illustration: the procedure for becoming beautiful] [illustration: the main characters ] _mary was a misfit. she didn't want to be beautiful. and she wasted time doing mad things--like eating and sleeping._ the beautiful people by charles beaumont mary sat quietly and watched the handsome man's legs blown off; watched further as the great ship began to crumple and break into small pieces in the middle of the blazing night. she fidgeted slightly as the men and the parts of the men came floating dreamily through the wreckage out into the awful silence. and when the meteorite shower came upon the men, gouging holes through everything, tearing flesh and ripping bones, mary closed her eyes. "mother." mrs. cuberle glanced up from her magazine. "hmm?" "do we have to wait much longer?" "i don't think so. why?" mary said nothing but looked at the moving wall. "oh, that." mrs. cuberle laughed and shook her head. "that tired old thing. read a magazine, mary, like i'm doing. we've all seen _that_ a million times." "does it have to be on, mother?" "well, nobody seems to be watching. i don't think the doctor would mind if i switched it off." mrs. cuberle rose from the couch and walked to the wall. she depressed a little button and the life went from the wall, flickering and glowing. mary opened her eyes. "honestly," mrs. cuberle said to a woman sitting beside her, "you'd think they'd try to get something else. we might as well go to the museum and watch the first landing on mars. the mayoraka disaster--really!" the woman replied without distracting her eyes from the magazine page. "it's the doctor's idea. psychological." mrs. cuberle opened her mouth and moved her head up and down knowingly. "ohhh. i should have known there was _some_ reason. still, who watches it?" "the children do. makes them think, makes them grateful or something." "ohhh." "psychological." mary picked up a magazine and leafed through the pages. all photographs, of women and men. women like mother and like the others in the room; slender, tanned, shapely, beautiful women; and men with large muscles and shiny hair. women and men, all looking alike, all perfect and beautiful. she folded the magazine and wondered how to answer the questions that would be asked. "mother--" "gracious, what is it now! can't you sit still for a minute?" "but we've been here three hours." mrs. cuberle sniffed. "do--do i really have to?" "now don't be silly, mary. after those terrible things you told me, of _course_ you do." an olive-skinned woman in a transparent white uniform came into the reception room. "cuberle. mrs. zena cuberle?" "yes." "doctor will see you now." mrs. cuberle took mary's hand and they walked behind the nurse down a long corridor. a man who seemed in his middle twenties looked up from a desk. he smiled and gestured toward two adjoining chairs. "well--well." "doctor hortel, i--" the doctor snapped his fingers. "of course, i know. your daughter. ha ha, i certainly do know your trouble. get so many of them nowadays--takes up most of my time." "you do?" asked mrs. cuberle. "frankly, it had begun to upset me." "upset? hmm. not good. not good at all. ah, but then--if people did not get upset, we psychiatrists would be out of a job, eh? go the way of the early m. d. but, i assure you, i need hear no more." he turned his handsome face to mary. "little girl, how old are you?" "eighteen, sir." "oh, a real bit of impatience. it's just about time, of course. what might your name be?" "mary." "charming! and so unusual. well now, mary, may i say that i understand your problem--understand it thoroughly?" mrs. cuberle smiled and smoothed the sequins on her blouse. "madam, you have no idea how many there are these days. sometimes it preys on their minds so that it affects them physically, even mentally. makes them act strange, say peculiar, unexpected things. one little girl i recall was so distraught she did nothing but brood all day long. can you imagine!" "that's what mary does. when she finally told me, doctor, i thought she had gone--_you_ know." "that bad, eh? afraid we'll have to start a re-education program, very soon, or they'll all be like this. i believe i'll suggest it to the senator day after tomorrow." "i don't quite understand, doctor." "simply, mrs. cuberle, that the children have got to be thoroughly instructed. thoroughly. too much is taken for granted and childish minds somehow refuse to accept things without definite reason. children have become far too intellectual, which, as i trust i needn't remind you, is a dangerous thing." "yes, but what has this to do with--" "with mary? everything, of course. mary, like half the sixteen, seventeen and eighteen year olds today, has begun to feel acutely self-conscious. she feels that her body has developed sufficiently for the transformation--which of course it has not, not quite yet--and she cannot understand the complex reasons that compel her to wait until some future date. mary looks at you, at the women all about her, at the pictures, and then she looks into a mirror. from pure perfection of body, face, limbs, pigmentation, carriage, stance, from simon-pure perfection, if i may be allowed the expression, she sees herself and is horrified. isn't that so, my dear child? of course--of course. she asks herself, why must i be hideous, unbalanced, oversize, undersize, full of revolting skin eruptions, badly schemed organically? in short, mary is tired of being a monster and is overly anxious to achieve what almost everyone else has already achieved." "but--" said mrs. cuberle. "this much you understand, doubtless. now, mary, what you object to is that our society offers you, and the others like you, no convincing logic on the side of waiting until age nineteen. it is all taken for granted, and you want to know why! it is that simple. a non-technical explanation will not suffice--mercy no! the modern child wants facts, solid technical data, to satisfy her every question. and that, as you can both see, will take a good deal of reorganizing." "but--" said mary. "the child is upset, nervous, tense; she acts strange, peculiar, odd, worries you and makes herself ill because it is beyond our meagre powers to put it across. i tell you, what we need is a whole new basis for learning. and, that will take doing. it will take _doing_, mrs. cuberle. now, don't you worry about mary, and don't _you_ worry, child. i'll prescribe some pills and--" "no, no, doctor! you're all mixed up," cried mrs. cuberle. "i beg your pardon, madam?" "what i mean is, you've got it wrong. tell him, mary, tell the doctor what you told me." mary shifted uneasily in the chair. "it's that--i don't want it." the doctor's well-proportioned jaw dropped. "would you please repeat that?" "i said, i don't want the transformation." "d--don't want it?" "you see? she told me. that's why i came to you." the doctor looked at mary suspiciously. "but that's impossible! i have never heard of such a thing. little girl, you are playing a joke!" mary nodded negatively. "see, doctor. what can it be?" mrs. cuberle rose and began to pace. the doctor clucked his tongue and took from a small cupboard a black box covered with buttons and dials and wire. "oh no, you don't think--i mean, could it?" "we shall soon see." the doctor revolved a number of dials and studied the single bulb in the center of the box. it did not flicker. he removed handles from mary's head. "dear me," the doctor said, "dear me. your daughter is perfectly sane, mrs. cuberle." "well, then what is it?" "perhaps she is lying. we haven't completely eliminated that factor as yet; it slips into certain organisms." more tests. more machines and more negative results. mary pushed her foot in a circle on the floor. when the doctor put his hands to her shoulders, she looked up pleasantly. "little girl," said the handsome man, "do you actually mean to tell us that you _prefer_ that body?" "yes sir." "may i ask why." "i like it. it's--hard to explain, but it's me and that's what i like. not the looks, maybe, but the _me_." "you can look in the mirror and see yourself, then look at--well, at your mother and be content?" "yes, sir." mary thought of her reasons; fuzzy, vague, but very definitely there. maybe she had said the reason. no. only a part of it. "mrs. cuberle," the doctor said, "i suggest that your husband have a long talk with mary." "my husband is dead. that affair near ganymede, i believe. something like that." "oh, splendid. rocket man, eh? very interesting organisms. something always seems to happen to rocket men, in one way or another. but--i suppose we should do something." the doctor scratched his jaw. "when did she first start talking this way," he asked. "oh, for quite some time. i used to think it was because she was such a baby. but lately, the time getting so close and all, i thought i'd better see you." "of course, yes, very wise. er--does she also do odd things?" "well, i found her on the second level one night. she was lying on the floor and when i asked her what she was doing, she said she was trying to sleep." mary flinched. she was sorry, in a way, that mother had found that out. "to--did you say 'sleep'?" "that's right." "now where could she have picked that up?" "no idea." "mary, don't you know that nobody sleeps anymore? that we have an infinitely greater life-span than our poor ancestors now that the wasteful state of unconsciousness has been conquered? child, have you actually _slept_? no one knows how anymore." "no sir, but i almost did." the doctor sighed. "but, it's unheard of! how could you begin to try to do something people have forgotten entirely about?" "the way it was described in the book, it sounded nice, that's all." mary was feeling very uncomfortable now. home and no talking man in a foolish white gown.... "book, book? are there _books_ at your unit, madam?" "there could be--i haven't cleaned up in a while." "that is certainly peculiar. i haven't seen a book for years. not since '17." mary began to fidget and stare nervously about. "but with the tapes, why should you try and read books--where did you get them?" "daddy did. he got them from his father and so did grandpa. he said they're better than the tapes and he was right." mrs. cuberle flushed. "my husband was a little strange, doctor hortel. he kept those things despite everything i said. "dear me, i--excuse me." the muscular, black-haired doctor walked to another cabinet and selected from the shelf a bottle. from the bottle he took two large pills and swallowed them. "sleep--books--doesn't want the transformation--mrs. cuberle, my _dear_ good woman, this is grave. doesn't want the transformation. i would appreciate it if you would change psychiatrists: i am very busy and, uh, this is somewhat specialized. i suggest centraldome. many fine doctors there. goodbye." the doctor turned and sat down in a large chair and folded his hands. mary watched him and wondered why the simple statements should have so changed things. but the doctor did not move from the chair. "well!" said mrs. cuberle and walked quickly from the room. the man's legs were being blown off again as they left the reception room. mary considered the reflection in the mirrored wall. she sat on the floor and looked at different angles of herself: profile, full-face, full length, naked, clothed. then she took up the magazine and studied it. she sighed. "mirror, mirror on the wall--" the words came haltingly to her mind and from her lips. she hadn't read them, she recalled. daddy had said them, quoted them as he put it. but they too were lines from a book--"who is the fairest of--" a picture of mother sat upon the dresser and mary considered this now. looked for a long time at the slender, feminine neck. the golden skin, smooth and without blemish, without wrinkles and without age. the dark brown eyes and the thin tapers of eyebrows, the long black lashes, set evenly, so that each half of the face corresponded precisely. the half-parted-mouth, a violet tint against the gold, the white, white teeth, even, sparkling. mother. beautiful, transformed mother. and back again to the mirror. "--of them all...." the image of a rather chubby girl, without lines of rhythm or grace, without perfection. splotchy skin full of little holes, puffs in the cheeks, red eruptions on the forehead. perspiration, shapeless hair flowing onto shapeless shoulders down a shapeless body. like all of them, before the transformation. did they _all_ look like this, before? did mother, even? mary thought hard, trying to remember exactly what daddy and grandpa had said, why they said the transformation was a bad thing, and why she believed and agreed with them so strongly. it made little sense, but they were right. they _were_ right! and one day, she would understand completely. mrs. cuberle slammed the door angrily and mary jumped to her feet. she hadn't forgotten about it. "the way you upset dr. hortel. he won't even see me anymore, and these traumas are getting horrible. i'll have to get that awful dr. wagoner." "sorry--" mrs. cuberle sat on the couch and crossed her legs carefully. "what in the world were you doing on the floor?" "trying to sleep." "now, i won't hear of it! you've got to stop it! you _know_ you're not insane. why should you want to do such a silly thing?" "the books. and daddy told me about it." "and you mustn't read those terrible things." "why--is there a law against them?" "well, no, but people tired of books when the tapes came in. you know that. the house is full of tapes; anything you want." mary stuck out her lower lip. "they're no fun. all about the wars and the colonizations." "and i suppose books are fun?" "yes. they are." "and that's where you got this idiotic notion that you don't want the transformation, isn't it? of course it is. well, we'll see to that!" mrs. cuberle rose quickly and took the books from the corner and from the closet and filled her arms with them. she looked everywhere in the room and gathered the old rotten volumes. these she carried from the room and threw into the elevator. a button guided the doors shut. "i thought you'd do that," mary said. "that's why i hid most of the good ones. where you'll never find them." mrs. cuberle put a satin handkerchief to her eyes and began to weep. "just look at you. look. i don't know what i ever did to deserve this!" "deserve what, mother? what am i doing that's so wrong?" mary's mind rippled in a confused stream. "what!" mrs. cuberle screamed, _"what!