "I've something to find out too!" And Isabel saw that she had not renounced an allegiance, but planned an attack. She was at last about to grapple in earnest with England. Isabel also perceived, however, on the morrow, at the Paddington Station, where she found herself, at ten o'clock, in the company both of Miss Stackpole and Mr. Bantling, that the gentleman bore his perplexities lightly. If he had not found out everything he had found out at least the great point--that Miss Stackpole would not be wanting in initiative. It was evident that in the selection of a wife he had been on his guard against this deficiency. "Henrietta has told me, and I'm very glad," Isabel said as she gave him her hand. "I dare say you think it awfully odd," Mr. Bantling replied, resting on his neat umbrella. "Yes, I think it awfully odd." "You can't think it so awfully odd as I do. But I've always rather liked striking out a line," said Mr. Bantling serenely.

Chapter 53

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-52-55

On Isabel's journey to Gardencourt, she has many disconnected visions as she looks out the window -- not of what is outside, but rather she has "sightless eyes. She thinks back to many memories and of her own expectations, realizing the mutual relations and interconnectedness of things that she did not notice before. This rises before her like a vast architectural vastness. She wishes to give it all up, to not know anything. She thinks of her time in Rome as a time in which she was as good as dead - she was motionless and passive. Yet she feels now she will go on living much longer, and this gives her hope of happiness in the future. She is still optimistic that to live does not mean only to suffer. When she arrives in England, Henrietta Stackpole and Mr. Bantling greet her at the train station. Isabel lets Henrietta know that Osmond will make a scene when she returns, but that she has promised Pansy she will return. Henrietta announces that she will marry Mr. Bantling and relocate to London. Isabel is somewhat disappointed, thinking that a marriage to Mr. Bantling is somewhat unoriginal. Nevertheless she admires Henrietta because it seems that Henrietta is planning to "attack" London

The scene between Madame Merle and Isabel in Chapter 52 is a very important one for understanding James' project. In the preface, he has declared that Isabel is made extraordinary by her perceptiveness. Yet, we have learned that she often does not see what is right in front of her, being willfully ignorant, and she often sees more than what is right in front of her, allowing her imagination to work on the material right in front of her. In this scene however, Isabel finally is victorious in understanding the situation and allowing herself to be seen as an all-knowing and seeing entity. Merle sees that Isabel knows what she is - she knows her true nature. However, Merle cannot resist taking her down a notch, proving to her that her vision is not so extraordinary after all, by telling her about Ralph's gift to her. It is as if Isabel is a "clear glass" that allows Merle to see herself as a monstrosity for the first time. The end of the novel seems haunted by the past. The so-called "ghost" of Ralph Touchett appears. Recall that Isabel had earlier thought that the house of Gardencourt might be haunted, and Ralph had joked that she might live to see the ghost. However, while Isabel had expected the ghost of European history to make its appearance in the house -- for she had associated European convention with haunted houses and Romances - now, this ghost has come to stand for the American experience in Europe. We might read this in terms of an understanding of Americans making their mark on the history of Europe, in line with the Old World vs. New World theme. Goodwood's forced kiss at the end of the novel and his speech to Isabel suggests that he thinks it is perfectly acceptable to begin an extramarital affair with her. Isabel however, fights against this possibility. Her running away from him suggests that she is willing to accept the consequences of her marriage to Osmond once and for all, and upholds the honor of her actions of marrying Osmond. She wants to uphold a conventional notion of duty. This is representative of Isabel's final moral action. We can also read the ending though as Isabel's weakness rather than her strength. Every time she has a scene with Caspar Goodwood, she has a very physical reaction to him. It is as if she is attracted to him physically but cannot accept this about herself. Goodwood thus seems to represent her unconscious desires from which she runs away.

gradesaver

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/54.txt

finished_summaries/gradesaver/The Portrait of a Lady/section_18_part_3.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 54

chapter 54

{"name": "Chapter 54", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-52-55", "summary": "Isabel's arrival in Gardencourt is as quiet as her first time there. She wonders to herself what would have happened to her if she had never met her aunt - would she have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett comes to greet Isabel and inform her of Ralph's condition. He is not doing well, and Mrs. Touchett states that he has not had a successful life. Isabel says that he has had a beautiful one. Mrs. Touchett asks Isabel three questions: has she ever regretted her refusal of Lord Warburton. Isabel says she has not. Are she and Madame Merle still friends. Isabel says she is not. What did Madame Merle do to her. Isabel replies that she made a convenience of her. Isabel waits by Ralph's bedside for three days before he is finally well enough to speak. When he finally sits up, he believes he is near his end. He says he was not sure she would come. He then asks what she has done for him, implying that she has acted in opposition to her husband in coming to see him. She responds by asking him the same thing: what is it that he did for her. Did he really make her a rich woman. He tells her that he thinks he ruined her. Isabel admits that Osmond married her for her money. Ralph tells Isabel that she wanted to look at life, but ended up ground into the mill of the conventional. Yet he still has hope that she will be young again", "analysis": "The scene between Madame Merle and Isabel in Chapter 52 is a very important one for understanding James' project. In the preface, he has declared that Isabel is made extraordinary by her perceptiveness. Yet, we have learned that she often does not see what is right in front of her, being willfully ignorant, and she often sees more than what is right in front of her, allowing her imagination to work on the material right in front of her. In this scene however, Isabel finally is victorious in understanding the situation and allowing herself to be seen as an all-knowing and seeing entity. Merle sees that Isabel knows what she is - she knows her true nature. However, Merle cannot resist taking her down a notch, proving to her that her vision is not so extraordinary after all, by telling her about Ralph's gift to her. It is as if Isabel is a \"clear glass\" that allows Merle to see herself as a monstrosity for the first time. The end of the novel seems haunted by the past. The so-called \"ghost\" of Ralph Touchett appears. Recall that Isabel had earlier thought that the house of Gardencourt might be haunted, and Ralph had joked that she might live to see the ghost. However, while Isabel had expected the ghost of European history to make its appearance in the house -- for she had associated European convention with haunted houses and Romances - now, this ghost has come to stand for the American experience in Europe. We might read this in terms of an understanding of Americans making their mark on the history of Europe, in line with the Old World vs. New World theme. Goodwood's forced kiss at the end of the novel and his speech to Isabel suggests that he thinks it is perfectly acceptable to begin an extramarital affair with her. Isabel however, fights against this possibility. Her running away from him suggests that she is willing to accept the consequences of her marriage to Osmond once and for all, and upholds the honor of her actions of marrying Osmond. She wants to uphold a conventional notion of duty. This is representative of Isabel's final moral action. We can also read the ending though as Isabel's weakness rather than her strength. Every time she has a scene with Caspar Goodwood, she has a very physical reaction to him. It is as if she is attracted to him physically but cannot accept this about herself. Goodwood thus seems to represent her unconscious desires from which she runs away."}