_ do you think i want people to point to you and say i'm the mother of an idiot? that's what they'll say, you'll see. or," she looked up hopefully, "have you changed your mind?" "no." the vague reasons, longing to be put into words. "it doesn't hurt. they just take off a little skin and put some on and give you pills and electronic treatments and things like that. it doesn't take more than a week." "no." the reason. "don't you want to be beautiful, like other people--like me? look at your friend shala, she's getting her transformation next month. and _she's_ almost pretty now." "mother, i don't care--" "if it's the bones you're worried about, well, that doesn't hurt. they give you a shot and when you wake up, everything's moulded right. everything, to suit the personality." "i don't care, i don't care." "but _why_?" "i like me the way i am." almost--almost exactly. but not quite. part of it, however. part of what daddy and grandpa meant. "but you're so ugly, dear! like dr. hortel said. and mr. willmes, at the factory. he told some people he thought you were the ugliest girl he'd ever seen. says he'll be thankful when you have your transformation. and what if he hears of all this, what'll happen then?" "daddy said i was beautiful." "well really, dear. you _do_ have eyes." "daddy said that real beauty is only skin deep. he said a lot of things like that and when i read the books i felt the same way. i guess i don't want to look like everybody else, that's all." no, that's not it. not at all it. "that man had too much to do with you. you'll notice that he had _his_ transformation, though!" "but he was sorry. he told me that if he had it to do over again, he'd never do it. he said for me to be stronger than he was." "well, i won't have it. you're not going to get away with this, young lady. after all, i _am_ your mother." a bulb flickered in the bathroom and mrs. cuberle walked uncertainly to the cabinet. she took out a little cardboard box. "time for lunch." mary nodded. that was another thing the books talked about, which the tapes did not. lunch seemed to be something special long ago, or at least different. the books talked of strange ways of putting a load of things into the mouth and chewing these things. enjoying them. strange and somehow wonderful. "and you'd better get ready for work." "yes, mother." the office was quiet and without shadows. the walls gave off a steady luminescence, distributed the light evenly upon all the desks and tables. and it was neither hot nor cold. mary held the ruler firmly and allowed the pen to travel down the metal edge effortlessly. the new black lines were small and accurate. she tipped her head, compared the notes beside her to the plan she was working on. she noticed the beautiful people looking at her more furtively than before, and she wondered about this as she made her lines. a tall man rose from his desk in the rear of the office and walked down the aisle to mary's table. he surveyed her work, allowing his eyes to travel cautiously from her face to the draft. mary looked around. "nice job," said the man. "thank you, mr. willmes." "dralich shouldn't have anything to complain about. that crane should hold the whole damn city." "it's very good alloy, sir." "yeah. say, kid, you got a minute?" "yes sir." "let's go into mullinson's office." the big handsome man led the way into a small cubby-hole of a room. he motioned to a chair and sat on the edge of one desk. "kid, i never was one to beat around the bush. somebody called in little while ago, gave me some crazy story about you not wanting the transformation." mary said "oh." daddy had said it would have to happen, some day. this must be what he meant. "i would've told them they were way off the beam, but i wanted to talk to you first, get it straight." "well, sir, it's true. i don't. i want to stay this way." the man looked at mary and then coughed, embarrassedly. "what the hell--excuse me, kid, but--i don't exactly get it. you, uh, you saw the psychiatrist?" "yes sir. i'm not insane. dr. hortel can tell you." "i didn't mean anything like that. well--" the man laughed nervously. "i don't know what to say. you're still a cub, but you do swell work. lot of good results, lots of comments from the stations. but, mr. poole won't like it." "i know. i know what you mean, mr. willmes. but nothing can change my mind. i want to stay this way and that's all there is to it." "but--you'll get old before you're half through life." yes, she would. old, like the elders, wrinkled and brittle, unable to move right. old. "it's hard to make you understand. but i don't see why it should make any difference." "don't go getting me wrong, now. it's not me, but, you know, i don't own interplan. i just work here. mr. poole likes things running smooth and it's my job to carry it out. and soon as everybody finds out, things wouldn't run smooth. there'll be a big stink. the dames will start asking questions and talk." "will you accept my resignation, then, mr. willmes?" "sure you won't change your mind?" "no sir. i decided that a long time ago. and i'm sorry now that i told mother or anyone else. no sir, i won't change my mind." "well, i'm sorry, mary. you been doing awful swell work. couple of years you could be centralled on one of the asteroids, the way you been working. but if you should change your mind, there'll always be a job for you here." "thank you, sir." "no hard feelings?" "no hard feelings." "okay then. you've got till march. and between you and me, i hope by then you've decided the other way." mary walked back down the aisle, past the rows of desks. past the men and women. the handsome, model men and the beautiful, perfect women, perfect, all perfect, all looking alike. looking exactly alike. she sat down again and took up her ruler and pen. mary stepped into the elevator and descended several hundred feet. at the second level she pressed a button and the elevator stopped. the doors opened with another button and the doors to her unit with still another. mrs. cuberle sat on the floor by the t-v, disconsolate and red-eyed. her blond hair had come slightly askew and a few strands hung over her forehead. "you don't need to tell me. no one will hire you." mary sat beside her mother. "if you only hadn't told mr. willmes in the first place--" "well, i thought _he_ could beat a little sense into you." the sounds from the t-v grew louder. mrs. cuberle changed channels and finally turned it off. "what did you do today, mother?" mary smiled. "do? what can i do, now? nobody will even come over! i told you what would happen." "mother!" "they say you should be in the circuses." mary went into another room. mrs. cuberle followed. "how are we going to live? where does the money come from now? just because you're stubborn on this crazy idea. crazy crazy crazy! can i support both of us? they'll be firing _me_, next!" "why is this happening?" "because of you, that's why. nobody else on this planet has ever refused the transformation. but you turn it down. you _want_ to be ugly!" mary put her arms about her mother's shoulders. "i wish i could explain, i've tried so hard to. it isn't that i want to bother anyone, or that daddy wanted me to. i just don't want the transformation." mrs. cuberle reached into the pockets of her blouse and got a purple pill. she swallowed the pill. when the letter dropped from the chute, mrs. cuberle ran to snatch it up. she read it once, silently, then smiled. "oh, i was afraid they wouldn't answer. but we'll see about this _now_!" she gave the letter to mary. _mrs. zena cuberle unit 451 d levels ii & iii city dear madam:_ _in re your letter of dec 3 36. we have carefully examined your complaint and consider that it requires stringent measures. quite frankly, the possibility of such a complaint has never occurred to this dept. and we therefore cannot make positive directives at the moment._ _however, due to the unusual qualities of the matter, we have arranged an audience at centraldome, eighth level, sixteenth unit, jan 3 37, 23 sharp. dr. elph hortel has been instructed to attend. you will bring the subject in question._ _yrs, dept f_ mary let the paper flutter to the floor. she walked quietly to the elevator and set it for level iii. when the elevator stopped, she ran from it, crying, into her room. she thought and remembered and tried to sort out and put together. daddy had said it, grandpa had, the books did. yes, the books did. she read until her eyes burned and her eyes burned until she could read no more. then mary went to sleep, softly and without realizing it, for the first time. but the sleep was not peaceful. "ladies and gentlemen," said the young-looking, well groomed man, "this problem does not resolve easily. dr. hortel here, testifies that mary cuberle is definitely not insane. drs. monagh, prinn and fedders all verify this judgment. dr. prinn asserts that the human organism is no longer so constructed as to create and sustain such an attitude through deliberate falsehood. further, there is positively nothing in the structure of mary cuberle which might suggest difficulties in transformation. there is evidence for all these statements. and yet we are faced with this refusal. what, may i ask, is to be done?" mary looked at a metal table. "we have been in session far too long, holding up far too many other pressing contingencies. the trouble on mercury, for example. we'll _have_ to straighten that out, somehow." throughout the rows of beautiful people, the mumbling increased. mrs. cuberle sat nervously, tapping her shoe and running a comb through her hair. "mary cuberle, you have been given innumerable chances to reconsider, you know." mary said, "i know. but i don't want to." the beautiful people looked at mary and laughed. some shook their heads. the man threw up his hands. "little girl, can you realize what an issue you have caused? the unrest, the wasted time? do you fully understand what you have done? intergalactic questions hang fire while you sit there saying the same thing over and over. doesn't the happiness of your mother mean anything to you?" a slender, supple woman in a back row cried, "we want action. _do_ something!" the man in the high stool raised his hand. "none of that, now. we must conform, even though the question is out of the ordinary." he leafed through a number of papers on his desk, leaned down and whispered into the ear of a strong blond man. then he turned to mary again. "child, for the last time. do you reconsider? will you accept the transformation?" "no." the man shrugged his shoulders. "very well, then. i have here a petition, signed by two thousand individuals and representing all the stations of earth. they have been made aware of all the facts and have submitted the petition voluntarily. it's all so unusual and i'd hoped we wouldn't have to--but the petition urges drastic measures." the mumbling rose. "the petition urges that you shall, upon final refusal, be forced by law to accept the transformation. and that an act of legislature shall make this universal and binding in the future." mary's eyes were open, wide. she stood and paused before speaking. "why?" she asked, loudly. the man passed a hand through his hair. another voice from the crowd, "seems to be a lot of questions unanswered here." and another, "sign the petition, senator!" all the voices, "sign it, sign it!" "but why?" mary began to cry. the voices stilled for a moment. "because--because--" "if you'd only tell me that. tell me!" "why, it simply isn't being done, that's all. the greatest gift of all, and what if others should get the same idea? what would happen to us then, little girl? we'd be right back to the ugly, thin, fat, unhealthy-looking race we were ages ago! there can't be any exceptions." "maybe they didn't consider themselves so ugly." the mumbling began anew. "that isn't the point," cried the man. "you _must_ conform!" and the voices cried "yes" loudly until the man took up a pen and signed the papers on his desk. cheers, applause, shouts. mrs. cuberle patted mary on the top of her head. "there, now!" she said, happily, "everything will be all right now. you'll see, mary." the transformation parlor covered the entire level, sprawling with its departments. it was always filled and there was nothing to sign and no money to pay and people were always waiting in line. but today the people stood aside. and there were still more, looking in through doors, tv cameras placed throughout the tape machines in every corner. it was filled, but not bustling as usual. mary walked past the people, mother and the men in back of her, following. she looked at the people. the people were beautiful, perfect, without a single flaw. all the beautiful people. all the ugly people, staring out from bodies that were not theirs. walking on legs that had been made for them, laughing with manufactured voices, gesturing with shaped and fashioned arms. mary walked slowly, despite the prodding. in her eyes, in _her_ eyes, was a mounting confusion; a wide, wide wonderment. the reason was becoming less vague; the fuzzed edges were falling away now. through all the horrible months and all the horrible moments, the edges fell away. now it was almost clear. she looked down at her own body, then at the walls which reflected it. flesh of her flesh, bone of her bone, all hers, made by no one, built by herself or someone she did not know. uneven kneecaps, making two grinning cherubs when they bent, and the old familiar rubbing together of fat inner thighs. fat, unshapely, unsystematic mary. but _mary_. of course. of course! this _was_ what daddy meant, what grandpa and the books meant. what _they_ would know if they would read the books or hear the words, the good, reasonable words, the words that signified more, much more, than any of this. the understanding heaped up with each step. "where _are_ these people?" mary asked half to herself. "what has happened to _them_ and don't they miss _themselves_, these manufactured things?" she stopped, suddenly. "yes! that _is_ the reason. they have all forgotten themselves!" a curvacious woman stepped forward and took mary's hand. the woman's skin was tinted dark. chipped and sculptured bone into slender rhythmic lines, electrically created carriage, stance, made, turned out. "all right, young lady. we will begin." they guided mary to a large, curved leather seat. from the top of a long silver pole a machine lowered itself. tiny bulbs glowed to life and cells began to click. the people stared. slowly a picture formed upon the screen in the machine. bulbs directed at mary, then redirected into the machine. wheels turning, buttons ticking. the picture was completed. "would you like to see it?" mary closed her eyes, tight. "it's really very nice." the woman turned to the crowd. "oh yes, there's a great deal to be salvaged; you'd be surprised. a great deal. we'll keep the nose and i don't believe the elbows will have to be altered at all." mrs. cuberle looked at mary and smiled. "now, it isn't so bad as you thought, is it?" she said. the beautiful people looked. cameras turned, tapes wound. "you'll have to excuse us now. only the machines allowed." _only the machines._ the people filed out. mary saw the rooms in the mirror. saw things in the rooms, the faces and bodies that had been left; the woman and the machines and the old young men standing about, adjusting, readying. then she looked at the picture in the screen. and screamed. a woman of medium height stared back at her. a woman with a curved body and thin legs; silver hair, pompadoured, cut short; full sensuous lips, small breasts, flat stomach, unblemished skin. a strange, strange woman no one had ever seen before. the nurse began to take mary's clothes off. "geoff," the woman said, "come look at this, will you. not one so bad in years. amazing that we can keep anything at all." the handsome man put his hands in his pockets. "pretty bad, all right." "be still, child, stop making those noises. you know perfectly well nothing is going to hurt." "but--what will you do with me?" "that was all explained to you." "no, no, with _me_, _me_!" "oh, you mean the castoffs. the usual. i don't know exactly. somebody takes care of it." "i want me!" mary cried. "not that!" she pointed at the screen. her chair was wheeled into a semi-dark room. she was naked now, and the men lifted her to a table. the surface was like glass, black, filmed. a big machine hung above. straps. clamps pulling, stretching limbs apart. the screen with the picture brought in. the men and the woman, more women now. dr. hortel in a corner, sitting with his legs crossed, shaking his head. mary began to cry above the hum of the mechanical things. "shhh. my gracious, such a racket! just think about your job waiting for you, and all the friends you'll have and how nice everything will be. no more trouble now." the big machine hurtling downward. "where will i find _me_?" mary screamed, "when it's all over?" a long needle slid into rough flesh and the beautiful people gathered around the table. they turned on the big machine. the end * * * * * transcriber's notes: this etext was produced from if worlds of science fiction september 1952. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. page 11: quote mark removed: original text: dr. hortel said. "and mr. willmes, corrected test: dr. hortel said. and mr. willmes, transcriber's note: this etext was produced from galaxy science fiction june 1954. extensive research did not uncover any evidence that the u.s. copyright on this publication was renewed. forget me nearly by f. l. wallace illustrated by emsh _what sort of world was it, he puzzled, that wouldn't help victims find out whether they had been murdered or had committed suicide?_ * * * * * the police counselor leaned forward and tapped the small nameplate on his desk, which said: _val borgenese._ "that's my name," he said. "who are you?" [illustration] the man across the desk shook his head. "i don't know," he said indistinctly. "sometimes a simple approach works," said the counselor, shoving aside the nameplate. "but not often. we haven't found anything that's effective in more than a small percentage of cases." he blinked thoughtfully. "names are difficult. a name is like clothing, put on or taken off, recognizable but not part of the person--the first thing forgotten and the last remembered." the man with no name said nothing. "try pet names," suggested borgenese. "you don't have to be sure--just say the first thing you think of. it may be something your parents called you when you were a child." the man stared vacantly, closed his eyes for a moment and then opened them and mumbled something. "what?" asked borgenese. "putsy," said the man more distinctly. "the only thing i can think of is putsy." the counselor smiled. "that's a pet name, of course, but it doesn't help much. we can't trace it, and i don't think you'd want it as a permanent name." he saw the expression on the man's face and added hastily: "we haven't given up, if that's what you're thinking. but it's not easy to determine your identity. the most important source of information is your mind, and that was at the two year level when we found you. the fact that you recalled the word putsy is an indication." "fingerprints," said the man vaguely. "can't you trace me through fingerprints?" "that's another clue," said the counselor. "not fingerprints, but the fact that you thought of them." he jotted something down. "i'll have to check those re-education tapes. they may be defective by now, we've run them so many times. again, it may be merely that your mind refused to accept the proper information." the man started to protest, but borgenese cut him off. "fingerprints were a fair means of identification in the twentieth century, but this is the twenty-second century." * * * * * the counselor then sat back. "you're confused now. you have a lot of information you don't know how to use yet. it was given to you fast, and your mind hasn't fully absorbed it and put it in order. sometimes it helps if you talk out your problems." "i don't know if i have a problem." the man brushed his hand slowly across his eyes. "where do i start?" "let me do it for you," suggested borgenese. "you ask questions when you feel like it. it may help you." he paused, "you were found two weeks ago in the shelters. you know what those are?" the man nodded, and borgenese went on: "shelter and food for anyone who wants or needs it. nothing fancy, of course, but no one has to ask or apply; he just walks in and there's a place to sleep and periodically food is provided. it's a favorite place to put people who've been retroed." the man looked up. "retroed?" "slang," said borgenese. "the retrogression gun ionizes animal tissue, nerve cells particularly. aim it at a man's legs and the nerves in that area are drained of energy and his muscles won't hold him up. he falls down. "aim it at his head and give him the smallest charge the gun is adjustable to, and his most recent knowledge is subtracted from his memory. give him the full charge, and he is swept back to a childish or infantile age level. the exact age he reaches is dependent on his physical and mental condition at the time he's retroed. "theoretically it's possible to kill with the retrogression gun. the person can be taken back to a stage where there's not enough nervous organization to sustain the life process. "however, life is tenacious. as the lower levels are reached, it takes increasing energy to subtract from anything that's left. most people who want to get rid of someone are satisfied to leave the victim somewhere between the mental ages of one and four. for practical purposes, the man they knew is dead--or retroed, as they say." "then that's what they did to me," said the man. "they retroed me and left me in the shelter. how long was i there?" * * * * * borgenese shrugged. "who knows? that's what makes it difficult. a day, or two months. a child of two or three can feed himself, and no record is kept since the place is free. also, it's cleaned automatically." "i know that now that you mention it," said the man. "it's just that it's hard to remember." "you see how it is," said the counselor. "we can't check our files against a date when someone disappeared, because we don't know that date except within very broad limits." he tapped his pen on the desk. "do you object to a question?" "go ahead." "how many people in the solar system?" the man thought with quiet desperation. "fourteen to sixteen billion." the counselor was pleased. "that's right. you're beginning to use some of the information we've put back into your mind. earth, mars and venus are the main population centers. but there are also mercury and the satellites of jupiter and saturn, as well as the asteroids. we can check to see where you might have come from, but there are so many places and people that you can imagine the results." "there must be _some_ way," the man said painfully. "pictures, fingerprints, something." "something," borgenese nodded. "but probably not for quite a while. there's another factor, you see. it's a shock, but you've got to face it. and the funny thing is that you'll never be better able to than now." he rocked back. "take the average person, full of unsuspected anxiety, even the happiest and most successful. expose him to the retrogression gun. tensions and frustrations are drained away. "the structure of an adult is still there, but it's empty, waiting to be filled. meanwhile the life of the organism goes on, but it's not the same. lines on the face disappear, the expression alters drastically, new cell growth occurs here and there throughout the body. do you see what that means?" the man frowned. "i suppose no one can recognize me." "that's right. and it's not only your face that changes. you may grow taller, but never shorter. if your hair was gray, it may darken, but not the reverse." "then i'm younger too?" "in a sense, though it's actually not a rejuvenation process at all. the extra tension that everyone carries with him has been removed, and the body merely takes up the slack. "generally, the apparent age is made less. a person of middle age or under seems to be three to fifteen years younger than before. you appear to be about twenty-seven, but you may actually be nearer forty. you see, we don't even know what age group to check. "and it's the same with fingerprints. they've been altered by the retrogression process. not a great deal, but enough to make identification impossible." * * * * * the nameless man stared around the room--at val borgenese, perhaps fifty, calm and pleasant, more of a counselor than a policeman--out of the window at the skyline, and its cleanly defined levels of air traffic. where was his place in this? "i guess it's no use," he said bleakly. "you'll never find out who i am." the counselor smiled. "i think we will. directly, there's not much we can do, but there are indirect methods. in the last two weeks we've exposed you to all the organized knowledge that can be put on tapes--physics, chemistry, biology, math, astrogation, the works. "it's easy to remember what you once knew. it isn't learning; it's actually relearning. one fact put in your mind triggers another into existence. there's a limit, of course, but usually a person comes out of re-education with slightly more formal knowledge than he had in his prior existence." the counselor opened a folder on his desk. "we gave you a number of tests. you didn't know the purpose, but i can tell you the results." he leafed slowly through the sheets. "you may have been an entrepreneur of some sort. you have an excellent sense of power ethics. additionally, we've found that you're physically alert, and your reactions are well coordinated. this indicates you may have been an athlete or sportsman." val borgenese laid down the tests. "in talking with you, i've learned more. the remark you made about fingerprints suggests you may have been a historian, specializing in the twentieth century. no one else is likely to know that there was a time in which fingerprints were a valid means of identification." "i'm quite a guy, i suppose. businessman, sportsman, historian." the man smiled bitterly. "all that ... but i still don't know who i am. and you can't help me." "is it important?" asked the counselor softly. "this happens to many people, you know, and some of them do find out who they were, with or without our help. but this is not simple amnesia. no one who's been retroed can resume his former identity. of course, if we had tapes of the factors which made each person what he is...." he shrugged. "but those tapes don't exist. who knows, really, what caused him to develop as he has? most of it isn't at the conscious level. at best, if you should learn who you were, you'd have to pick up the thread of your former activities and acquaintances slowly and painfully. "maybe it would be better if you start from where you are. you know as much as you once did, and the information is up to date, correct and undistorted. you're younger, in a sense--in better physical condition, not so tense or nervous. build up from that." "but i don't have a name." "choose one temporarily. you can have it made permanent if it suits you." * * * * * the man was silent, thinking. he looked up, not in despair, but not accepting all that the counselor said either. "what name? all i know is yours, and those of historical figures." "that's deliberate. we don't put names on tapes, because the effects can be misleading. everyone has thousands of associations, and can mistake the name of a prominent scientist for his own. names unconsciously arrived at are usually no help at all." "what do i do?" the man said. "if i don't know names, how can i choose one?" "we have a list made up for this purpose. go through it slowly and consciously. when you come to something you like, take it. if you chance on one that stirs memories, or rather where memories ought to be but aren't, let me know. it may be a lead i can have traced." the man gazed at the counselor. his thought processes were fast, but erratic. he could race along a chain of reasoning and then stumble over a simple fact. the counselor ought to know what he was talking about--this was no isolated occurrence. the police had a lot of experience to justify the treatment they were