Isabel's arrival at Gardencourt on this second occasion was even quieter than it had been on the first. Ralph Touchett kept but a small household, and to the new servants Mrs. Osmond was a stranger; so that instead of being conducted to her own apartment she was coldly shown into the drawing-room and left to wait while her name was carried up to her aunt. She waited a long time; Mrs. Touchett appeared in no hurry to come to her. She grew impatient at last; she grew nervous and scared--as scared as if the objects about her had begun to show for conscious things, watching her trouble with grotesque grimaces. The day was dark and cold; the dusk was thick in the corners of the wide brown rooms. The house was perfectly still--with a stillness that Isabel remembered; it had filled all the place for days before the death of her uncle. She left the drawing-room and wandered about--strolled into the library and along the gallery of pictures, where, in the deep silence, her footstep made an echo. Nothing was changed; she recognised everything she had seen years before; it might have been only yesterday she had stood there. She envied the security of valuable "pieces" which change by no hair's breadth, only grow in value, while their owners lose inch by inch youth, happiness, beauty; and she became aware that she was walking about as her aunt had done on the day she had come to see her in Albany. She was changed enough since then--that had been the beginning. It suddenly struck her that if her Aunt Lydia had not come that day in just that way and found her alone, everything might have been different. She might have had another life and she might have been a woman more blest. She stopped in the gallery in front of a small picture--a charming and precious Bonington--upon which her eyes rested a long time. But she was not looking at the picture; she was wondering whether if her aunt had not come that day in Albany she would have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett appeared at last, just after Isabel had returned to the big uninhabited drawing-room. She looked a good deal older, but her eye was as bright as ever and her head as erect; her thin lips seemed a repository of latent meanings. She wore a little grey dress of the most undecorated fashion, and Isabel wondered, as she had wondered the first time, if her remarkable kinswoman resembled more a queen-regent or the matron of a gaol. Her lips felt very thin indeed on Isabel's hot cheek. "I've kept you waiting because I've been sitting with Ralph," Mrs. Touchett said. "The nurse had gone to luncheon and I had taken her place. He has a man who's supposed to look after him, but the man's good for nothing; he's always looking out of the window--as if there were anything to see! I didn't wish to move, because Ralph seemed to be sleeping and I was afraid the sound would disturb him. I waited till the nurse came back. I remembered you knew the house." "I find I know it better even than I thought; I've been walking everywhere," Isabel answered. And then she asked if Ralph slept much. "He lies with his eyes closed; he doesn't move. But I'm not sure that it's always sleep." "Will he see me? Can he speak to me?" Mrs. Touchett declined the office of saying. "You can try him," was the limit of her extravagance. And then she offered to conduct Isabel to her room. "I thought they had taken you there; but it's not my house, it's Ralph's; and I don't know what they do. They must at least have taken your luggage; I don't suppose you've brought much. Not that I care, however. I believe they've given you the same room you had before; when Ralph heard you were coming he said you must have that one." "Did he say anything else?" "Ah, my dear, he doesn't chatter as he used!" cried Mrs. Touchett as she preceded her niece up the staircase. It was the same room, and something told Isabel it had not been slept in since she occupied it. Her luggage was there and was not voluminous; Mrs. Touchett sat down a moment with her eyes upon it. "Is there really no hope?" our young woman asked as she stood before her. "None whatever. There never has been. It has not been a successful life." "No--it has only been a beautiful one." Isabel found herself already contradicting her aunt; she was irritated by her dryness. "I don't know what you mean by that; there's no beauty without health. That is a very odd dress to travel in." Isabel glanced at her garment. "I left Rome at an hour's notice; I took the first that came." "Your sisters, in America, wished to know how you dress. That seemed to be their principal interest. I wasn't able to tell them--but they seemed to have the right idea: that you never wear anything less than black brocade." "They think I'm more brilliant than I am; I'm afraid to tell them the truth," said Isabel. "Lily wrote me you had dined with her." "She invited me four times, and I went once. After the second time she should have let me alone. The dinner was very good; it must have been expensive. Her husband has a very bad manner. Did I enjoy my visit to America? Why should I have enjoyed it? I didn't go for my pleasure." These were interesting items, but Mrs. Touchett soon left her niece, whom she was to meet in half an hour at the midday meal. For this repast the two ladies faced each other at an abbreviated table in the melancholy dining-room. Here, after a little, Isabel saw her aunt not to be so dry as she appeared, and her old pity for the poor woman's inexpressiveness, her want of regret, of disappointment, came back to her. Unmistakeably she would have found it a blessing to-day to be able to feel a defeat, a mistake, even a shame or two. She wondered if she were not even missing those enrichments of consciousness and privately trying--reaching out for some aftertaste of life, dregs of the banquet; the testimony of pain or the cold recreation of remorse. On the other hand perhaps she was afraid; if she should begin to know remorse at all it might take her too far. Isabel could perceive, however, how it had come over her dimly that she had failed of something, that she saw herself in the future as an old woman without memories. Her little sharp face looked tragical. She told her niece that Ralph had as yet not moved, but that he probably would be able to see her before dinner. And then in a moment she added that he had seen Lord Warburton the day before; an announcement which startled Isabel a little, as it seemed an intimation that this personage was in the neighbourhood and that an accident might bring them together. Such an accident would not be happy; she had not come to England to struggle again with Lord Warburton. She none the less presently said to her aunt that he had been very kind to Ralph; she had seen something of that in Rome. "He has something else to think of now," Mrs. Touchett returned. And she paused with a gaze like a gimlet. Isabel saw she meant something, and instantly guessed what she meant. But her reply concealed her guess; her heart beat faster and she wished to gain a moment. "Ah yes--the House of Lords and all that." "He's not thinking of the Lords; he's thinking of the ladies. At least he's thinking of one of them; he told Ralph he's engaged to be married." "Ah, to be married!" Isabel mildly exclaimed. "Unless he breaks it off. He seemed to think Ralph would like to know. Poor Ralph can't go to the wedding, though I believe it's to take place very soon. "And who's the young lady?" "A member of the aristocracy; Lady Flora, Lady Felicia--something of that sort." "I'm very glad," Isabel said. "It must be a sudden decision." "Sudden enough, I believe; a courtship of three weeks. It has only just been made public." "I'm very glad," Isabel repeated with a larger emphasis. She knew her aunt was watching her--looking for the signs of some imputed soreness, and the desire to prevent her companion from seeing anything of this kind enabled her to speak in the tone of quick satisfaction, the tone almost of relief. Mrs. Touchett of course followed the tradition that ladies, even married ones, regard the marriage of their old lovers as an offence to themselves. Isabel's first care therefore was to show that however that might be in general she was not offended now. But meanwhile, as I say, her heart beat faster; and if she sat for some moments thoughtful--she presently forgot Mrs. Touchett's observation--it was not because she had lost an admirer. Her imagination had traversed half Europe; it halted, panting, and even trembling a little, in the city of Rome. She figured herself announcing to her husband that Lord Warburton was to lead a bride to the altar, and she was of course not aware how extremely wan she must have looked while she made this intellectual effort. But at last she collected herself and said to her aunt: "He was sure to do it some time or other." Mrs. Touchett was silent; then she gave a sharp little shake of the head. "Ah, my dear, you're beyond me!" she cried suddenly. They went on with their luncheon in silence; Isabel felt as if she had heard of Lord Warburton's death. She had known him only as a suitor, and now that was all over. He was dead for poor Pansy; by Pansy he might have lived. A servant had been hovering about; at last Mrs. Touchett requested him to leave them alone. She had finished her meal; she sat with her hands folded on the edge of the table. "I should like to ask you three questions," she observed when the servant had gone. "Three are a great many." "I can't do with less; I've been thinking. They're all very good ones." "That's what I'm afraid of. The best questions are the worst," Isabel answered. Mrs. Touchett had pushed back her chair, and as her niece left the table and walked, rather consciously, to one of the deep windows, she felt herself followed by her eyes. "Have you ever been sorry you didn't marry Lord Warburton?" Mrs. Touchett enquired. Isabel shook her head slowly, but not heavily. "No, dear aunt." "Good. I ought to tell you that I propose to believe what you say." "Your believing me's an immense temptation," she declared, smiling still. "A temptation to lie? I don't recommend you to do that, for when I'm misinformed I'm as dangerous as a poisoned rat. I don't mean to crow over you." "It's my husband who doesn't get on with me," said Isabel. "I could have told him he wouldn't. I don't call that crowing over YOU," Mrs. Touchett added. "Do you still like Serena Merle?" she went on. "Not as I once did. But it doesn't matter, for she's going to America." "To America? She must have done something very bad." "Yes--very bad." "May I ask what it is?" "She made a convenience of me." "Ah," cried Mrs. Touchett, "so she did of me! She does of every one." "She'll make a convenience of America," said Isabel, smiling again and glad that her aunt's questions were over. It was not till the evening that she was able to see Ralph. He had been dozing all day; at least he had been lying unconscious. The doctor was there, but after a while went away--the local doctor, who had attended his father and whom Ralph liked. He came three or four times a day; he was deeply interested in his patient. Ralph had had Sir Matthew Hope, but he had got tired of this celebrated man, to whom he had asked his mother to send word he was now dead and was therefore without further need of medical advice. Mrs. Touchett had simply written to Sir Matthew that her son disliked him. On the day of Isabel's arrival Ralph gave no sign, as I have related, for many hours; but toward evening he raised himself and said he knew that she had come. How he knew was not apparent, inasmuch as for fear of exciting him no one had offered the information. Isabel came in and sat by his bed in the dim light; there was only a shaded candle in a corner of the room. She told the nurse she might go--she herself would sit with him for the rest of the evening. He had opened his eyes and recognised her, and had moved his hand, which lay helpless beside him, so that she might take it. But he was unable to speak; he closed his eyes again and remained perfectly still, only keeping her hand in his own. She sat with him a long time--till the nurse came back; but he gave no further sign. He might have passed away while she looked at him; he was already the figure and pattern of death. She had thought him far gone in Rome, and this was worse; there was but one change possible now. There was a strange tranquillity in his face; it was as still as the lid of a box. With this he was a mere lattice of bones; when he opened his eyes to greet her it was as if she were looking into immeasurable space. It was not till midnight that the nurse came back; but the hours, to Isabel, had not seemed long; it was exactly what she had come for. If she had come simply to wait she found ample occasion, for he lay three days in a kind of grateful silence. He recognised her and at moments seemed to wish to speak; but he found no voice. Then he closed his eyes again, as if he too were waiting for something--for something that certainly would come. He was so absolutely quiet that it seemed to her what was coming had already arrived; and yet she never lost the sense that they were still together. But they were not always together; there were other hours that she passed in wandering through the empty house and listening for a voice that was not poor Ralph's. She had a constant fear; she thought it possible her husband would write to her. But he remained silent, and she only got a letter from Florence and from the Countess Gemini. Ralph, however, spoke at last--on the evening of the third day. "I feel better to-night," he murmured, abruptly, in the soundless dimness of her vigil; "I think I can say something." She sank upon her knees beside his pillow; took his thin hand in her own; begged him not to make an effort--not to tire himself. His face was of necessity serious--it was incapable of the muscular play of a smile; but its owner apparently had not lost a perception of incongruities. "What does it matter if I'm tired when I've all eternity to rest? There's no harm in making an effort when it's the very last of all. Don't people always feel better just before the end? I've often heard of that; it's what I was waiting for. Ever since you've been here I thought it would come. I tried two or three times; I was afraid you'd get tired of sitting there." He spoke slowly, with painful breaks and long pauses; his voice seemed to come from a distance. When he ceased he lay with his face turned to Isabel and his large unwinking eyes open into her own. "It was very good of you to come," he went on. "I thought you would; but I wasn't sure." "I was not sure either till I came," said Isabel. "You've been like an angel beside my bed. You know they talk about the angel of death. It's the most beautiful of all. You've been like that; as if you were waiting for me." "I was not waiting for your death; I was waiting for--for this. This is not death, dear Ralph." "Not for you--no. There's nothing makes us feel so much alive as to see others die. That's the sensation of life--the sense that we remain. I've had it--even I. But now I'm of no use but to give it to others. With me it's all over." And then he paused. Isabel bowed her head further, till it rested on the two hands that were clasped upon his own. She couldn't see him now; but his far-away voice was close to her ear. "Isabel," he went on suddenly, "I wish it were over for you." She answered nothing; she had burst into sobs; she remained so, with her buried face. He lay silent, listening to her sobs; at last he gave a long groan. "Ah, what is it you have done for me?" "What is it you did for me?" she cried, her now extreme agitation half smothered by her attitude. She had lost all her shame, all wish to hide things. Now he must know; she wished him to know, for it brought them supremely together, and he was beyond the reach of pain. "You did something once--you know it. O Ralph, you've been everything! What have I done for you--what can I do to-day? I would die if you could live. But I don't wish you to live; I would die myself, not to lose you." Her voice was as broken as his own and full of tears and anguish. "You won't lose me--you'll keep me. Keep me in your heart; I shall be nearer to you than I've ever been. Dear Isabel, life is better; for in life there's love. Death is good--but there's no love." "I never thanked you--I never spoke--I never was what I should be!" Isabel went on. She felt a passionate need to cry out and accuse herself, to let her sorrow possess her. All her troubles, for the moment, became single and melted together into this present pain. "What must you have thought of me? Yet how could I know? I never knew, and I only know to-day because there are people less stupid than I." "Don't mind people," said Ralph. "I think I'm glad to leave people." She raised her head and her clasped hands; she seemed for a moment to pray to him. "Is it true--is it true?" she asked. "True that you've been stupid? Oh no," said Ralph with a sensible intention of wit. "That you made me rich--that all I have is yours?" He turned away his head, and for some time said nothing. Then at last: "Ah, don't speak of that--that was not happy." Slowly he moved his face toward her again, and they once more saw each other. "But for that--but for that--!" And he paused. "I believe I ruined you," he wailed. She was full of the sense that he was beyond the reach of pain; he seemed already so little of this world. But even if she had not had it she would still have spoken, for nothing mattered now but the only knowledge that was not pure anguish--the knowledge that they were looking at the truth together. "He married me for the money," she said. She wished to say everything; she was afraid he might die before she had done so. He gazed at her a little, and for the first time his fixed eyes lowered their lids. But he raised them in a moment, and then, "He was greatly in love with you," he answered. "Yes, he was in love with me. But he wouldn't have married me if I had been poor. I don't hurt you in saying that. How can I? I only want you to understand. I always tried to keep you from understanding; but that's all over." "I always understood," said Ralph. "I thought you did, and I didn't like it. But now I like it." "You don't hurt me--you make me very happy." And as Ralph said this there was an extraordinary gladness in his voice. She bent her head again, and pressed her lips to the back of his hand. "I always understood," he continued, "though it was so strange--so pitiful. You wanted to look at life for yourself--but you were not allowed; you were punished for your wish. You were ground in the very mill of the conventional!" "Oh yes, I've been punished," Isabel sobbed. He listened to her a little, and then continued: "Was he very bad about your coming?" "He made it very hard for me. But I don't care." "It is all over then between you?" "Oh no; I don't think anything's over." "Are you going back to him?" Ralph gasped. "I don't know--I can't tell. I shall stay here as long as I may. I don't want to think--I needn't think. I don't care for anything but you, and that's enough for the present. It will last a little yet. Here on my knees, with you dying in my arms, I'm happier than I have been for a long time. And I want you to be happy--not to think of anything sad; only to feel that I'm near you and I love you. Why should there be pain--? In such hours as this what have we to do with pain? That's not the deepest thing; there's something deeper." Ralph evidently found from moment to moment greater difficulty in speaking; he had to wait longer to collect himself. At first he appeared to make no response to these last words; he let a long time elapse. Then he murmured simply: "You must stay here." "I should like to stay--as long as seems right." "As seems right--as seems right?" He repeated her words. "Yes, you think a great deal about that." "Of course one must. You're very tired," said Isabel. "I'm very tired. You said just now that pain's not the deepest thing. No--no. But it's very deep. If I could stay--" "For me you'll always be here," she softly interrupted. It was easy to interrupt him. But he went on, after a moment: "It passes, after all; it's passing now. But love remains. I don't know why we should suffer so much. Perhaps I shall find out. There are many things in life. You're very young." "I feel very old," said Isabel. "You'll grow young again. That's how I see you. I don't believe--I don't believe--" But he stopped again; his strength failed him. She begged him to be quiet now. "We needn't speak to understand each other," she said. "I don't believe that such a generous mistake as yours can hurt you for more than a little." "Oh Ralph, I'm very happy now," she cried through her tears. "And remember this," he continued, "that if you've been hated you've also been loved. Ah but, Isabel--ADORED!" he just audibly and lingeringly breathed. "Oh my brother!" she cried with a movement of still deeper prostration.