giving him. still, he felt they were mistaken in ways he couldn't formulate. "i'll have to accept it, i suppose," he said. "there's nothing i can do to learn who i was." the counselor shook his head. "nothing that _we_ can do. the clues are in the structure of your mind, and you have better access to it than we do. read, think, look. maybe you'll run across your name. we can take it from there." he paused. "that is, if you're determined to go ahead." that was a strange thing for a police counselor to say. "of course i want to know who i am," he said in surprise. "why shouldn't i?" "i'd rather not mention this, but you ought to know." borgenese shifted uncomfortably. "one third of the lost identity cases that we solve are self-inflicted. in other words, suicides." * * * * * his head rumbled with names long after he had decided on one and put the list away. attractive names and odd ones--but which were significant he couldn't say. there was more to living than the knowledge that could be put on tapes and played back. there was more than choosing a name. there was experience, and he lacked it. the world of personal reactions for him had started two weeks previously; it was not enough to help him know what he wanted to do. he sat down. the room was small but comfortable. as long as he stayed in retro-therapy, he couldn't expect much freedom. he tried to weigh the factors. he could take a job and adapt himself to some mode of living. what kind of a job? he had the ordinary skills of the society--but no outstanding technical ability had been discovered in him. he had the ability of an entrepreneur--but without capital, that outlet was denied him. his mind and body were empty and waiting. in the next few months, no matter what he did, some of the urge to replace the missing sensations would be satisfied. the more he thought about that, the more powerfully he felt that he had to know who he was. otherwise, proceeding to form impressions and opinions might result in a sort of betrayal of himself. assume the worst, that he was a suicide. maybe he had knowingly and willingly stepped out of his former life. a suicide would cover himself--would make certain that he could never trace himself back to his dangerous motive for the step. if he lived on earth, he would go to mars or venus to strip himself of his unsatisfactory life. there were dozens of precautions anyone would take. but if it weren't suicide, then who had retroed him and why? that was a question he couldn't answer now, and didn't need to. when he found out who he was, the motivation might be clear; if it wasn't, at least he would have a basis on which to investigate that. if someone else had done it to him, deliberately or accidentally, that person would have taken precautions too. the difference was this: as a would-be suicide, he could travel freely to wherever he wished to start over again; while another person would have difficulty enticing him to a faroff place, or, assuming that the actual retrogression had taken place elsewhere, wouldn't find it easy to transport an inert and memory-less body any distance. so, if he weren't a suicide, there was a good chance that there were clues in this city. he might as well start with that idea--it was all he had to go on. he was free to stay in retro-therapy indefinitely, but with the restricted freedom he didn't want to. the first step was to get out. he made the decision and felt better. he switched on the screen. borgenese looked up. "hello. have you decided?" "i think so." "good. let's have it. it's bound to touch on your former life in some way, though perhaps so remotely we can't trace it. at least, it's something." "luis obispo." he spelled it out. * * * * * the police counselor looked dubious as he wrote the name down. "it's not common, nor uncommon either. the spelling of the first name is a little different, but there must be countless obispos scattered over the system." it was curious. now he almost did think of himself as luis obispo. he wanted to be that person. "another thing," he said. "did i have any money when i was found?" "you're thinking of leaving? a lot of them do." val borgenese flipped open the folder again. "you did have money, an average amount. it won't set you up in business, if that's what you're thinking." "i wasn't. how do i get it?" "i didn't think you were." the counselor made another notation. "i'll have the desk release it--you can get it any time. by the way, you get the full amount, no deductions for anything." the news was welcome, considering what he had ahead of him. borgenese was still speaking. "whatever you do, keep in touch with us. it'll take time to run down this name, and maybe we'll draw a blank. but something significant may show up. if you're serious, and i think you are, it's to your advantage to check back every day or so." "i'm serious," said luis. "i'll keep in touch." there wasn't much to pack. the clothing he wore had been supplied by the police. ordinary enough; it would pass on the street without comment. it would do until he could afford to get better. he went down to the desk and picked up his money. it was more than he'd expected--the average man didn't carry this much in his pocket. he wondered about it briefly as he signed the receipt and walked out of retro-therapy. the counselor had said it was an average amount, but it wasn't. he stood in the street in the dusk trying to orient himself. perhaps the money wasn't so puzzling. an average amount for those brought into therapy for treatment, perhaps. borgenese had said a high proportion were suicides. such a person would want to start over again minus fears and frustrations, but not completely penniless. if he had money he'd want to take it with him, though not so much that it could be traced, since that would defeat the original purpose. the pattern was logical--suicides were those with a fair sum of money. this was the fact which inclined borgenese to the view he obviously held. luis obispo stood there uncertainly. did he want to find out? his lips thinned--he did. in spite of borgenese, there were other ways to account for the money he had. one of them was this: he was an important man, accustomed to handling large sums of money. he started out. he was in a small city of a few hundred thousand on the extreme southern coast of california. in the last few days he'd studied maps of it; he knew where he was going. * * * * * when he got there, the shelters were dark. he didn't know what he had expected, but it wasn't this. reflection showed him that he hadn't thought about it clearly. the mere existence of shelters indicated an economic level in which few people would either want or need to make use of that which was provided freely. he skirted the area. he'd been found in one of the shelters--which one he didn't know. perhaps he should have checked the record before he came here. no, this was better. clues, he was convinced, were almost non-existent. he had to rely on his body and mind; but not in the ordinary way. he was particularly sensitive to impressions he had received before; the way he had learned things in therapy proved that; but if he tried to force them, he could be led astray. the wisest thing was to react naturally, almost without volition. he should be able to recognize the shelter he'd been found in without trouble. from that, he could work back. that was the theory--but it wasn't happening. he circled the area, and there was nothing to which he responded more than vaguely. he would have to go closer. he crossed the street. the plan of the shelters was simple; an area two blocks long and one block wide, heavily planted with shrubs and small trees. in the center was an s-shaped continuous structure divided into a number of small dwelling units. luis walked along one wing of the building, turned at the corner and turned again. it was quite dark. he supposed that was why he wasn't reacting to anything. but his senses were sharper than he realized. there was a rustle behind him, and instinctively he flung himself forward, flat on the ground. a pink spot appeared, low on the wall next to him. it had been aimed at his legs. the paint crackled faintly and the pink spot faded. he rolled away fast. a dark body loomed past him and dropped where he'd been. there was an exclamation of surprise when the unknown found there was no one there. luis grunted with satisfaction--this might be only a stickup, but he was getting action faster than he'd expected. he reached out and took hold of a leg and drew the assailant to him. a hard object clipped the side of his head, and he grasped that too. the shape of the gun was familiar. he tore it loose. this wasn't any stickup! once was enough to be retrogressed, and he'd had his share. next time it was going to be the other guy. physically, he was more than a match for his attacker. he twisted his body and pinned the struggling form to the ground. that was what it was--a form. a woman, very much so; even in the darkness he was conscious of her body. now she was trying to get loose, and he leaned his weight more heavily on her. her clothing was torn--he could feel her flesh against his face. he raised the gun butt, and then changed his mind and instead fumbled for a light. it wasn't easy to find it and still keep her pinned. "be quiet or i'll clip you," he growled. she lay still. * * * * * he found the light and shone it on her face. it was good to look at, that face, but it wasn't at all familiar. he had trouble keeping his eyes from straying. her dress was torn, and what she wore underneath was torn too. "seen enough?" she asked coldly. "put that way, i haven't." he couldn't force his voice to be matter-of-fact--it wouldn't behave. she stared angrily at the light in her eyes. "i knew you'd be back," she said. "i thought i could get you before you got me, but you're too fast." her mouth trembled. "this time make it permanent. i don't want to be tormented again like this." [illustration] he let her go and sat up. he was trembling, too, but not for the same reason. he turned the light away from her eyes. "ever consider that you could be mistaken?" he asked. "you're not the only one it happens to." she lay there blinking at him, eyes adjusting to the changed light. she fumbled at the torn dress, which wouldn't stay where she put it. "you too?" she said with a vast lack of surprise. "when?" "they found me here two weeks ago. this is the first time i've come back." "patterns," she said. "there are always patterns in what we do." her attitude toward him had changed drastically, he could see it in her face. "i've been out three weeks longer." she sat up and leaned closer. she didn't seem to be thinking about the same things that had been on her mind only seconds before. he stood up and helped her to her feet. she was near and showed no inclination to move away. this was something borgenese hadn't mentioned, and there was nothing in his re-education to prepare him for this sensation, but he liked it. he couldn't see her very well, now that the light was turned off, but she was almost touching him. "we're in the same situation, i guess." she sighed. "i'm lonely and a little afraid. come into my place and we'll talk." he followed her. she turned into a dwelling that from the outside seemed identical to the others. inside, it wasn't quite the same. he couldn't say in what way it was different, but he didn't think it was the one he'd been found in. that torn dress bothered him--not that he wanted her to pin it up. the tapes hadn't been very explicit about the beauties of the female body, but he thought he knew what they'd left out. she was conscious of his gaze and smiled. it was not an invitation, it was a request, and he didn't mind obeying. she slid into his arms and kissed him. he was glad about the limitations of re-education. there were some things a man ought to learn for himself. she looked up at him. "maybe you should tell me your name," she said. "not that it means much in our case." "luis obispo," he said, holding her. "i had more trouble, i couldn't choose until two days ago." she kissed him again, hard and deliberately. it gave her enough time to jerk the gun out of his pocket. she slammed it against his ribs. "stand back," she said, and meant it. * * * * * luis stared bewilderedly at her. she was desirable, more than he had imagined and for a variety of reasons. her emotions had been real, he was sure of that, not feigned for the purpose of taking the gun away. but she had changed again in a fraction of a second. her face was twisted with an effort at self-control. "what's the matter?" he asked. he tried to make his voice gentle, but it wouldn't come out that way. the retrogression process had sharpened all his reactions--this one too. "the name i finally arrived at was--luise obispo," she said. he started. the same as his, except feminine! this was more than he'd dared hope for. a clue--and this girl, who he suddenly realized, without any cynicism about "love at first sight," because the tapes hadn't included it, meant something to him. "maybe you're my wife," he said tentatively. "don't count on it," she said wearily. "it would have been better if we were strangers--then it wouldn't matter what we did. now there are too many factors, and i can't choose." "it has to be," he argued. "look--the same name, and so close together in time and place, and we were attracted instantly--" "go away," she said, and the gun didn't waver. it was not a threat that he could ignore. he left. she was wrong in making him leave, completely wrong. he couldn't say how he knew, but he was certain. but he couldn't prove it, and she wasn't likely to accept his unsubstantiated word. he leaned weakly against the door. it was like that. retrogression had left him with an adult body and sharper receptiveness. and after that followed an urge to live fully. he had a lot of knowledge, but it didn't extend to this sphere of human behavior. inside he could hear her moving around faintly, an emotional anticlimax. it wasn't just frustrated sex desire, though that played a part. they had known each other previously--the instant attraction they'd had for each other was proof, leaving aside the names. lord, he'd trade his unknown identity to have her. he should have