Chapter 54

https://web.archive.org/web/20180325075811/http://www.gradesaver.com/the-portrait-of-a-lady/study-guide/summary-chapters-52-55

Isabel's arrival in Gardencourt is as quiet as her first time there. She wonders to herself what would have happened to her if she had never met her aunt - would she have married Caspar Goodwood. Mrs. Touchett comes to greet Isabel and inform her of Ralph's condition. He is not doing well, and Mrs. Touchett states that he has not had a successful life. Isabel says that he has had a beautiful one. Mrs. Touchett asks Isabel three questions: has she ever regretted her refusal of Lord Warburton. Isabel says she has not. Are she and Madame Merle still friends. Isabel says she is not. What did Madame Merle do to her. Isabel replies that she made a convenience of her. Isabel waits by Ralph's bedside for three days before he is finally well enough to speak. When he finally sits up, he believes he is near his end. He says he was not sure she would come. He then asks what she has done for him, implying that she has acted in opposition to her husband in coming to see him. She responds by asking him the same thing: what is it that he did for her. Did he really make her a rich woman. He tells her that he thinks he ruined her. Isabel admits that Osmond married her for her money. Ralph tells Isabel that she wanted to look at life, but ended up ground into the mill of the conventional. Yet he still has hope that she will be young again

The scene between Madame Merle and Isabel in Chapter 52 is a very important one for understanding James' project. In the preface, he has declared that Isabel is made extraordinary by her perceptiveness. Yet, we have learned that she often does not see what is right in front of her, being willfully ignorant, and she often sees more than what is right in front of her, allowing her imagination to work on the material right in front of her. In this scene however, Isabel finally is victorious in understanding the situation and allowing herself to be seen as an all-knowing and seeing entity. Merle sees that Isabel knows what she is - she knows her true nature. However, Merle cannot resist taking her down a notch, proving to her that her vision is not so extraordinary after all, by telling her about Ralph's gift to her. It is as if Isabel is a "clear glass" that allows Merle to see herself as a monstrosity for the first time. The end of the novel seems haunted by the past. The so-called "ghost" of Ralph Touchett appears. Recall that Isabel had earlier thought that the house of Gardencourt might be haunted, and Ralph had joked that she might live to see the ghost. However, while Isabel had expected the ghost of European history to make its appearance in the house -- for she had associated European convention with haunted houses and Romances - now, this ghost has come to stand for the American experience in Europe. We might read this in terms of an understanding of Americans making their mark on the history of Europe, in line with the Old World vs. New World theme. Goodwood's forced kiss at the end of the novel and his speech to Isabel suggests that he thinks it is perfectly acceptable to begin an extramarital affair with her. Isabel however, fights against this possibility. Her running away from him suggests that she is willing to accept the consequences of her marriage to Osmond once and for all, and upholds the honor of her actions of marrying Osmond. She wants to uphold a conventional notion of duty. This is representative of Isabel's final moral action. We can also read the ending though as Isabel's weakness rather than her strength. Every time she has a scene with Caspar Goodwood, she has a very physical reaction to him. It is as if she is attracted to him physically but cannot accept this about herself. Goodwood thus seems to represent her unconscious desires from which she runs away.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/01.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Portrait of a Lady/section_0_part_0.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 1

volume 1, chapter 1

{"name": "Volume 1, Chapter 1", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210508161644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/portrait-of-a-lady/summary/volume-1-chapter-1", "summary": "Ralph Touchett, his father, and his friend Lord Warburton lounge on the spacious lawn of Gardencourt, the Touchett family's beautiful English estate, 40 miles from London. It's tea time. We meet the three gentlemen, all of whom are quite pleasant. Mr. Touchett, an American expatriate, still has the look of his countrymen about him. He seems like a kind, wise, and very smart old man. Lord Warburton is apparently the ideal English gentleman, and an aristocrat, to boot. Ralph, though less impressive than his noble friend, has a certain charm of his own. The two gently banter -- this is an old routine between friends. Both Touchetts are rather sickly. Mr. Touchett teases Ralph, saying that his son is his sick nurse. Lord Warburton teasingly says that Ralph is a cynic. Ralph says Lord Warburton is bored with life. Their banter is obviously familiar -- it's a routine they've been through before. Mr. Touchett is a bank owner, but Ralph says he is not very rich, since he gives away so much of his money. Mr. Touchett chides the young men for their lack of focus. He tells Lord Warburton to find an interesting woman and settle down with her. The conversation turns to current affairs. Apparently, Ralph's cousin, a previously unknown young American lady, is coming to visit from the states with his mother, Mrs. Touchett. The Touchetts are originally from America and have lived in England for 30 years. Mrs. Touchett, who seems like something of an odd character, insists on communicating with her menfolk through frugal, sparsely worded telegrams, but the message is never really clear. Ralph describes his mother as a woman who insists on her independence. They predict that the niece will be similar. We gather that Mrs. and Mr. Touchett don't have a particularly great relationship. The three men discuss the benefits of having a lady to love, and Mr. Touchett jokes that Lord Warburton had better not fall in love with his niece.", "analysis": ""}