taken another name--any other name would have been all right. it wasn't because she was the first woman he'd seen, or the woman he had first re-seen. there had been nurses, some of them beautiful, and he'd paid no attention to them. but luise obispo was part of his former life--and he didn't know what part. the reactions were there, but until he could find out why, he was denied access to the satisfactions. from a very narrow angle, and only from that angle, he could see that there was still a light inside. it was dim, and if a person didn't know, he might pass by and not notice it. his former observation about the shelters was incorrect. every dwelling might be occupied and he couldn't tell unless he examined them individually. he stirred. the woman was a clue to his problem, but the clue itself was a far more urgent problem. though his identity was important, he could build another life without it and the new life might not be worse than the one from which he had been forcibly removed. perhaps he was over-reacting, but he didn't think so: _his new life had to include this woman_. he wasn't equipped to handle the emotion. he stumbled away from the door and found an unoccupied dwelling and went in without turning on the lights and lay down on the bed. in the morning, he knew he had been here before. in the darkness he had chosen unknowingly but also unerringly. this was the place in which he had been retrogressed. it was here that the police had picked him up. * * * * * the counselor looked sleepily out of the screen. "i wish you people didn't have so much energy," he complained. then he looked again and the sleepiness vanished. "i see you found it the first time." luis knew it himself, because there was a difference from the dwelling luise lived in--not much, but perceptible to him. the counselor, however, must have a phenomenal memory to distinguish it from hundreds of others almost like it. borgenese noticed the expression and smiled. "i'm not an eidetic, if that's what you think. there's a number on the set you're calling from and it shows on my screen. you can't see it." they would have something like that, luis thought. "why didn't you tell me this was it before i came?" "we were pretty sure you'd find it by yourself. people who've just been retroed usually do. it's better to do it on your own. our object is to have you recover your personality. if we knew who you were, we could set up a program to guide you to it faster. as it is, if we help you too much, you turn into a carbon copy of the man who's advising you." luis nodded. give a man his adult body and mind and turn him loose on the problems which confronted him, and he would come up with adult solutions. it was better that way. but he hadn't called to discuss that. "there's another person living in the shelters," he said. "you found her three weeks before you found me." "so you've met her already? fine. we were hoping you would." borgenese chuckled. "let's see if i can describe her. apparent age, about twenty-three; that means that she was originally between twenty-six or thirty-eight, with the probability at the lower figure. a good body, as you are probably well aware, and a striking face. somewhat oversexed at the moment, but that's all right--so are you." he saw the expression on luis's face and added quickly: "you needn't worry. draw a parallel with your own experience. there were pretty nurses all around you in retro-therapy, and i doubt that you noticed that they were female. that's normal for a person in your position, and it's the same with her. "it works this way: you're both unsure of yourselves and can't react to those who have some control over their emotions. when you meet each other, you can sense that neither has made the necessary adjustments, and so you are free to release your true feelings." he smiled broadly. "at the moment, you two are the only ones who have been retroed recently. you won't have any competition for six months or so, until you begin to feel comfortable in your new life. by then, you should know how well you really like each other. "of course tomorrow, or even today, we might find another person in the shelter. if it's a man, you'll have to watch out; if a woman, you'll have too much companionship. as it is, i think you're very lucky." yeah, he was lucky--or would be if things were actually like that. yesterday he would have denied it; but today, he'd be willing to settle for it, if he could get it. "i don't think you understand," he said. "she took the same name that i did." borgenese's smile flipped over fast, and the other side was a frown. for a long time he sat there scowling out of the screen. "that's a hell of a thing to tell me before breakfast," he said. "are you sure? she couldn't decide on a name before she left." "i'm sure," said luis, and related all the details of last night. the counselor sat there and didn't say anything. * * * * * luis waited as long as he could. "you can trace _us_ now," he said. "one person might be difficult. but two of us with nearly the same name, that should stick out big, even in a population of sixteen billion. two people are missing from somewhere. you can find that." the counselor's face didn't change. "you understand that if you were killed, we'd find the man who did it. i can't tell you how, but you can be sure he wouldn't escape. in the last hundred years there's been no unsolved murder." he coughed and turned away from the screen. when he turned back, his face was calm. "i'm not supposed to tell you this much. i'm breaking the rule because your case and that of the girl is different from any i've ever handled." he was speaking carefully. "listen. i'll tell you once and won't repeat it. if you ever accuse me, i'll deny i said it, and i have the entire police organization behind me to make it stick." the counselor closed his eyes as if to see in his mind the principle he was formulating. "if we can catch a murderer, no matter how clever he may be, it ought to be easier to trace the identity of a person who is still alive. it is. _but we never try._ though it's all right if the victim does. "_if i should ask the cooperation of other police departments, they wouldn't help. if the solution lies within an area over which i have jurisdiction and i find out who is responsible, i will be dismissed before i can prosecute the man._" luis stared at the counselor in helpless amazement. "then you're not doing anything," he said shakily. "you lied to me. you don't intend to do anything." "you're overwrought," said borgenese politely. "if you could see how busy we are in your behalf--" he sighed. "my advice is that if you can't convince the girl, forget her. if the situation gets emotionally unbearable, let me know and i can arrange transportation to another city where there may be others who are--uh--more compatible." "but she's my wife," he said stubbornly. "are you sure?" actually luis wasn't--but he wanted _her_ to be, or any variation thereof she would consent to. he explained. "as she says, there are a lot of factors," commented the counselor. "i'd suggest an examination. it may remove some of her objections." he hadn't thought of it, but he accepted it eagerly. "what will that do?" "not much, unfortunately. it will prove that you two can have healthy normal children, but it won't indicate that you're not a member of her genetic family. and, of course, it won't touch on the question of legal family, brother-in-law and the like. i don't suppose she'd accept that." she wouldn't. he'd seen her for only a brief time and yet he knew that much. he was in an ambiguous position; he could make snap decisions he was certain were right, but he had to guess at facts. he and the girl were victims, and the police refused to help them in the only way that would do much good. and the police had, or thought they had, official reasons for their stand. luis told the counselor just exactly what he thought of that. "it's too bad," agreed the counselor. "these things often have an extraordinary degree of permanency if they ever get started." if they ever got started! luis reached out and turned off the screen. it flickered unsteadily--the counselor was trying to call him back. he didn't want to talk to the man; it was painful, and borgenese had nothing to add but platitudes, and fuel to his anger. he swung open the panel and jerked the wiring loose and the screen went blank. there was an object concealed in the mechanism he had exposed. it was a neat, vicious, little retrogression gun. * * * * * he got it out and balanced it gingerly in his hand. now he had something else to work on! it was _the_ weapon, of course. it had been used on him and then hidden behind the screen. it was a good place to hide it. the screens never wore out or needed adjustment, and the cleaning robots that came out of the wall never cleaned there. the police should have found it, but they hadn't looked. he smiled bitterly. they weren't interested in solving crimes--merely in ameliorating the consequences. though the police had failed, he hadn't. it could be traced back to the man who owned it, and that person would have information. he turned the retro gun over slowly; it was just a gun; there were countless others like it. he finished dressing and dropped the gun in his pocket. he went outside and looked across the court. he hesitated and then walked over and knocked. "occupied," said the door. "but the occupant is out. no definite time of return stated, but she will be back this evening. is there any message?" "no message," he said. "i'll call back when she's home." he hoped she wouldn't refuse to speak to him. she'd been away from retro-therapy longer than he and possibly had developed her own leads--very likely she was investigating some of them now. whatever she found would help him, and vice versa. the man who'd retroed her had done the same to him. they were approaching the problem from different angles. between the two of them, they should come up with the correct solution. he walked away from the shelters and caught the belt to the center of town; the journey didn't take long. he stepped off, and wandered in the bright sunshine, not quite aimlessly. at length he found an electronic arms store, and went inside. * * * * * a robot came to wait on him. "i'd like to speak to the manager," he said and the robot went away. presently the manager appeared, middle aged, drowsy. "what can i do for you?" luis laid the retrogression gun on the counter. "i'd like to know who this was sold to." the manager coughed. "well, there are millions of them, hundreds of millions." "i know, but i have to find out." the manager picked it up. "it's a competitor's make," he said doubtfully. "of course, as a courtesy to a customer...." he fingered it thoughtfully. "do you really want to know? it's just a freezer. not at all dangerous." luis looked at it with concern. just a freezer--not a retro gun at all! then it couldn't have been the weapon used on him. before he could take it back the manager broke it open. the drowsy expression vanished. "why didn't you say so?" exclaimed the manager, examining it. "this gun has been illegally altered." he bent over the exposed circuits and then glanced up happily at luis. "come here, i'll show you." luis followed him to the small workshop in the back of the store. the manager closed the door behind them and fumbled among the equipment. he mounted the gun securely in a frame and pressed a button which projected an image of the circuit onto a screen. the manager was enjoying himself. "everybody's entitled to self-protection," he said. "that's why we sell so many like these. they're harmless, won't hurt a baby. fully charged, they'll put a man out for half an hour, overload his nervous system. at the weakest, they'll still keep him out of action for ten minutes. below that, they won't work at all." he looked up. "are you sure you understand this?" it had been included in his re-education, but it didn't come readily to his mind. "perhaps you'd better go over it for me." the manager wagged his head. "as i said, the freezer is legal, won't harm anyone. it'll stop a man or an elephant in his tracks, freeze him, but beyond that will leave him intact. when he comes out of it, he's just the same as before, nothing changed." he seized a pointer and adjusted the controls so as to enlarge the image on the screen. "however, a freezer can be converted to a retrogression gun, and that's illegal." he traced the connections with the pointer. "if this wire, instead of connecting as it does, is moved to here and here, the polarity is reversed. in addition, if these four wires are interchanged, the freezer becomes a retrogressor. as i said, it's illegal to do that." * * * * * the manager scrutinized the circuits closely and grunted in disgust. "whoever converted this did a sloppy job. here." he bent over the gun and began manipulating micro-instruments. he worked rapidly and surely. a moment later, he snapped the weapon together and straightened up, handing it to luis. "there," he said proudly. "it's a much more effective retrogressor than it was. uses less power too." luis swallowed. either he was mad or the man was, or perhaps it was the society he was trying to adjust to. "aren't you taking a chance, doing this for me?" the manager smiled. "you're joking. a tenth of the freezers we sell are immediately converted into retrogressors. who cares?" he became serious. "do you still want to know who bought it?" luis nodded--at the moment he didn't trust his voice. "it will take several hours. no charge though, customer service. tell me where i can reach you." luis jotted down the number of the screen at the shelter and handed it to the manager. as he left, the manager whispered to him: "remember, the next time you buy a freezer--ours can be converted easier than the one you have." he went out into the sunlight. it didn't seem the same. what kind of society was he living in? the reality didn't fit with what he had re-learned. it had seemed an orderly and sane civilization, with little violence and vast respect for the law. but the fact was that any school child--well, not quite _that_ young, perhaps--but anyone older could and did buy a freezer. and it was ridiculously easy to convert a