Under certain circumstances there are few hours in life more agreeable than the hour dedicated to the ceremony known as afternoon tea. There are circumstances in which, whether you partake of the tea or not--some people of course never do,--the situation is in itself delightful. Those that I have in mind in beginning to unfold this simple history offered an admirable setting to an innocent pastime. The implements of the little feast had been disposed upon the lawn of an old English country-house, in what I should call the perfect middle of a splendid summer afternoon. Part of the afternoon had waned, but much of it was left, and what was left was of the finest and rarest quality. Real dusk would not arrive for many hours; but the flood of summer light had begun to ebb, the air had grown mellow, the shadows were long upon the smooth, dense turf. They lengthened slowly, however, and the scene expressed that sense of leisure still to come which is perhaps the chief source of one's enjoyment of such a scene at such an hour. From five o'clock to eight is on certain occasions a little eternity; but on such an occasion as this the interval could be only an eternity of pleasure. The persons concerned in it were taking their pleasure quietly, and they were not of the sex which is supposed to furnish the regular votaries of the ceremony I have mentioned. The shadows on the perfect lawn were straight and angular; they were the shadows of an old man sitting in a deep wicker-chair near the low table on which the tea had been served, and of two younger men strolling to and fro, in desultory talk, in front of him. The old man had his cup in his hand; it was an unusually large cup, of a different pattern from the rest of the set and painted in brilliant colours. He disposed of its contents with much circumspection, holding it for a long time close to his chin, with his face turned to the house. His companions had either finished their tea or were indifferent to their privilege; they smoked cigarettes as they continued to stroll. One of them, from time to time, as he passed, looked with a certain attention at the elder man, who, unconscious of observation, rested his eyes upon the rich red front of his dwelling. The house that rose beyond the lawn was a structure to repay such consideration and was the most characteristic object in the peculiarly English picture I have attempted to sketch. It stood upon a low hill, above the river--the river being the Thames at some forty miles from London. A long gabled front of red brick, with the complexion of which time and the weather had played all sorts of pictorial tricks, only, however, to improve and refine it, presented to the lawn its patches of ivy, its clustered chimneys, its windows smothered in creepers. The house had a name and a history; the old gentleman taking his tea would have been delighted to tell you these things: how it had been built under Edward the Sixth, had offered a night's hospitality to the great Elizabeth (whose august person had extended itself upon a huge, magnificent and terribly angular bed which still formed the principal honour of the sleeping apartments), had been a good deal bruised and defaced in Cromwell's wars, and then, under the Restoration, repaired and much enlarged; and how, finally, after having been remodelled and disfigured in the eighteenth century, it had passed into the careful keeping of a shrewd American banker, who had bought it originally because (owing to circumstances too complicated to set forth) it was offered at a great bargain: bought it with much grumbling at its ugliness, its antiquity, its incommodity, and who now, at the end of twenty years, had become conscious of a real aesthetic passion for it, so that he knew all its points and would tell you just where to stand to see them in combination and just the hour when the shadows of its various protuberances which fell so softly upon the warm, weary brickwork--were of the right measure. Besides this, as I have said, he could have counted off most of the successive owners and occupants, several of whom were known to general fame; doing so, however, with an undemonstrative conviction that the latest phase of its destiny was not the least honourable. The front of the house overlooking that portion of the lawn with which we are concerned was not the entrance-front; this was in quite another quarter. Privacy here reigned supreme, and the wide carpet of turf that covered the level hill-top seemed but the extension of a luxurious interior. The great still oaks and beeches flung down a shade as dense as that of velvet curtains; and the place was furnished, like a room, with cushioned seats, with rich-coloured rugs, with the books and papers that lay upon the grass. The river was at some distance; where the ground began to slope the lawn, properly speaking, ceased. But it was none the less a charming walk down to the water. The old gentleman at the tea-table, who had come from America thirty years before, had brought with him, at the top of his baggage, his American physiognomy; and he had not only brought it with him, but he had kept it in the best order, so that, if necessary, he might have taken it back to his own country with perfect confidence. At present, obviously, nevertheless, he was not likely to displace himself; his journeys were over and he was taking the rest that precedes the great rest. He had a narrow, clean-shaven face, with features evenly distributed and an expression of placid acuteness. It was evidently a face in which the range of representation was not large, so that the air of contented shrewdness was all the more of a merit. It seemed to tell that he had been successful in life, yet it seemed to tell also that his success had not been exclusive and invidious, but had had much of the inoffensiveness of failure. He had certainly had a great experience of men, but there was an almost rustic simplicity in the faint smile that played upon his lean, spacious cheek and lighted up his humorous eye as he at last slowly and carefully deposited his big tea-cup upon the table. He was neatly dressed, in well-brushed black; but a shawl was folded upon his knees, and his feet were encased in thick, embroidered slippers. A beautiful collie dog lay upon the grass near his chair, watching the master's face almost as tenderly as the master took in the still more magisterial physiognomy of the house; and a little bristling, bustling terrier bestowed a desultory attendance upon the other gentlemen. One of these was a remarkably well-made man of five-and-thirty, with a face as English as that of the old gentleman I have just sketched was something else; a noticeably handsome face, fresh-coloured, fair and frank, with firm, straight features, a lively grey eye and the rich adornment of a chestnut beard. This person had a certain fortunate, brilliant exceptional look--the air of a happy temperament fertilised by a high civilisation--which would have made almost any observer envy him at a venture. He was booted and spurred, as if he had dismounted from a long ride; he wore a white hat, which looked too large for him; he held his two hands behind him, and in one of them--a large, white, well-shaped fist--was crumpled a pair of soiled dog-skin gloves. His companion, measuring the length of the lawn beside him, was a person of quite a different pattern, who, although he might have excited grave curiosity, would not, like the other, have provoked you to wish yourself, almost blindly, in his place. Tall, lean, loosely and feebly put together, he had an ugly, sickly, witty, charming face, furnished, but by no means decorated, with a straggling moustache and whisker. He looked clever and ill--a combination by no means felicitous; and he wore a brown velvet jacket. He carried his hands in his pockets, and there was something in the way he did it that showed the habit was inveterate. His gait had a shambling, wandering quality; he was not very firm on his legs. As I have said, whenever he passed the old man in the chair he rested his eyes upon him; and at this moment, with their faces brought into relation, you would easily have seen they were father and son. The father caught his son's eye at last and gave him a mild, responsive smile. "I'm getting on very well," he said. "Have you drunk your tea?" asked the son. "Yes, and enjoyed it." "Shall I give you some more?" The old man considered, placidly. "Well, I guess I'll wait and see." He had, in speaking, the American tone. "Are you cold?" the son enquired. The father slowly rubbed his legs. "Well, I don't know. I can't tell till I feel." "Perhaps some one might feel for you," said the younger man, laughing. "Oh, I hope some one will always feel for me! Don't you feel for me, Lord Warburton?" "Oh yes, immensely," said the gentleman addressed as Lord Warburton, promptly. "I'm bound to say you look wonderfully comfortable." "Well, I suppose I am, in most respects." And the old man looked down at his green shawl and smoothed it over his knees. "The fact is I've been comfortable so many years that I suppose I've got so used to it I don't know it." "Yes, that's the bore of comfort," said Lord Warburton. "We only know when we're uncomfortable." "It strikes me we're rather particular," his companion remarked. "Oh yes, there's no doubt we're particular," Lord Warburton murmured. And then the three men remained silent a while; the two younger ones standing looking down at the other, who presently asked for more tea. "I should think you would be very unhappy with that shawl," Lord Warburton resumed while his companion filled the old man's cup again. "Oh no, he must have the shawl!" cried the gentleman in the velvet coat. "Don't put such ideas as that into his head." "It belongs to my wife," said the old man simply. "Oh, if it's for sentimental reasons--" And Lord Warburton made a gesture of apology. "I suppose I must give it to her when she comes," the old man went on. "You'll please to do nothing of the kind. You'll keep it to cover your poor old legs." "Well, you mustn't abuse my legs," said the old man. "I guess they are as good as yours." "Oh, you're perfectly free to abuse mine," his son replied, giving him his tea. "Well, we're two lame ducks; I don't think there's much difference." "I'm much obliged to you for calling me a duck. How's your tea?" "Well, it's rather hot." "That's intended to be a merit." "Ah, there's a great deal of merit," murmured the old man, kindly. "He's a very good nurse, Lord Warburton." "Isn't he a bit clumsy?" asked his lordship. "Oh no, he's not clumsy--considering that he's an invalid himself. He's a very good nurse--for a sick-nurse. I call him my sick-nurse because he's sick himself." "Oh, come, daddy!" the ugly young man exclaimed. "Well, you are; I wish you weren't. But I suppose you can't help it." "I might try: that's an idea," said the young man. "Were you ever sick, Lord Warburton?" his father asked. Lord Warburton considered a moment. "Yes, sir, once, in the Persian Gulf." "He's making light of you, daddy," said the other young man. "That's a sort of joke." "Well, there seem to be so many sorts now," daddy replied, serenely. "You don't look as if you had been sick, anyway, Lord Warburton." "He's sick of life; he was just telling me so; going on fearfully about it," said Lord Warburton's friend. "Is that true, sir?" asked the old man gravely. "If it is, your son gave me no consolation. He's a wretched fellow to talk to--a regular cynic. He doesn't seem to believe in anything." "That's another sort of joke," said the person accused of cynicism. "It's because his health is so poor," his father explained to Lord Warburton. "It affects his mind and colours his way of looking at things; he seems to feel as if he had never had a chance. But it's almost entirely theoretical, you know; it doesn't seem to affect his spirits. I've hardly ever seen him when he wasn't cheerful--about as he is at present. He often cheers me up." The young man so described looked at Lord Warburton and laughed. "Is it a glowing eulogy or an accusation of levity? Should you like me to carry out my theories, daddy?" "By Jove, we should see some queer things!" cried Lord Warburton. "I hope you haven't taken up that sort of tone," said the old man. "Warburton's tone is worse than mine; he pretends to be bored. I'm not in the least bored; I find life only too interesting." "Ah, too interesting; you shouldn't allow it to be that, you know!" "I'm never bored when I come here," said Lord Warburton. "One gets such uncommonly good talk." "Is that another sort of joke?" asked the old man. "You've no excuse for being bored anywhere. When I was your age I had never heard of such a thing." "You must have developed very late." "No, I developed very quick; that was just the reason. When I was twenty years old I was very highly developed indeed. I was working tooth and nail. You wouldn't be bored if you had something to do; but all you young men are too idle. You think too much of your pleasure. You're too fastidious, and too indolent, and too rich." "Oh, I say," cried Lord Warburton, "you're hardly the person to accuse a fellow-creature of being too rich!" "Do you mean because I'm a banker?" asked the old man. "Because of that, if you like; and because you have--haven't you?--such unlimited means." "He isn't very rich," the other young man mercifully pleaded. "He has given away an immense deal of money." "Well, I suppose it was his own," said Lord Warburton; "and in that case could there be a better proof of wealth? Let not a public benefactor talk of one's being too fond of pleasure." "Daddy's very fond of pleasure--of other people's." The old man shook his head. "I don't pretend to have contributed anything to the amusement of my contemporaries." "My dear father, you're too modest!" "That's a kind of joke, sir," said Lord Warburton. "You young men have too many jokes. When there are no jokes you've nothing left." "Fortunately there are always more jokes," the ugly young man remarked. "I don't believe it--I believe things are getting more serious. You young men will find that out." "The increasing seriousness of things, then that's the great opportunity of jokes." "They'll have to be grim jokes," said the old man. "I'm convinced there will be great changes, and not all for the better." "I quite agree with you, sir," Lord Warburton declared. "I'm very sure there will be great changes, and that all sorts of queer things will happen. That's why I find so much difficulty in applying your advice; you know you told me the other day that I ought to 'take hold' of something. One hesitates to take hold of a thing that may the next moment be knocked sky-high." "You ought to take hold of a pretty woman," said his companion. "He's trying hard to fall in love," he added, by way of explanation, to his father. "The pretty women themselves may be sent flying!" Lord Warburton exclaimed. "No, no, they'll be firm," the old man rejoined; "they'll not be affected by the social and political changes I just referred to." "You mean they won't be abolished? Very well, then, I'll lay hands on one as soon as possible and tie her round my neck as a life-preserver." "The ladies will save us," said the old man; "that is the best of them will--for I make a difference between them. Make up to a good one and marry her, and your life will become much more interesting." A momentary silence marked perhaps on the part of his auditors a sense of the magnanimity of this speech, for it was a secret neither for his son nor for his visitor that his own experiment in matrimony had not been a happy one. As he said, however, he made a difference; and these words may have been intended as a confession of personal error; though of course it was not in place for either of his companions to remark that apparently the lady of his choice had not been one of the best. "If I marry an interesting woman I shall be interested: is that what you say?" Lord Warburton asked. "I'm not at all keen about marrying--your son misrepresented me; but there's no knowing what an interesting woman might do with me." "I should like to see your idea of an interesting woman," said his friend. "My dear fellow, you can't see ideas--especially such highly ethereal ones as mine. If I could only see it myself--that would be a great step in advance." "Well, you may fall in love with whomsoever you please; but you mustn't fall in love with my niece," said the old man. His son broke into a laugh. "He'll think you mean that as a provocation! My dear father, you've lived with the English for thirty years, and you've picked up a good many of the things they say. But you've never learned the things they don't say!" "I say what I please," the old man returned with all his serenity. "I haven't the honour of knowing your niece," Lord Warburton said. "I think it's the first time I've heard of her." "She's a niece of my wife's; Mrs. Touchett brings her to England." Then young Mr. Touchett explained. "My mother, you know, has been spending the winter in America, and we're expecting her back. She writes that she has discovered a niece and that she has invited her to come out with her." "I see,--very kind of her," said Lord Warburton. Is the young lady interesting?" "We hardly know more about her than you; my mother has not gone into details. She chiefly communicates with us by means of telegrams, and her telegrams are rather inscrutable. They say women don't know how to write them, but my mother has thoroughly mastered the art of condensation. 'Tired America, hot weather awful, return England with niece, first steamer decent cabin.' That's the sort of message we get from her--that was the last that came. But there had been another before, which I think contained the first mention of the niece. 'Changed hotel, very bad, impudent clerk, address here. Taken sister's girl, died last year, go to Europe, two sisters, quite independent.' Over that my father and I have scarcely stopped puzzling; it seems to admit of so many interpretations." "There's one thing very clear in it," said the old man; "she has given the hotel-clerk a dressing." "I'm not sure even of that, since he has driven her from the field. We thought at first that the sister mentioned might be the sister of the clerk; but the subsequent mention of a niece seems to prove that the allusion is to one of my aunts. Then there was a question as to whose the two other sisters were; they are probably two of my late aunt's daughters. But who's 'quite independent,' and in what sense is the term used?--that point's not yet settled. Does the expression apply more particularly to the young lady my mother has adopted, or does it characterise her sisters equally?--and is it used in a moral or in a financial sense? Does it mean that they've been left well off, or that they wish to be under no obligations? or does it simply mean that they're fond of their own way?" "Whatever else it means, it's pretty sure to mean that," Mr. Touchett remarked. "You'll see for yourself," said Lord Warburton. "When does Mrs. Touchett arrive?" "We're quite in the dark; as soon as she can find a decent cabin. She may be waiting for it yet; on the other hand she may already have disembarked in England." "In that case she would probably have telegraphed to you." "She never telegraphs when you would expect it--only when you don't," said the old man. "She likes to drop on me suddenly; she thinks she'll find me doing something wrong. She has never done so yet, but she's not discouraged." "It's her share in the family trait, the independence she speaks of." Her son's appreciation of the matter was more favourable. "Whatever the high spirit of those young ladies may be, her own is a match for it. She likes to do everything for herself and has no belief in any one's power to help her. She thinks me of no more use than a postage-stamp without gum, and she would never forgive me if I should presume to go to Liverpool to meet her." "Will you at least let me know when your cousin arrives?" Lord Warburton asked. "Only on the condition I've mentioned--that you don't fall in love with her!" Mr. Touchett replied. "That strikes me as hard, don't you think me good enough?" "I think you too good--because I shouldn't like her to marry you. She hasn't come here to look for a husband, I hope; so many young ladies are doing that, as if there were no good ones at home. Then she's probably engaged; American girls are usually engaged, I believe. Moreover I'm not sure, after all, that you'd be a remarkable husband." "Very likely she's engaged; I've known a good many American girls, and they always were; but I could never see that it made any difference, upon my word! As for my being a good husband," Mr. Touchett's visitor pursued, "I'm not sure of that either. One can but try!" "Try as much as you please, but don't try on my niece," smiled the old man, whose opposition to the idea was broadly humorous. "Ah, well," said Lord Warburton with a humour broader still, "perhaps, after all, she's not worth trying on!"