freezer into something far more vicious. of course, it was illegal, but no one paid any attention to that. this was wrong; it wasn't the way he remembered.... he corrected himself: he didn't actually remember anything. his knowledge came from tapes, and was obviously inadequate. certain things he just didn't understand yet. he wanted to talk to someone--but who? the counselor had given him all the information he intended to. the store manager had supplied some additional insight, but it only confused him. luise--at the moment she was suspicious of him. there was nothing to do except to be as observant as he could. he wandered through the town, just looking. he saw nothing that seemed familiar. negative evidence, of course, but it indicated he hadn't lived here before. before what? before he had been retrogressed. he had been brought here from elsewhere, the same as luise. [illustration] he visited the spaceport. again the evidence was negative; there was not a ship the sight of which tripped his memory. it had been too much to hope for; if he had been brought in by spaceship, it wouldn't still be around for him to recognize. late in the afternoon, he headed toward the center of town. he was riding the belt when he saw luise coming out of a tall office building. * * * * * he hopped off and let her pass, boarding it again and following her at a distance. as soon as they were out of the business district, he began to edge closer. a few blocks from the shelter she got off the belt and waited, turning around and smiling directly at him. in the interim her attitude toward him had changed, evidently--for the better, as far as he was concerned. he couldn't ignore her and didn't want to. he stepped off the belt. "hello," she said. "i think you were following me." "i was. do you mind?" "i guess i don't." she walked along with him. "others followed me, but i discouraged them." she was worth following, but it was not that which was strange. now she seemed composed and extraordinarily friendly, a complete reversal from last night. had she learned something during the day which changed her opinion of him? he hoped she had. she stopped at the edge of the shelter area. "do you live here?" learned something? she seemed to have forgotten. he nodded. "for the same reason?" his throat tightened. he had told her all that last night. couldn't she remember? "yes," he said. "i thought so. that's why i didn't mind your following me." here was the attraction factor that borgenese had spoken of; it was functioning again, for which he was grateful. but still, why? and why didn't she remember last night? they walked on until she came to her dwelling. she paused at the door. "i have a feeling i should know who you are, but i just can't recall. isn't that terrible?" it was--frightening. her identity was apparently incompletely established; it kept slipping backward to a time she hadn't met him. he couldn't build anything enduring on that; each meeting with her would begin as if nothing had happened before. would the same be true of him? he looked at her. the torn dress hadn't been repaired, as he'd thought at first; it had been replaced by the robots that came out of the wall at night. they'd done a good job fitting her, but with her body that was easy. it was frightening and it wasn't. at least this time he didn't have a handicap. he opened his mouth to tell her his name, and then closed it. he wasn't going to make that mistake again. "i haven't decided on a name," he said. "it was that way with me too." she gazed at him and he could feel his insides sloshing around. "well, man with no name, do you want to come in? we can have dinner together." he entered. but dinner was late that night. he had known it would be. * * * * * in the morning light, he sat up and put his hand on her. she smiled in her sleep and squirmed closer. there were compensations for being nobody, he supposed, and this was one of them. he got up quietly and dressed without waking her. there were a number of things he wanted to discuss, but somehow there hadn't been time last night. he would have to talk to her later today. he slipped out of the house and went across the court into his own. the screen he had ripped apart had been repaired and put back in place. a voice chimed out as he entered: "a call came while you were gone." "let's have it." the voice descended the scale and became that of the store manager. "the gun you brought in was sold six months ago to dorn starret, resident of ceres and proprietor of a small gallium mine there. that's all the information on record. i trust it will be satisfactory." luis sat down. it was. he could trace the man or have him traced, though the last might not be necessary. the name meant something to him--just what he couldn't say. dorn starret, owner of a gallium mine on ceres. the mine might or might not be of consequence; gallium was used in a number of industrial processes, but beyond that was not particularly valuable. he closed his eyes to concentrate. the name slid into vacant nerve cells that were responsive; slowly a picture formed, nebulous and incomplete at first. there was a mouth and then there were eyes, each feature bringing others into focus, unfolding as a germ cell divides and grows, calling into existence an entire creature. the picture was nearly complete. still with eyes closed, he looked at the man he remembered. dorn starret, five-eleven, one hundred and ninety, flesh that had once been muscular and firm. age, thirty-seven; black hair that was beginning to recede from his forehead. the face was harder to define--strong, though slightly hard, it was perhaps good looking. it was the eyes which were at fault, luis decided--glinting often--and there were lines on the face that ought not to be there. there was another thing that set the man apart. not clothing; that was conventional, though better than average. luis stared into his memory until he was able to see it. _unquestionably the man was left-handed._ the picture was too clear to permit a mistake on that detail. he knew the man, had seen him often. how and in what context? he waited, but nothing else came. luis opened his eyes. he would recognize the man if he ever saw him. this was the man who owned the gun, presumably had shot him with it, and then had hidden it here in this room. he thought about it vainly. by itself, the name couldn't take him back through all past associations with the man, so he passed from the man to ceres. here he was better equipped; re-education tapes had replaced his former knowledge of the subject. * * * * * the asteroid belt was not rigidly policed; if there was a place in the system in which legal niceties were not strictly observed, it was there. what could he deduce from that? nothing perhaps; there were many people living in the belt who were engaged in legitimate work: miners, prospectors, scientific investigators. but with rising excitement, he realized that dorn starret was not one of these. he was a criminal. the gallium mine was merely an attempt to cover himself with respectability. how did luis know that? he wasn't sure; his thought processes were hidden and erratic; but he knew. dorn starret was a criminal--but the information wasn't completely satisfactory. what had caused the man to retrogress luis and luise obispo? that still had to be determined. but it did suggest this: as a habitual criminal, the man was more than ordinarily dangerous. luis sat there a while longer, but he had recalled everything that would come out of the original stimulus. if he wanted more, he would have to dig up other facts or make further contacts. but at least it wasn't hopeless--even without the police, he had learned this much. he went over the room thoroughly once more. if there was anything hidden, he couldn't find it. he crossed the court to luise's dwelling. she was gone, but there was a note on the table. he picked it up and read it: _dear man with no name:_ _i suppose you were here last night, though i'm so mixed up i can't be sure; there's so little of memory or reality to base anything on. i wanted to talk to you before i left but i guess, like me, you're out investigating._ _there's always a danger that neither of us will like what we find. what if i'm married to another person and the same with you? suppose ... but there are countless suppositions--these are the risks we take. it's intolerable not to know who i am, especially since the knowledge is so close. but of course you know that._ _anyway i'll be out most of the day. i discovered a psychologist who specializes in restoring memory; you can see the possibilities in that. i went there yesterday and have an appointment again today. it's nice of him, considering that i have no money, but he says i'm more or less an experimental subject. i can't tell you when i'll be back but it won't be late._ _luise._ he crumpled the note in his hand. memory expert. her psychologist was that--in reverse. yesterday he had taken a day out of her life, and that was why luise hadn't recognized him and might not a second time. * * * * * he leaned against the table. after a moment, he straightened out the note. a second reading didn't help. there it was, if he could make sense from it. luise and himself, probably in that order. there was no proof, but it seemed likely that she had been retrogressed first, since she had been discovered first. there was also dorn starret, the criminal from ceres who had hidden the gun in the shelter that he, luis, had been found in. and there was now a fourth person: the psychologist who specialized in depriving retrogression victims of what few memories they had left. luis grimaced. here was information which, if the police would act on it properly ... but it was no use, they wouldn't. any solution which came out of this would have to arise out of his own efforts. he folded the note carefully. it would be handy to have if luise came back and didn't know who he was. meanwhile, the psychologist. luise hadn't said who he was, but it shouldn't be difficult to locate him. he went to the screen and dialed the directory. there were many psychologists in it, but no name that was familiar. he pondered. the person who had retroed luise and himself--what would he do? first he would take them as far from familiar scenes as he could. that tied in with the facts. dorn starret came from ceres. then what? he would want to make certain that his victims did not trace their former lives. and he would be inconspicuous in so doing. again luis turned to the screen, but this time he dialed the news service. he found what he was looking for in the advertisements of an issue a month old. it was very neat: do you remember everything--or is your mind hazy? perhaps my system can help you recall those little details you find it so annoying to forget. memory lab. that was all. no name. but there was an address. hurriedly luis scanned every succeeding issue. the advertisement was still there. he was coming closer, very close. the ad was clever; it would attract the attention of luise and himself and others like them, and almost no one else. there was no mention of fees, no claim that it was operated by a psychologist, nothing that the police would investigate. night after night luise had sat alone; sooner or later, watching the screen, she had to see the ad. it was intriguing and she had answered it. normally, so would he have: but now he was forewarned. part of the cleverness was this: that she went of her own volition. she would have suspected an outright offer of help--but this seemed harmless. she went to him as she would to anyone in business. a very clever setup. but who was behind memory lab? luis thought he knew. a trained psychologist with a legitimate purpose would attach his name to the advertisement. luis patted the retro gun in his pocket. dorn starret, criminal, and inventor of a fictitious memory system, was going to have a visitor. it wasn't necessary to go to ceres to see him. * * * * * it was the only conclusion that made sense. dorn starret had retroed him--the gun proved that--and luise as well. until a few minutes ago, he had thought that she had been first and he later, but that was wrong. they had been retrogressed together and dorn starret had done it; now he had come back to make certain that they didn't trace him. neat--but it wasn't going to work. luis grinned wryly to himself. he had a weapon in his pocket that was assurance it wouldn't work. he got off the belt near the building he had seen luise leaving yesterday. he went into the lobby and located memory lab, a suite on the top floor. it wasn't necessary, but he checked rental dates. the lab had been there exactly three weeks. this tied in with luise's release from retro-therapy. every connection he had anticipated was there. he rode up to the top floor. there wasn't a chance that starret would recognize him; physically he must have changed too much since the criminal had last seen him. and while luise hadn't concealed that she was a retro and so had given herself away, he wasn't going to make that mistake. the sign on the door stood out as he came near and disappeared as he went by. memory lab, that was all--no other name, even here. naturally. a false name would be occasion for police action. the right one would evoke luise's and his own memories. he turned back and went into the waiting room. no robot receptionist. he expected that; the man didn't intend to be around very long. "who's there?" the voice came from a speaker in the wall; the screen beside it remained blank, though obviously the man was in the next room. for a commercial establishment, the lab was not considerate of potential clients. luis smiled sourly and loosened the weapon in his pocket. "i saw your advertisement," he said. no name; let him guess. "i'm very busy. can you come back tomorrow?" luis frowned. this was not according to plan. first, he didn't recognize the voice, though the speaker could account for that if it were intentionally distorted. second, luise was inside and he had to protect her. he could break in, but he preferred that the man come out. he thought swiftly. "i'm chals putsyn, gallium importer," he called. "tomorrow i'll be away on business. can you give me an appointment for another time?" there was a long silence. "wait. i'll be out." he'd _thought_ the mention of gallium would do it. true, the mine starret owned was probably worthless, but he couldn't restrain his curiosity. * * * * * the door swung open and a man stepped out, closing the door before luis could see inside. he had erred--the man was not dorn starret. the other eyed him keenly. "mr. chals putsyn? please sit down." luis did so slowly, giving himself time to complete a mental inventory. the man _had_ to be dorn starret--and yet he wasn't. no disguise could be that effective. at least three inches shorter; the shape of his head was different; his body was slighter. moreover, he was right-handed, not left, as starret was. luis had a story ready--names, dates, and circumstances. it sounded authentic even to himself. the man listened impatiently. "i may not be able to help you," he said, interrupting. "oddly enough, light cases are hardest. it's the serious memory blocks that i specialize in." there was something strange about his eyes--his voice too. "however, if you can come back in two days, late in the afternoon, i'll see what i can do." luis took the appointment card and found himself firmly ushered to the door. it was disturbing; luise was in the next room, but the man gave him no opportunity to see her. he stood uncertainly in the hall. the whole interview had taken only a few minutes, and during that time all his previous ideas had been upset. if the man was not dorn starret, who was he and what was his connection? the criminal from ceres was not so foolish as to attempt to solve his problems by assigning them to another person. this was a one-man job from beginning to end, or ought to be. luis took the elevator to the ground floor and walked out aimlessly on the street. there was something queer about the man on the top floor. it took time to discover what it was. the man was not starret--but he was disguised. his irises were stained another color and the voice was not his own--or rather it was, but filtered through an artificial larynx inserted painfully in his throat. and his face had been recently swabbed with a chemical irritant which caused the tissues beneath his skin to swell, making his face appear plumper. luis took a deep breath. unconsciously he had noticed details too slight for the average person to discern. this suggested something about his own past--that he was trained to recognize disguises. but more important was this: that the man was disguised at all. the reason was obvious--to avoid evoking memories. the man's name--what was it? it hadn't even been registered in the building--he'd asked on his way out. and luise couldn't tell him. she was no longer a reliable source of information. he had to find out, and there was only one way that suggested itself. luise was still in there, but not in physical danger. the police were lax about other things, but not about murder, and the man knew that. she might lose her memories of the past few weeks; regrettable if it happened, but not a catastrophe. [illustration] but who was the man and what was his connection? he spent the rest of the day buying equipment--not much, but his money dwindled rapidly. he considered going back to the shelter and then decided against it. by this time luise would be back, and he would be tempted not to leave her. after dark, when the lights in the offices went out, he rented an aircar and set it down on the top of the building. * * * * * he walked across the roof, estimating the distances with practiced ease, as if he'd undergone extensive training and the apprenticeship period had been forgotten and only the skill remained. he knelt and fused two small rods to a portion of the roof, and then readjusted the torch and cut a small circular hole. he listened, and when there was no alarm, lifted out the section. there was nothing but darkness below. he fastened a rope to the aircar. he dropped the rope through the hole and slid down. unless he had miscalculated, he was where he wanted to be, having bypassed all alarm circuits. there were others inside, he was reasonably certain of that, but with ordinary precautions he could avoid them. he flashed on a tiny light. he had guessed right; this was memory lab--the room he'd wanted to see this afternoon but hadn't been able to. in front of him was the door to the waiting room, and beyond that the hall. he swung the light in an arc, flashing it over a desk and a piece of equipment the nature of which he didn't know. behind him was still another door. the desk was locked, but he took out a small magnetic device and jiggled it expertly over the concealed mechanism and then it was unlocked. he went hurriedly through papers and documents, but there was nothing with a name on it. he rifled the desk thoroughly and then went to the machine. he didn't expect to learn anything, but he might as well examine it. there was a place for a patient to sit, and a metal hood to fit over the patient's head. he snapped the hood open and peered into it. it seemed to have two functions. one circuit was far larger and more complicated, and he couldn't determine what it did. but he recognized the other circuit; essentially it was a retrogressor, but whereas the gun was crude and couldn't be regulated, this was capable of fine adjustment--enough, say, to slice a day out of the patient's life, and no more. that fitted with what had happened to luise. she had been experimented on in some way, and then the memory of that experiment had been erased. but the man had grown careless and had taken away one day too many. he snapped the mechanism closed. this was the method, but he still didn't know who the man was nor why he found it necessary to do all this. there was a door behind him and the answer might lie beyond it. he listened carefully, then swung the door open and went through. the blow that hit him wasn't physical; nothing mechanical could take his nerves and jerk them all at once. a freezer. as he fell to the floor, he was grateful it was that and not a retro gun. lights flooded the place, and the man of the afternoon interview was grinning at him. "i thought you'd be back," he said, pleased. "in fact, i knew you would." * * * * * somewhere he had blundered; but he didn't know how. experimentally he wriggled his fingers. they moved a fraction of an inch, but no more. he was helpless and couldn't say anything. he wasn't quite sure at the moment that he wanted to. "you were right, i didn't recognize you physically," continued the man. "nevertheless, you gave yourself away. the name you used this afternoon, chals putsyn, is _my_ name. do you remember now?" of course. he'd chosen chals putsyn at random, because he'd had to say something, and everything would have been all right--except it actually hadn't been a random choice. the associations had triggered the wrong words into existence. his mind flashed back to the time he'd discussed names with borgenese. what had he said? putsy. but it wasn't putsy--it was putsyn. "you're very much improved," said the real chals putsyn, staring curiously at him. "let me recommend the retro treatment to you. in fact i'd take it myself, but there are a few inconveniences." yeah, there were inconveniences--like starting over again and not knowing who you were. but putsyn was right: he was physically improved. a freezer knocked a man down and kept him there for half an hour. but luis had only been down a few minutes, and already he could move his feet, though he didn't. it was a phenomenally fast recovery, and perhaps putsyn wasn't aware of it. "the question is, what to do with you?" putsyn seemed to be thinking aloud. "the police are intolerant of killing. maybe if i disposed of every atom...." he shook his head and sighed. "but that's been tried, and it didn't make any difference. so you'll have to remain alive--though i don't think you'll approve of my treatment." luis didn't approve--it would be the same kind of treatment that luise had been exposed to, but more drastic in his case, because he was aware of what was going on. putsyn came close to drag him away. it was time to use the energy he'd been saving up, and he did. startled, putsyn fired the freezer, but he was aiming at a twisting target and the invisible energy only grazed luis's leg. the leg went limp and had no feeling, but his two hands were still good and that was all he needed. he tore the freezer away and put his other hand on putsyn's throat. he could feel the artificial larynx inside. he squeezed. he lay there until putsyn went limp. * * * * * when there was no longer any movement, he sat up and pried open the man's jaws, thrusting his fingers into the mouth and jerking out the artificial larynx. the next time he would hear putsyn's real voice, and maybe that would trigger his memory. he crawled to the door and pulled himself up, leaning against the wall. by the time putsyn moved, he had regained partial use of his leg. "now we'll see," he said. he didn't try to put anger in his voice; it was there. "i don't have to tell you that i can beat answers out of you." "you don't know?" putsyn laughed and there was relief in the sound. "you can kick me around, but you won't get your answers!" the man had physical courage, or thought he did, and sometimes that amounted to the same thing. luis shifted uneasily. it was the first time he'd heard putsyn's actual voice; it was disturbing, but it didn't arouse concrete memories. he stepped on the outstretched hand. "think so?" he said. he could hear the fingers crackle. putsyn paled, but didn't cry out. "don't think you can kill me and get away with it," he said. he didn't sound too certain. slightly sick, luis stepped off the hand. he couldn't kill the man--and not just because of the police. he just couldn't do it. he felt for the other gun in his pocket. "this isn't a freezer," he said. "it's been changed over. i think i'll give you a sample." putsyn blinked. "and lose all chance of finding out? go ahead." luis had thought of that; but he hadn't expected putsyn to. "you see, there's nothing you can do," said putsyn. "a man has a right to protect his property, and i've got plenty of evidence that you broke in." "i don't think you'll go to the police," luis said. "you think not? my memory system isn't a fraud. admittedly, i didn't use it properly on luise, but in a public demonstration i can prove that it does work." luis nodded wearily to himself. he'd half suspected that it did work. here he was, with the solution so close--this man knew his identity and that of luise, and where dorn starret came into the tangle--and he couldn't force putsyn to tell. he couldn't go to the police. they would ignore his charges, because they were based on unprovable suspicions ... ignore him or arrest him for breaking and entering. "everything's in your favor," he said, raising the gun. "but there's one way to make you leave us alone." "wait," cried putsyn, covering his face with his uninjured hand, as if that would shield him. "maybe we can work out an agreement." luis didn't lower the gun. "i mean it," he said. "i know you mean it--i can't let you take away my life's work." "talk fast," luis said, "and don't lie." he stood close and listened while putsyn told his story. this is what had happened, he thought. this is what he'd tried so hard to learn. "i had to do it that way," putsyn finished. "but if you're willing to listen to reason, i can cut you in--more money than you've dreamed of--and the girl too, if you want her." luis was silent. he wanted her--but now the thought was foolish. hopeless. this must be the way people felt who stood in the blast area of a rocket--but for them the sensation lasted only an instant, while for him the feeling would last the rest of his life. "get up," he said. "then it's all right?" asked putsyn nervously. "we'll share it?" "get up." putsyn got to his feet, and luis hit him. he could have used the freezer, but that wasn't personal enough. he let the body fall to the floor. he dragged the inert form into the waiting room and turned on the screen and talked to the police. then he turned off the screen and kicked open the door to the hall. he shouldered putsyn and carried him up to the roof and put him in the aircar. * * * * * luise was there, puzzled and sleepy. for reasons of his own, borgenese had sent a squad to bring her in. might as well have her here and get it over with, luis thought. she smiled at him, and he knew that putsyn hadn't lied about that part. she remembered him and therefore putsyn hadn't had time to do much damage. borgenese was at the desk as he walked in. luis swung putsyn off his shoulder and dropped him into a chair. the man was still unconscious, but wouldn't be for long. "i see you brought a visitor," remarked borgenese pleasantly. "a customer," he said. "customers are welcome too," said the police counselor. "of course, it's up to us to decide whether he _is_ a customer." luise started to cross the room, but borgenese motioned her back. "let him alone. i think he's going to have a rough time." "yeah," said luis. it was nice to know that luise liked him now--because she wouldn't after this was over. he wiped the sweat off his forehead; all of it hadn't come from physical exertion. "putsyn here is a scientist," he said. "he worked out a machine that reverses the effects of the retro gun. he intended to go to everyone who'd been retrogressed, and in return for giving them back their memory, they'd sign over most of their property to him. "naturally, they'd agree. they all want to return to their former lives that bad, and, of course, they aren't aware of how much money they had. he had it all his way. he could use the machine to investigate them, and take only those who were really wealthy. he'd give them a partial recovery in the machine, and when he found out who they were, give them a quick shot of a built-in retro gun, taking them back to the time they'd just entered his office. they wouldn't suspect a thing. "those who measured up he'd sign an agreement with, and to the other poor devils he'd say that he was sorry but he couldn't help them." putsyn was conscious now. "it's not so," he said sullenly. "he can't prove it." "i don't think he's trying to prove that," said borgenese, still calm. "let