Volume 1, Chapter 1

https://web.archive.org/web/20210508161644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/portrait-of-a-lady/summary/volume-1-chapter-1

Ralph Touchett, his father, and his friend Lord Warburton lounge on the spacious lawn of Gardencourt, the Touchett family's beautiful English estate, 40 miles from London. It's tea time. We meet the three gentlemen, all of whom are quite pleasant. Mr. Touchett, an American expatriate, still has the look of his countrymen about him. He seems like a kind, wise, and very smart old man. Lord Warburton is apparently the ideal English gentleman, and an aristocrat, to boot. Ralph, though less impressive than his noble friend, has a certain charm of his own. The two gently banter -- this is an old routine between friends. Both Touchetts are rather sickly. Mr. Touchett teases Ralph, saying that his son is his sick nurse. Lord Warburton teasingly says that Ralph is a cynic. Ralph says Lord Warburton is bored with life. Their banter is obviously familiar -- it's a routine they've been through before. Mr. Touchett is a bank owner, but Ralph says he is not very rich, since he gives away so much of his money. Mr. Touchett chides the young men for their lack of focus. He tells Lord Warburton to find an interesting woman and settle down with her. The conversation turns to current affairs. Apparently, Ralph's cousin, a previously unknown young American lady, is coming to visit from the states with his mother, Mrs. Touchett. The Touchetts are originally from America and have lived in England for 30 years. Mrs. Touchett, who seems like something of an odd character, insists on communicating with her menfolk through frugal, sparsely worded telegrams, but the message is never really clear. Ralph describes his mother as a woman who insists on her independence. They predict that the niece will be similar. We gather that Mrs. and Mr. Touchett don't have a particularly great relationship. The three men discuss the benefits of having a lady to love, and Mr. Touchett jokes that Lord Warburton had better not fall in love with his niece.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/02.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Portrait of a Lady/section_1_part_0.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 2

chapter 2

{"name": "Chapter 2", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210508161644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/portrait-of-a-lady/summary/chapter-2", "summary": "Ralph's little dog, Bunchie, runs toward the house, and Ralph sees a beautiful young woman approaching. We assume, as he does, that this is the independent young cousin. Ralph and his cousin, Isabel Archer, get off to a friendly start. Isabel tells Ralph that he is to go to his mother's chambers at a quarter to seven. Mrs. Touchett has locked herself in her room, as is her custom. When Isabel does not take it upon herself to greet Mr. Touchett, Ralph invites her to come and meet him. Though her aunt had led her to believe that her uncle was quite active, recently his health has declined drastically. Isabel meets Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton. All three gentlemen are quite interested in her, in their different ways. Ralph innocently comments that Mrs. Touchett has \"adopted\" Isabel. She seems offended by this statement and clarifies that her liberty is very important to her. Returning to their pre-Isabel conversation, Lord Warburton declares that she is his idea of an interesting woman.", "analysis": ""}

While this exchange of pleasantries took place between the two Ralph Touchett wandered away a little, with his usual slouching gait, his hands in his pockets and his little rowdyish terrier at his heels. His face was turned toward the house, but his eyes were bent musingly on the lawn; so that he had been an object of observation to a person who had just made her appearance in the ample doorway for some moments before he perceived her. His attention was called to her by the conduct of his dog, who had suddenly darted forward with a little volley of shrill barks, in which the note of welcome, however, was more sensible than that of defiance. The person in question was a young lady, who seemed immediately to interpret the greeting of the small beast. He advanced with great rapidity and stood at her feet, looking up and barking hard; whereupon, without hesitation, she stooped and caught him in her hands, holding him face to face while he continued his quick chatter. His master now had had time to follow and to see that Bunchie's new friend was a tall girl in a black dress, who at first sight looked pretty. She was bareheaded, as if she were staying in the house--a fact which conveyed perplexity to the son of its master, conscious of that immunity from visitors which had for some time been rendered necessary by the latter's ill-health. Meantime the two other gentlemen had also taken note of the new-comer. "Dear me, who's that strange woman?" Mr. Touchett had asked. "Perhaps it's Mrs. Touchett's niece--the independent young lady," Lord Warburton suggested. "I think she must be, from the way she handles the dog." The collie, too, had now allowed his attention to be diverted, and he trotted toward the young lady in the doorway, slowly setting his tail in motion as he went. "But where's my wife then?" murmured the old man. "I suppose the young lady has left her somewhere: that's a part of the independence." The girl spoke to Ralph, smiling, while she still held up the terrier. "Is this your little dog, sir?" "He was mine a moment ago; but you've suddenly acquired a remarkable air of property in him." "Couldn't we share him?" asked the girl. "He's such a perfect little darling." Ralph looked at her a moment; she was unexpectedly pretty. "You may have him altogether," he then replied. The young lady seemed to have a great deal of confidence, both in herself and in others; but this abrupt generosity made her blush. "I ought to tell you that I'm probably your cousin," she brought out, putting down the dog. "And here's another!" she added quickly, as the collie came up. "Probably?" the young man exclaimed, laughing. "I supposed it was quite settled! Have you arrived with my mother?" "Yes, half an hour ago." "And has she deposited you and departed again?" "No, she went straight to her room, and she told me that, if I should see you, I was to say to you that you must come to her there at a quarter to seven." The young man looked at his watch. "Thank you very much; I shall be punctual." And then he looked at his cousin. "You're very welcome here. I'm delighted to see you." She was looking at everything, with an eye that denoted clear perception--at her companion, at the two dogs, at the two gentlemen under the trees, at the beautiful scene that surrounded her. "I've never seen anything so lovely as this place. I've been all over the house; it's too enchanting." "I'm sorry you should have been here so long without our knowing it." "Your mother told me that in England people arrived very quietly; so I thought it was all right. Is one of those gentlemen your father?" "Yes, the elder one--the one sitting down," said Ralph. The girl gave a laugh. "I don't suppose it's the other. Who's the other?" "He's a friend of ours--Lord Warburton." "Oh, I hoped there would be a lord; it's just like a novel!" And then, "Oh you adorable creature!" she suddenly cried, stooping down and picking up the small dog again. She remained standing where they had met, making no offer to advance or to speak to Mr. Touchett, and while she lingered so near the threshold, slim and charming, her interlocutor wondered if she expected the old man to come and pay her his respects. American girls were used to a great deal of deference, and it had been intimated that this one had a high spirit. Indeed Ralph could see that in her face. "Won't you come and make acquaintance with my father?" he nevertheless ventured to ask. "He's old and infirm--he doesn't leave his chair." "Ah, poor man, I'm very sorry!" the girl exclaimed, immediately moving forward. "I got the impression from your mother that he was rather intensely active." Ralph Touchett was silent a moment. "She hasn't seen him for a year." "Well, he has a lovely place to sit. Come along, little hound." "It's a dear old place," said the young man, looking sidewise at his neighbour. "What's his name?" she asked, her attention having again reverted to the terrier. "My father's name?" "Yes," said the young lady with amusement; "but don't tell him I asked you." They had come by this time to where old Mr. Touchett was sitting, and he slowly got up from his chair to introduce himself. "My mother has arrived," said Ralph, "and this is Miss Archer." The old man placed his two hands on her shoulders, looked at her a moment with extreme benevolence and then gallantly kissed her. "It's a great pleasure to me to see you here; but I wish you had given us a chance to receive you." "Oh, we were received," said the girl. "There were about a dozen servants in the hall. And there was an old woman curtseying at the gate." "We can do better than that--if we have notice!" And the old man stood there smiling, rubbing his hands and slowly shaking his head at her. "But Mrs. Touchett doesn't like receptions." "She went straight to her room." "Yes--and locked herself in. She always does that. Well, I suppose I shall see her next week." And Mrs. Touchett's husband slowly resumed his former posture. "Before that," said Miss Archer. "She's coming down to dinner--at eight o'clock. Don't you forget a quarter to seven," she added, turning with a smile to Ralph. "What's to happen at a quarter to seven?" "I'm to see my mother," said Ralph. "Ah, happy boy!" the old man commented. "You must sit down--you must have some tea," he observed to his wife's niece. "They gave me some tea in my room the moment I got there," this young lady answered. "I'm sorry you're out of health," she added, resting her eyes upon her venerable host. "Oh, I'm an old man, my dear; it's time for me to be old. But I shall be the better for having you here." She had been looking all round her again--at the lawn, the great trees, the reedy, silvery Thames, the beautiful old house; and while engaged in this survey she had made room in it for her companions; a comprehensiveness of observation easily conceivable on the part of a young woman who was evidently both intelligent and excited. She had seated herself and had put away the little dog; her white hands, in her lap, were folded upon her black dress; her head was erect, her eye lighted, her flexible figure turned itself easily this way and that, in sympathy with the alertness with which she evidently caught impressions. Her impressions were numerous, and they were all reflected in a clear, still smile. "I've never seen anything so beautiful as this." "It's looking very well," said Mr. Touchett. "I know the way it strikes you. I've been through all that. But you're very beautiful yourself," he added with a politeness by no means crudely jocular and with the happy consciousness that his advanced age gave him the privilege of saying such things--even to young persons who might possibly take alarm at them. What degree of alarm this young person took need not be exactly measured; she instantly rose, however, with a blush which was not a refutation. "Oh yes, of course I'm lovely!" she returned with a quick laugh. "How old is your house? Is it Elizabethan?" "It's early Tudor," said Ralph Touchett. She turned toward him, watching his face. "Early Tudor? How very delightful! And I suppose there are a great many others." "There are many much better ones." "Don't say that, my son!" the old man protested. "There's nothing better than this." "I've got a very good one; I think in some respects it's rather better," said Lord Warburton, who as yet had not spoken, but who had kept an attentive eye upon Miss Archer. He slightly inclined himself, smiling; he had an excellent manner with women. The girl appreciated it in an instant; she had not forgotten that this was Lord Warburton. "I should like very much to show it to you," he added. "Don't believe him," cried the old man; "don't look at it! It's a wretched old barrack--not to be compared with this." "I don't know--I can't judge," said the girl, smiling at Lord Warburton. In this discussion Ralph Touchett took no interest whatever; he stood with his hands in his pockets, looking greatly as if he should like to renew his conversation with his new-found cousin. "Are you very fond of dogs?" he enquired by way of beginning. He seemed to recognise that it was an awkward beginning for a clever man. "Very fond of them indeed." "You must keep the terrier, you know," he went on, still awkwardly. "I'll keep him while I'm here, with pleasure." "That will be for a long time, I hope." "You're very kind. I hardly know. My aunt must settle that." "I'll settle it with her--at a quarter to seven." And Ralph looked at his watch again. "I'm glad to be here at all," said the girl. "I don't believe you allow things to be settled for you." "Oh yes; if they're settled as I like them." "I shall settle this as I like it," said Ralph. "It's most unaccountable that we should never have known you." "I was there--you had only to come and see me." "There? Where do you mean?" "In the United States: in New York and Albany and other American places." "I've been there--all over, but I never saw you. I can't make it out." Miss Archer just hesitated. "It was because there had been some disagreement between your mother and my father, after my mother's death, which took place when I was a child. In consequence of it we never expected to see you." "Ah, but I don't embrace all my mother's quarrels--heaven forbid!" the young man cried. "You've lately lost your father?" he went on more gravely. "Yes; more than a year ago. After that my aunt was very kind to me; she came to see me and proposed that I should come with her to Europe." "I see," said Ralph. "She has adopted you." "Adopted me?" The girl stared, and her blush came back to her, together with a momentary look of pain which gave her interlocutor some alarm. He had underestimated the effect of his words. Lord Warburton, who appeared constantly desirous of a nearer view of Miss Archer, strolled toward the two cousins at the moment, and as he did so she rested her wider eyes on him. "Oh no; she has not adopted me. I'm not a candidate for adoption." "I beg a thousand pardons," Ralph murmured. "I meant--I meant--" He hardly knew what he meant. "You meant she has taken me up. Yes; she likes to take people up. She has been very kind to me; but," she added with a certain visible eagerness of desire to be explicit, "I'm very fond of my liberty." "Are you talking about Mrs. Touchett?" the old man called out from his chair. "Come here, my dear, and tell me about her. I'm always thankful for information." The girl hesitated again, smiling. "She's really very benevolent," she answered; after which she went over to her uncle, whose mirth was excited by her words. Lord Warburton was left standing with Ralph Touchett, to whom in a moment he said: "You wished a while ago to see my idea of an interesting woman. There it is!"

Chapter 2

https://web.archive.org/web/20210508161644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/portrait-of-a-lady/summary/chapter-2

Ralph's little dog, Bunchie, runs toward the house, and Ralph sees a beautiful young woman approaching. We assume, as he does, that this is the independent young cousin. Ralph and his cousin, Isabel Archer, get off to a friendly start. Isabel tells Ralph that he is to go to his mother's chambers at a quarter to seven. Mrs. Touchett has locked herself in her room, as is her custom. When Isabel does not take it upon herself to greet Mr. Touchett, Ralph invites her to come and meet him. Though her aunt had led her to believe that her uncle was quite active, recently his health has declined drastically. Isabel meets Mr. Touchett and Lord Warburton. All three gentlemen are quite interested in her, in their different ways. Ralph innocently comments that Mrs. Touchett has "adopted" Isabel. She seems offended by this statement and clarifies that her liberty is very important to her. Returning to their pre-Isabel conversation, Lord Warburton declares that she is his idea of an interesting woman.

shmoop

all_chapterized_books/2833-chapters/03.txt

finished_summaries/shmoop/The Portrait of a Lady/section_2_part_0.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 3

chapter 3

{"name": "Chapter 3", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210508161644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/portrait-of-a-lady/summary/chapter-3", "summary": "Mrs. Touchett is a rather eccentric lady, and insists on things just as she likes them. For this reason, she keeps a house in Florence where she resides, while Mr. Touchett stays in England at Gardencourt. Now that we've met our heroine, we get her back-story. Mrs. Touchett \"discovered\" Isabel at her deceased grandmother's house in Albany, New York, where she spent most of her childhood. The house is next to a school, which a younger Isabel elected not to attend. She read a lot of books on her own instead. We begin to see that Isabel is as independent as her aunt, even as a child. Isabel is sitting in the \"office,\" a kind of quiet, informal room, when Mrs. Touchett unexpectedly arrives. She recognizes her as \"crazy Aunt Lydia,\" whom she'd heard of from her late father. Mrs. Touchett intrigues Isabel, and Isabel interests Mrs. Touchett as well. The two ladies talk for about an hour, waiting for Isabel's sister and brother-in-law, Lilian and Edmund, to return. Mrs. Touchett offers Isabel the chance to go to Florence. Isabel is excited by the idea, but cannot promise to do everything Mrs. Touchett asks her to do. Mrs. Touchett tells Isabel to ask Lilian to meet her at her hotel.", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. Touchett was certainly a person of many oddities, of which her behaviour on returning to her husband's house after many months was a noticeable specimen. She had her own way of doing all that she did, and this is the simplest description of a character which, although by no means without liberal motions, rarely succeeded in giving an impression of suavity. Mrs. Touchett might do a great deal of good, but she never pleased. This way of her own, of which she was so fond, was not intrinsically offensive--it was just unmistakeably distinguished from the ways of others. The edges of her conduct were so very clear-cut that for susceptible persons it sometimes had a knife-like effect. That hard fineness came out in her deportment during the first hours of her return from America, under circumstances in which it might have seemed that her first act would have been to exchange greetings with her husband and son. Mrs. Touchett, for reasons which she deemed excellent, always retired on such occasions into impenetrable seclusion, postponing the more sentimental ceremony until she had repaired the disorder of dress with a completeness which had the less reason to be of high importance as neither beauty nor vanity were concerned in it. She was a plain-faced old woman, without graces and without any great elegance, but with an extreme respect for her own motives. She was usually prepared to explain these--when the explanation was asked as a favour; and in such a case they proved totally different from those that had been attributed to her. She was virtually separated from her husband, but she appeared to perceive nothing irregular in the situation. It had become clear, at an early stage of their community, that they should never desire the same thing at the same moment, and this appearance had prompted her to rescue disagreement from the vulgar realm of accident. She did what she could to erect it into a law--a much more edifying aspect of it--by going to live in Florence, where she bought a house and established herself; and by leaving her husband to take care of the English branch of his bank. This arrangement greatly pleased her; it was so felicitously definite. It struck her husband in the same light, in a foggy square in London, where it was at times the most definite fact he discerned; but he would have preferred that such unnatural things should have a greater vagueness. To agree to disagree had cost him an effort; he was ready to agree to almost anything but that, and saw no reason why either assent or dissent should be so terribly consistent. Mrs. Touchett indulged in no regrets nor speculations, and usually came once a year to spend a month with her husband, a period during which she apparently took pains to convince him that she had adopted the right system. She was not fond of the English style of life, and had three or four reasons for it to which she currently alluded; they bore upon minor points of that ancient order, but for Mrs. Touchett they amply justified non-residence. She detested bread-sauce, which, as she said, looked like a poultice and tasted like soap; she objected to the consumption of beer by her maid-servants; and she affirmed that the British laundress (Mrs. Touchett was very particular about the appearance of her linen) was not a mistress of her art. At fixed intervals she paid a visit to her own country; but this last had been longer than any of its predecessors. She had taken up her niece--there was little doubt of that. One wet afternoon, some four months earlier than the occurrence lately narrated, this young lady had been seated alone with a book. To say she was so occupied is to say that her solitude did not press upon her; for her love of knowledge had a fertilising quality and her imagination was strong. There was at this time, however, a want of fresh taste in her situation which the arrival of an unexpected visitor did much to correct. The visitor had not been announced; the girl heard her at last walking about the adjoining room. It was in an old house at Albany, a large, square, double house, with a notice of sale in the windows of one of the lower apartments. There were two entrances, one of which had long been out of use but had never been removed. They were exactly alike--large white doors, with an arched frame and wide side-lights, perched upon little "stoops" of red stone, which descended sidewise to the brick pavement of the street. The two houses together formed a single dwelling, the party-wall having been removed and the rooms placed in communication. These rooms, above-stairs, were extremely numerous, and were painted all over exactly alike, in a yellowish white which had grown sallow with time. On the third floor there was a sort of arched passage, connecting the two sides of the house, which Isabel and her sisters used in their childhood to call the tunnel and which, though it was short and well lighted, always seemed to the girl to be strange and lonely, especially on winter afternoons. She had been in the house, at different periods, as a child; in those days her grandmother lived there. Then there had been an absence of ten years, followed by a return to Albany before her father's death. Her grandmother, old Mrs. Archer, had exercised, chiefly within the limits of the family, a large hospitality in the early period, and the little girls often spent weeks under her roof--weeks of which Isabel had the happiest memory. The manner of life was different from that of her own home--larger, more plentiful, practically more festal; the discipline of the nursery was delightfully vague and the opportunity of listening to the conversation of one's elders (which with Isabel was a highly-valued pleasure) almost unbounded. There was a constant coming and going; her grandmother's sons and daughters and their children appeared to be in the enjoyment of standing invitations to arrive and remain, so that the house offered to a certain extent the appearance of a bustling provincial inn kept by a gentle old landlady who sighed a great deal and never presented a bill. Isabel of course knew nothing about bills; but even as a child she thought her grandmother's home romantic. There was a covered piazza behind it, furnished with a swing which was a source of tremulous interest; and beyond this was a long garden, sloping down to the stable and containing peach-trees of barely credible familiarity. Isabel had stayed with her grandmother at various seasons, but somehow all her visits had a flavour of peaches. On the other side, across the street, was an old house that was called the Dutch House--a peculiar structure dating from the earliest colonial time, composed of bricks that had been painted yellow, crowned with a gable that was pointed out to strangers, defended by a rickety wooden paling and standing sidewise to the street. It was occupied by a primary school for children of both sexes, kept or rather let go, by a demonstrative lady of whom Isabel's chief recollection was that her hair was fastened with strange bedroomy combs at the temples and that she was the widow of some one of consequence. The little girl had been offered the opportunity of laying a foundation of knowledge in this establishment; but having spent a single day in it, she had protested against its laws and had been allowed to stay at home, where, in the September days, when the windows of the Dutch House were open, she used to hear the hum of childish voices repeating the multiplication table--an incident in which the elation of liberty and the pain of exclusion were indistinguishably mingled. The foundation of her knowledge was really laid in the idleness of her grandmother's house, where, as most of the other inmates were not reading people, she had uncontrolled use of a library full of books with frontispieces, which she used to climb upon a chair to take down. When she had found one to her taste--she was guided in the selection chiefly by the frontispiece--she carried it into a mysterious apartment which lay beyond the library and which was called, traditionally, no one knew why, the office. Whose office it had been and at what period it had flourished, she never learned; it was enough for her that it contained an echo and a pleasant musty smell and that it was a chamber of disgrace for old pieces of furniture whose infirmities were not always apparent (so that the disgrace seemed unmerited and rendered them victims of injustice) and with which, in the manner of children, she had established relations almost human, certainly dramatic. There was an old haircloth sofa in especial, to which she had confided a hundred childish sorrows. The place owed much of its mysterious melancholy to the fact that it was properly entered from the second door of the house, the door that had been condemned, and that it was secured by bolts which a particularly slender little girl found it impossible to slide. She knew that this silent, motionless portal opened into the street; if the sidelights had not been filled with green paper she might have looked out upon the little brown stoop and the well-worn brick pavement. But she had no wish to look out, for this would have interfered with her theory that there was a strange, unseen place on the other side--a place which became to the child's imagination, according to its different moods, a region of delight or of terror. It was in the "office" still that Isabel was sitting on that melancholy afternoon of early spring which I have just mentioned. At this time she might have had the whole house to choose from, and the room she had selected was the most depressed of its scenes. She had never opened the bolted door nor removed the green paper (renewed by other hands) from its sidelights; she had never assured herself that the vulgar street lay beyond. A crude, cold rain fell heavily; the spring-time was indeed an appeal--and it seemed a cynical, insincere appeal--to patience. Isabel, however, gave as little heed as possible to cosmic treacheries; she kept her eyes on her book and tried to fix her mind. It had lately occurred to her that her mind was a good deal of a vagabond, and she had spent much ingenuity in training it to a military step and teaching it to advance, to halt, to retreat, to perform even more complicated manoeuvres, at the word of command. Just now she had given it marching orders and it had been trudging over the sandy plains of a history of German Thought. Suddenly she became aware of a step very different from her own intellectual pace; she listened a little and perceived that some one was moving in the library, which communicated with the office. It struck her first as the step of a person from whom she was looking for a visit, then almost immediately announced itself as the tread of a woman and a stranger--her possible visitor being neither. It had an inquisitive, experimental quality which suggested that it would not stop short of the threshold of the office; and in fact the doorway of this apartment was presently occupied by a lady who paused there and looked very hard at our heroine. She was a plain, elderly woman, dressed in a comprehensive waterproof mantle; she had a face with a good deal of rather violent point. "Oh," she began, "is that where you usually sit?" She looked about at the heterogeneous chairs and tables. "Not when I have visitors," said Isabel, getting up to receive the intruder. She directed their course back to the library while the visitor continued to look about her. "You seem to have plenty of other rooms; they're in rather better condition. But everything's immensely worn." "Have you come to look at the house?" Isabel asked. "The servant will show it to you." "Send her away; I don't want to buy it. She has probably gone to look for you and is wandering about upstairs; she didn't seem at all intelligent. You had better tell her it's no matter." And then, since the girl stood there hesitating and wondering, this unexpected critic said to her abruptly: "I suppose you're one of the daughters?" Isabel thought she had very strange manners. "It depends upon whose daughters you mean." "The late Mr. Archer's--and my poor sister's." "Ah," said Isabel slowly, "you must be our crazy Aunt Lydia!" "Is that what your father told you to call me? I'm your Aunt Lydia, but I'm not at all crazy: I haven't a delusion! And which of the daughters are you?" "I'm the youngest of the three, and my name's Isabel." "Yes; the others are Lilian and Edith. And are you the prettiest?" "I haven't the least idea," said the girl. "I think you must be." And in this way the aunt and the niece made friends. The aunt had quarrelled years before with her brother-in-law, after the death of her sister, taking him to task for the manner in which he brought up his three girls. Being a high-tempered man he had requested her to mind her own business, and she had taken him at his word. For many years she held no communication with him and after his death had addressed not a word to his daughters, who had been bred in that disrespectful view of her which we have just seen Isabel betray. Mrs. Touchett's behaviour was, as usual, perfectly deliberate. She intended to go to America to look after her investments (with which her husband, in spite of his great financial position, had nothing to do) and would take advantage of this opportunity to enquire into the condition of her nieces. There was no need of writing, for she should attach no importance to any account of them she should elicit by letter; she believed, always, in seeing for one's self. Isabel found, however, that she knew a good deal about them, and knew about the marriage of the two elder girls; knew that their poor father had left very little money, but that the house in Albany, which had passed into his hands, was to be sold for their benefit; knew, finally, that Edmund Ludlow, Lilian's husband, had taken upon himself to attend to this matter, in consideration of which the young couple, who had come to Albany during Mr. Archer's illness, were remaining there for the present and, as well as Isabel herself, occupying the old place. "How much money do you expect for it?" Mrs. Touchett asked of her companion, who had brought her to sit in the front parlour, which she had inspected without enthusiasm. "I haven't the least idea," said the girl. "That's the second time you have said that to me," her aunt rejoined. "And yet you don't look at all stupid." "I'm not stupid; but I don't know anything about money." "Yes, that's the way you were brought up--as if you were to inherit a million. What have you in point of fact inherited?" "I really can't tell you. You must ask Edmund and Lilian; they'll be back in half an hour." "In Florence we should call it a very bad house," said Mrs. Touchett; "but here, I dare say, it will bring a high price. It ought to make a considerable sum for each of you. In addition to that you must have something else; it's most extraordinary your not knowing. The position's of value, and they'll probably pull it down and make a row of shops. I wonder you don't do that yourself; you might let the shops to great advantage." Isabel stared; the idea of letting shops was new to her. "I hope they won't pull it down," she said; "I'm extremely fond of it." "I don't see what makes you fond of it; your father died here." "Yes; but I don't dislike it for that," the girl rather strangely returned. "I like places in which things have happened--even if they're sad things. A great many people have died here; the place has been full of life." "Is that what you call being full of life?" "I mean full of experience--of people's feelings and sorrows. And not of their sorrows only, for I've been very happy here as a child." "You should go to Florence if you like houses in which things have happened--especially deaths. I live in an old palace in which three people have been murdered; three that were known and I don't know how many more besides." "In an old palace?" Isabel repeated. "Yes, my dear; a very different affair from this. This is very bourgeois." Isabel felt some emotion, for she had always thought highly of her grandmother's house. But the emotion was of a kind which led her to say: "I should like very much to go to Florence." "Well, if you'll be very good, and do everything I tell you I'll take you there," Mrs. Touchett declared. Our young woman's emotion deepened; she flushed a little and smiled at her aunt in silence. "Do everything you tell me? I don't think I can promise that." "No, you don't look like a person of that sort. You're fond of your own way; but it's not for me to blame you." "And yet, to go to Florence," the girl exclaimed in a moment, "I'd promise almost anything!" Edmund and Lilian were slow to return, and Mrs. Touchett had an hour's uninterrupted talk with her niece, who found her a strange and interesting figure: a figure essentially--almost the first she had ever met. She was as eccentric as Isabel had always supposed; and hitherto, whenever the girl had heard people described as eccentric, she had thought of them as offensive or alarming. The term had always suggested to her something grotesque and even sinister. But her aunt made it a matter of high but easy irony, or comedy, and led her to ask herself if the common tone, which was all she had known, had ever been as interesting. No one certainly had on any occasion so held her as this little thin-lipped, bright-eyed, foreign-looking woman, who retrieved an insignificant appearance by a distinguished manner and, sitting there in a well-worn waterproof, talked with striking familiarity of the courts of Europe. There was nothing flighty about Mrs. Touchett, but she recognised no social superiors, and, judging the great ones of the earth in a way that spoke of this, enjoyed the consciousness of making an impression on a candid and susceptible mind. Isabel at first had answered a good many questions, and it was from her answers apparently that Mrs. Touchett derived a high opinion of her intelligence. But after this she had asked a good many, and her aunt's answers, whatever turn they took, struck her as food for deep reflexion. Mrs. Touchett waited for the return of her other niece as long as she thought reasonable, but as at six o'clock Mrs. Ludlow had not come in she prepared to take her departure. "Your sister must be a great gossip. Is she accustomed to staying out so many hours?" "You've been out almost as long as she," Isabel replied; "she can have left the house but a short time before you came in." Mrs. Touchett looked at the girl without resentment; she appeared to enjoy a bold retort and to be disposed to be gracious. "Perhaps she hasn't had so good an excuse as I. Tell her at any rate that she must come and see me this evening at that horrid hotel. She may bring her husband if she likes, but she needn't bring you. I shall see plenty of you later."

Chapter 3

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Mrs. Touchett is a rather eccentric lady, and insists on things just as she likes them. For this reason, she keeps a house in Florence where she resides, while Mr. Touchett stays in England at Gardencourt. Now that we've met our heroine, we get her back-story. Mrs. Touchett "discovered" Isabel at her deceased grandmother's house in Albany, New York, where she spent most of her childhood. The house is next to a school, which a younger Isabel elected not to attend. She read a lot of books on her own instead. We begin to see that Isabel is as independent as her aunt, even as a child. Isabel is sitting in the "office," a kind of quiet, informal room, when Mrs. Touchett unexpectedly arrives. She recognizes her as "crazy Aunt Lydia," whom she'd heard of from her late father. Mrs. Touchett intrigues Isabel, and Isabel interests Mrs. Touchett as well. The two ladies talk for about an hour, waiting for Isabel's sister and brother-in-law, Lilian and Edmund, to return. Mrs. Touchett offers Isabel the chance to go to Florence. Isabel is excited by the idea, but cannot promise to do everything Mrs. Touchett asks her to do. Mrs. Touchett tells Isabel to ask Lilian to meet her at her hotel.

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finished_summaries/shmoop/The Portrait of a Lady/section_3_part_0.txt

The Portrait of a Lady.chapter 4

chapter 4

{"name": "Chapter 4", "url": "https://web.archive.org/web/20210508161644/https://www.shmoop.com/study-guides/literature/portrait-of-a-lady/summary/chapter-4", "summary": "Of the three Archer sisters, Lilian is thought to be the practical one, Edith the beautiful one, and Isabel the \"intellectual\" one. Lilian and Edith are both married: Lilian lives happily in New York with her vociferous husband and children, while beautiful Edith lives somewhat less happily in the \"unfashionable West\" . Lilian and her husband, Edmund, seem like perfectly nice, normal people. Lilian is worried about her exceptional younger sister, who is something of a mystery to them. Mr. Archer, their father, was notorious for not handling money well, often gambling and spending frivolously. Despite all of this, Isabel remembers her father fondly. Isabel thinks her life is wonderful; she has had every privilege and has never wanted for anything. She is almost disappointed because she thinks that hardship would give her life a little spice - at least, that's what the books she reads all suggest. Even if Isabel's life hasn't been full of challenges, it is certainly full of quirky excitement. Mr. Archer raised his three daughters in a haphazard fashion, trundling them around the world and hiring negligent nannies to care for them. Although a lot of men courted Edith, most men overlook Isabel or feel intimidated by her intellectual reputation. However, we are told that she is quite beautiful in her own, unique way. For about a year, Boston-based Caspar Goodwood has been steadfastly wooing Isabel via post. She finds him to be quite an impressive young man, but doesn't really know how she feels about him yet. Caspar travels from New York City to Albany to visit Isabel. She is slow to meet him and, despite the fact that he looks resolved to action, their visit is uneventful. He leaves, somewhat defeated.", "analysis": ""}

Mrs. Ludlow was the eldest of the three sisters, and was usually thought the most sensible; the classification being in general that Lilian was the practical one, Edith the beauty and Isabel the "intellectual" superior. Mrs. Keyes, the second of the group, was the wife of an officer of the United States Engineers, and as our history is not further concerned with her it will suffice that she was indeed very pretty and that she formed the ornament of those various military stations, chiefly in the unfashionable West, to which, to her deep chagrin, her husband was successively relegated. Lilian had married a New York lawyer, a young man with a loud voice and an enthusiasm for his profession; the match was not brilliant, any more than Edith's, but Lilian had occasionally been spoken of as a young woman who might be thankful to marry at all--she was so much plainer than her sisters. She was, however, very happy, and now, as the mother of two peremptory little boys and the mistress of a wedge of brown stone violently driven into Fifty-third Street, seemed to exult in her condition as in a bold escape. She was short and solid, and her claim to figure was questioned, but she was conceded presence, though not majesty; she had moreover, as people said, improved since her marriage, and the two things in life of which she was most distinctly conscious were her husband's force in argument and her sister Isabel's originality. "I've never kept up with Isabel--it would have taken all my time," she had often remarked; in spite of which, however, she held her rather wistfully in sight; watching her as a motherly spaniel might watch a free greyhound. "I want to see her safely married--that's what I want to see," she frequently noted to her husband. "Well, I must say I should have no particular desire to marry her," Edmund Ludlow was accustomed to answer in an extremely audible tone. "I know you say that for argument; you always take the opposite ground. I don't see what you've against her except that she's so original." "Well, I don't like originals; I like translations," Mr. Ludlow had more than once replied. "Isabel's written in a foreign tongue. I can't make her out. She ought to marry an Armenian or a Portuguese." "That's just what I'm afraid she'll do!" cried Lilian, who thought Isabel capable of anything. She listened with great interest to the girl's account of Mrs. Touchett's appearance and in the evening prepared to comply with their aunt's commands. Of what Isabel then said no report has remained, but her sister's words had doubtless prompted a word spoken to her husband as the two were making ready for their visit. "I do hope immensely she'll do something handsome for Isabel; she has evidently taken a great fancy to her." "What is it you wish her to do?" Edmund Ludlow asked. "Make her a big present?" "No indeed; nothing of the sort. But take an interest in her--sympathise with her. She's evidently just the sort of person to appreciate her. She has lived so much in foreign society; she told Isabel all about it. You know you've always thought Isabel rather foreign." "You want her to give her a little foreign sympathy, eh? Don't you think she gets enough at home?" "Well, she ought to go abroad," said Mrs. Ludlow. "She's just the person to go abroad." "And you want the old lady to take her, is that it?" "She has offered to take her--she's dying to have Isabel go. But what I want her to do when she gets her there is to give her all the advantages. I'm sure all we've got to do," said Mrs. Ludlow, "is to give her a chance." "A chance for what?" "A chance to develop." "Oh Moses!" Edmund Ludlow exclaimed. "I hope she isn't going to develop any more!" "If I were not sure you only said that for argument I should feel very badly," his wife replied. "But you know you love her." "Do you know I love you?" the young man said, jocosely, to Isabel a little later, while he brushed his hat. "I'm sure I don't care whether you do or not!" exclaimed the girl; whose voice and smile, however, were less haughty than her words. "Oh, she feels so grand since Mrs. Touchett's visit," said her sister. But Isabel challenged this assertion with a good deal of seriousness. "You must not say that, Lily. I don't feel grand at all." "I'm sure there's no harm," said the conciliatory Lily. "Ah, but there's nothing in Mrs. Touchett's visit to make one feel grand." "Oh," exclaimed Ludlow, "she's grander than ever!" "Whenever I feel grand," said the girl, "it will be for a better reason." Whether she felt grand or no, she at any rate felt different, as if something had happened to her. Left to herself for the evening she sat a while under the lamp, her hands empty, her usual avocations unheeded. Then she rose and moved about the room, and from one room to another, preferring the places where the vague lamplight expired. She was restless and even agitated; at moments she trembled a little. The importance of what had happened was out of proportion to its appearance; there had really been a change in her life. What it would bring with it was as yet extremely indefinite; but Isabel was in a situation that gave a value to any change. She had a desire to leave the past behind her and, as she said to herself, to begin afresh. This desire indeed was not a birth of the present occasion; it was as familiar as the sound of the rain upon the window and it had led to her beginning afresh a great many times. She closed her eyes as she sat in one of the dusky corners of the quiet parlour; but it was not with a desire for dozing forgetfulness. It was on the contrary because she felt too wide-eyed and wished to check the sense of seeing too many things at once. Her imagination was by habit ridiculously active; when the door was not open it jumped out of the window. She was not accustomed indeed to keep it behind bolts; and at important moments, when she would have been thankful to make use of her judgement alone, she paid the penalty of having given undue encouragement to the faculty of seeing without judging. At present, with her sense that the note of change had been struck, came gradually a host of images of the things she was leaving behind her. The years and hours of her life came back to her, and for a long time, in a stillness broken only by the ticking of the big bronze clock, she passed them in review. It had been a very happy life and she had been a very fortunate person--this was the truth that seemed to emerge most vividly. She had had the best of everything, and in a world in which the circumstances of so many people made them unenviable it was an advantage never to have known anything particularly unpleasant. It appeared to Isabel that the unpleasant had been even too absent from her knowledge, for she had gathered from her acquaintance with literature that it was often a source of interest and even of instruction. Her father had kept it away from her--her handsome, much loved father, who always had such an aversion to it. It was a great felicity to have been his daughter; Isabel rose even to pride in her parentage. Since his death she had seemed to see him as turning his braver side to his children and as not having managed to ignore the ugly quite so much in practice as in aspiration. But this only made her tenderness for him greater; it was scarcely even painful to have to suppose him too generous, too good-natured, too indifferent to sordid considerations. Many persons had held that he carried this indifference too far, especially the large number of those to whom he owed money. Of their opinions Isabel was never very definitely informed; but it may interest the reader to know that, while they had recognised in the late Mr. Archer a remarkably handsome head and a very taking manner (indeed, as one of them had said, he was always taking something), they had declared that he was making a very poor use of his life. He had squandered a substantial fortune, he had been deplorably convivial, he was known to have gambled freely. A few very harsh critics went so far as to say that he had not even brought up his daughters. They had had no regular education and no permanent home; they had been at once spoiled and neglected; they had lived with nursemaids and governesses (usually very bad ones) or had been sent to superficial schools, kept by the French, from which, at the end of a month, they had been removed in tears. This view of the matter would have excited Isabel's indignation, for to her own sense her opportunities had been large. Even when her father had left his daughters for three months at Neufchatel with a French bonne who had eloped with a Russian nobleman staying at the same hotel--even in this irregular situation (an incident of the girl's eleventh year) she had been neither frightened nor ashamed, but had thought it a romantic episode in a liberal education. Her father had a large way of looking at life, of which his restlessness and even his occasional incoherency of conduct had been only a proof. He wished his daughters, even as children, to see as much of the world as possible; and it was for this purpose that, before Isabel was fourteen, he had transported them three times across the Atlantic, giving them on each occasion, however, but a few months' view of the subject proposed: a course which had whetted our heroine's curiosity without enabling her to satisfy it. She ought to have been a partisan of her father, for she was the member of his trio who most "made up" to him for the disagreeables he didn't mention. In his last days his general willingness to take leave of a world in which the difficulty of doing as one liked appeared to increase as one grew older had been sensibly modified by the pain of separation from his clever, his superior, his remarkable girl. Later, when the journeys to Europe ceased, he still had shown his children all sorts of indulgence, and if he had been troubled about money-matters nothing ever disturbed their irreflective consciousness of many possessions. Isabel, though she danced very well, had not the recollection of having been in New York a successful member of the choreographic circle; her sister Edith was, as every one said, so very much more fetching. Edith was so striking an example of success that Isabel could have no illusions as to what constituted this advantage, or as to the limits of her own power to frisk and jump and shriek--above all with rightness of effect. Nineteen persons out of twenty (including the younger sister herself) pronounced Edith infinitely the prettier of the two; but the twentieth, besides reversing this judgement, had the entertainment of thinking all the others aesthetic vulgarians. Isabel had in the depths of her nature an even more unquenchable desire to please than Edith; but the depths of this young lady's nature were a very out-of-the-way place, between which and the surface communication was interrupted by a dozen capricious forces. She saw the young men who came in large numbers to see her sister; but as a general thing they were afraid of her; they had a belief that some special preparation was required for talking with her. Her reputation of reading a great deal hung about her like the cloudy envelope of a goddess in an epic; it was supposed to engender difficult questions and to keep the conversation at a low temperature. The poor girl liked to be thought clever, but she hated to be thought bookish; she used to read in secret and, though her memory was excellent, to abstain from showy reference. She had a great desire for knowledge, but she really preferred almost any source of information to the printed page; she had an immense curiosity about life and was constantly staring and wondering. She carried within herself a great fund of life, and her deepest enjoyment was to feel the continuity between the movements of her own soul and the agitations of the world. For this reason she was fond of seeing great crowds and large stretches of country, of reading about revolutions and wars, of looking at historical pictures--a class of efforts as to which she had often committed the conscious solecism of forgiving them much bad painting for the sake of the subject. While the Civil War went on she was still a very young girl; but she passed months of this long period in a state of almost passionate excitement, in which she felt herself at times (to her extreme confusion) stirred almost indiscriminately by the valour of either army. Of course the circumspection of suspicious swains had never gone the length of making her a social proscript; for the number of those whose hearts, as they approached her, beat only just fast enough to remind them they had heads as well, had kept her unacquainted with the supreme disciplines of her sex and age. She had had everything a girl could have: kindness, admiration, bonbons, bouquets, the sense of exclusion from none of the privileges of the world she lived in, abundant opportunity for dancing, plenty of new dresses, the London Spectator, the latest publications, the music of Gounod, the poetry of Browning, the prose of George Eliot. These things now, as memory played over them, resolved themselves into a multitude of scenes and figures. Forgotten things came back to her; many others, which she had lately thought of great moment, dropped out of sight. The result was kaleidoscopic, but the movement of the instrument was checked at last by the servant's coming in with the name of a gentleman. The name of the gentleman was Caspar Goodwood; he was a straight young man from Boston, who had known Miss Archer for the last twelvemonth and who, thinking her the most beautiful young woman of her time, had pronounced the time, according to the rule I have hinted at, a foolish period of history. He sometimes wrote to her and had within a week or two written from New York. She had thought it very possible he would come in--had indeed all the rainy day been vaguely expecting him. Now that she learned he was there, nevertheless, she felt no eagerness to receive him. He was the finest young man she had ever seen, was indeed quite a splendid young man; he inspired her with a sentiment of high, of rare respect. She had never felt equally moved to it by any other person. He was supposed by the world in general to wish to marry her, but this of course was between themselves. It at least may be affirmed that he had travelled from New York to Albany expressly to see her; having learned in the former city, where he was spending a few days and where he had hoped to find her, that she was still at the State capital. Isabel delayed for some minutes to go to him; she moved about the room with a new sense of complications. But at last she presented herself and found him standing near the lamp. He was tall, strong and somewhat stiff; he was also lean and brown. He was not romantically, he was much rather obscurely, handsome; but his physiognomy had an air of requesting your attention, which it rewarded according to the charm you found in blue eyes of remarkable fixedness, the eyes of a complexion other than his own, and a jaw of the somewhat angular mould which is supposed to bespeak resolution. Isabel said to herself that it bespoke resolution to-night; in spite of which, in half an hour, Caspar Goodwood, who had arrived hopeful as well as resolute, took his way back to his lodging with the feeling of a man defeated. He was not, it may be added, a man weakly to accept defeat.

Chapter 4

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Of the three Archer sisters, Lilian is thought to be the practical one, Edith the beautiful one, and Isabel the "intellectual" one. Lilian and Edith are both married: Lilian lives happily in New York with her vociferous husband and children, while beautiful Edith lives somewhat less happily in the "unfashionable West" . Lilian and her husband, Edmund, seem like perfectly nice, normal people. Lilian is worried about her exceptional younger sister, who is something of a mystery to them. Mr. Archer, their father, was notorious for not handling money well, often gambling and spending frivolously. Despite all of this, Isabel remembers her father fondly. Isabel thinks her life is wonderful; she has had every privilege and has never wanted for anything. She is almost disappointed because she thinks that hardship would give her life a little spice - at least, that's what the books she reads all suggest. Even if Isabel's life hasn't been full of challenges, it is certainly full of quirky excitement. Mr. Archer raised his three daughters in a haphazard fashion, trundling them around the world and hiring negligent nannies to care for them. Although a lot of men courted Edith, most men overlook Isabel or feel intimidated by her intellectual reputation. However, we are told that she is quite beautiful in her own, unique way. For about a year, Boston-based Caspar Goodwood has been steadfastly wooing Isabel via post. She finds him to be quite an impressive young man, but doesn't really know how she feels about him yet. Caspar travels from New York City to Albany to visit Isabel. She is slow to meet him and, despite the fact that he looks resolved to action, their visit is uneventful. He leaves, somewhat defeated.