him talk." luis took a deep breath. "he might have gotten away with it, but he'd hired a laboratory assistant to help him perfect the machine. she didn't like his ideas; she thought a discovery like that should be given to the public. he didn't particularly care what she thought, but now the trouble was that she could build it too, and since he couldn't patent it and still keep it secret, she was a threat to his plans." he paused. "her name was luise obispo." * * * * * he didn't have to turn his head. from the corner of his eye, he could see startlement flash across her face. she'd got her name right; and it was he who had erred in choosing a name. "putsyn hired a criminal, dorn starret, to get rid of her for him," he said harshly. "that was the way starret made his living. he was an expert at it. "starret slugged her one night on mars. he didn't retro her at once. he loaded her on a spaceship and brought her to earth. during the passage, he talked to her and got to like her a lot. she wasn't as developed as she is now, kind of mousy maybe, but you know how those things are--he liked her. he made love to her, but didn't get very far. "he landed in another city on earth and left his spaceship there; he drugged her and brought her to the shelter here and retroed her. that's what he'd been paid to do. "then he decided to stick around. maybe she'd change her mind after retrogression. he stayed in a shelter just across from the one she was in. and he made a mistake. he hid the retro gun behind the screen. "putsyn came around to check up. he didn't like starret staying there--a key word or a familiar face sometimes triggers the memory. he retroed starret, who didn't have a gun he could get to in a hurry. maybe putsyn had planned to do it all along. he'd built up an airtight alibi when luise disappeared, so that nobody would connect him with that--and who'd miss a criminal like starret? "anyway, that was only part of it. he knew that people who've been retroed try to find out who they are, and that some of them succeed. he didn't want that to happen. so he put an advertisement in the paper that she'd see and answer. when she did, he began to use his machine on her, intending to take her from the present to the past and back again so often that her mind would refuse to accept anything, past or present. "but he'd just started when starret showed up, and he knew he had to get him too. so he pulled what looked like a deliberate slip and got starret interested, intending to take care of both of them in the same way at the same time." he leaned against the wall. it was over now and he knew what he could expect. "that's all, but it didn't work out the way putsyn wanted it. starret was a guy who knew how to look after his own interests." except the biggest and most important one; there he'd failed. borgenese was tapping on the desk, but it wasn't really tapping--he was pushing buttons. a policeman came in and the counselor motioned to putsyn: "put him in the pre-trial cells." "you can't prove it," said putsyn. his face was sunken and frightened. "i think we can," said the counselor indifferently. "you don't know the efficiency of our laboratories. you'll talk." * * * * * when putsyn had been removed, borgenese turned. "very good work, luis. i'm pleased with you. i think in time you'd make an excellent policeman. retro detail, of course." luis stared at him. "didn't you listen?" he said. "i'm dorn starret, a cheap crook." in that mental picture of starret he'd had, he should have seen it at once. left-handed? not at all--that was the way a man normally saw himself in a mirror. and in mirror images, the right hand becomes the left. the counselor sat up straight, not gentle and easygoing any longer. "i'm afraid you can't prove that," he said. "fingerprints? will any of starret's past associates identify you? there's putsyn, but he won't be around to testify." he smiled. "as final evidence let me ask you this: when he offered you a share in his crooked scheme, did you accept? you did not. instead, you brought him in, though you thought you were heading into certain retrogression." luis blinked dazedly. "but--" "there are no exceptions, luis. for certain crimes there is a prescribed penalty, retrogression. the law makes no distinction as to how the penalty is applied, and for a good reason. if there was such a person, dorn starret ceased to exist when putsyn retroed him--and not only legally." counselor borgenese stood up. "you see, retroing a person wipes him clean of almost everything he ever knew--_right and wrong_. it leaves him with an adult body, and we fill his mind with adult facts. given half a chance, he acts like an adult." borgenese walked slowly to stand in front of his desk. "we protect life. everybody's life. _including those who are not yet victims._ we don't have the death penalty and don't want it. the most we can do to anyone is give him a new chance, via retrogression. we have the same penalty for those who deprive another of his memory as we do for those who kill--with this difference: the man who retrogresses another knows he has a good chance to get away with it. the murderer is certain that he won't. "that's an administrative rule, not a law--that we don't try to trace retrogression victims. it channels anger and greed into non-destructive acts. there are a lot of unruly emotions floating around, and as long as there are, we have to have a safety valve for them. retrogression is the perfect instrument for that." luise tried to speak, but he waved her into silence. "do you know how many were killed last year?" he asked. luis shook his head. "four," said the counselor. "four murders in a population of sixteen billion. that's quite a record, as anyone knows who reads twentieth century mystery novels." he glanced humorously at luis. "you did, didn't you?" luis nodded mutely. borgenese grinned. "i thought so. there are only three types of people who know about fingerprints today, historians and policemen being two. and i didn't think you were either." luise finally broke in. "won't putsyn's machine change things?" "will it?" the counselor pretended to frown. "do you remember how to build it?" "i've forgotten," she confessed. "so you have," said borgenese. "and i assure you putsyn is going to forget too. as a convicted criminal, and he will be, we'll provide him with a false memory that will prevent his prying into the past. "that's one machine we don't want until humans are fully and completely civilized. it's been invented a dozen times in the last century, and it always gets lost." he closed his eyes momentarily, and when he opened them, luise was looking at luis, who was staring at the floor. "you two can go now," he said. "when you get ready, there are jobs for both of you in my department. no hurry, though; we'll keep them open." luis left, went out through the long corridors and into the night. * * * * * she caught up with him when he was getting off the belt that had taken him back to the shelters. "there's not much you can say, i suppose," she murmured. "what can you tell a girl when she learns you've stopped just short of killing her?" he didn't know the answer either. they walked in silence. she stopped at her dwelling, but didn't go in. "still, it's an indication of how you felt--that you forgot your own name and took mine." she was smiling now. "i don't see how i can do less for you." hope stirred and he moved closer. but he didn't speak. she might not mean what he thought she did. "luis and luise obispo," she said softly. "very little change for me--just add mrs. to it." she was gazing at him with familiar intensity. "do you want to come in?" she opened the door. crime was sometimes the road to opportunity, and retrogression could be kind. --f. l. wallace * * * * * transcribed from the 1915 methuen & co. ltd. edition by david price, email ccx074@pglaf.org the importance of being earnest a trivial comedy for serious people the persons in the play john worthing, j.p. algernon moncrieff rev. canon chasuble, d.d. merriman, butler lane, manservant lady bracknell hon. gwendolen fairfax cecily cardew miss prism, governess the scenes of the play act i. algernon moncrieff's flat in half-moon street, w. act ii. the garden at the manor house, woolton. act iii. drawing-room at the manor house, woolton. time: the present. london: st. james's theatre lessee and manager: mr. george alexander february 14th, 1895 * * * * * john worthing, j.p.: mr. george alexander. algernon moncrieff: mr. allen aynesworth. rev. canon chasuble, d.d.: mr. h. h. vincent. merriman: mr. frank dyall. lane: mr. f. kinsey peile. lady bracknell: miss rose leclercq. hon. gwendolen fairfax: miss irene vanbrugh. cecily cardew: miss evelyn millard. miss prism: mrs. george canninge. first act scene morning-room in algernon's flat in half-moon street. the room is luxuriously and artistically furnished. the sound of a piano is heard in the adjoining room. [lane is arranging afternoon tea on the table, and after the music has ceased, algernon enters.] algernon. did you hear what i was playing, lane? lane. i didn't think it polite to listen, sir. algernon. i'm sorry for that, for your sake. i don't play accurately--any one can play accurately--but i play with wonderful expression. as far as the piano is concerned, sentiment is my forte. i keep science for life. lane. yes, sir. algernon. and, speaking of the science of life, have you got the cucumber sandwiches cut for lady bracknell? lane. yes, sir. [hands them on a salver.] algernon. [inspects them, takes two, and sits down on the sofa.] oh! . . . by the way, lane, i see from your book that on thursday night, when lord shoreman and mr. worthing were dining with me, eight bottles of champagne are entered as having been consumed. lane. yes, sir; eight bottles and a pint. algernon. why is it that at a bachelor's establishment the servants invariably drink the champagne? i ask merely for information. lane. i attribute it to the superior quality of the wine, sir. i have often observed that in married households the champagne is rarely of a first-rate brand. algernon. good heavens! is marriage so demoralising as that? lane. i believe it _is_ a very pleasant state, sir. i have had very little experience of it myself up to the present. i have only been married once. that was in consequence of a misunderstanding between myself and a young person. algernon. [languidly_._] i don't know that i am much interested in your family life, lane. lane. no, sir; it is not a very interesting subject. i never think of it myself. algernon. very natural, i am sure. that will do, lane, thank you. lane. thank you, sir. [lane goes out.] algernon. lane's views on marriage seem somewhat lax. really, if the lower orders don't set us a good example, what on earth is the use of them? they seem, as a class, to have absolutely no sense of moral responsibility. [enter lane.] lane. mr. ernest worthing. [enter jack.] [lane goes out_._] algernon. how are you, my dear ernest? what brings you up to town? jack. oh, pleasure, pleasure! what else should bring one anywhere? eating as usual, i see, algy! algernon. [stiffly_._] i believe it is customary in good society to take some slight refreshment at five o'clock. where have you been since last thursday? jack. [sitting down on the sofa.] in the country. algernon. what on earth do you do there? jack. [pulling off his gloves_._] when one is in town one amuses oneself. when one is in the country one amuses other people. it is excessively boring. algernon. and who are the people you amuse? jack. [airily_._] oh, neighbours, neighbours. algernon. got nice neighbours in your part of shropshire? jack. perfectly horrid! never speak to one of them. algernon. how immensely you must amuse them! [goes over and takes sandwich.] by the way, shropshire is your county, is it not? jack. eh? shropshire? yes, of course. hallo! why all these cups? why cucumber sandwiches? why such reckless extravagance in one so young? who is coming to tea? algernon. oh! merely aunt augusta and gwendolen. jack. how perfectly delightful! algernon. yes, that is all very well; but i am afraid aunt augusta won't quite approve of your being here. jack. may i ask why? algernon. my dear fellow, the way you flirt with gwendolen is perfectly disgraceful. it is almost as bad as the way gwendolen flirts with you. jack. i am in love with gwendolen. i have come up to town expressly to propose to her. algernon. i thought you had come up for pleasure? . . . i call that business. jack. how utterly unromantic you are! algernon. i really don't see anything romantic in proposing. it is very romantic to be in love. but there is nothing romantic about a definite proposal. why, one may be accepted. one usually is, i believe. then the excitement is all over. the very essence of romance is uncertainty. if ever i get married, i'll certainly try to forget the fact. jack. i have no doubt about that, dear algy. the divorce court was specially invented for people whose memories are so curiously constituted. algernon. oh! there is no use speculating on that subject. divorces are made in heaven--[jack puts out his hand to take a sandwich. algernon at once interferes.] please don't touch the cucumber sandwiches. they are ordered specially for aunt augusta. [takes one and eats it.] jack. well, you have been eating them all the time. algernon. that is quite a different matter. she is my aunt. [takes plate from below.] have some bread and butter. the bread and butter is for gwendolen. gwendolen is devoted to bread and butter. jack. [advancing to table and helping himself.] and very good bread and butter it is too. algernon. well, my dear fellow, you need not eat as if you were going to eat it all. you behave as if you were married to her already. you are not married to her already, and i don't think you ever will be. jack. why on earth do you say that? algernon. well, in the first place girls never marry the men they flirt with. girls don't think it right. jack. oh, that is nonsense! algernon. it isn't. it is a great truth. it accounts for the extraordinary number of bachelors that one sees all over the place. in the second place, i don't give my consent. jack. your consent! algernon. my dear fellow, gwendolen is my first cousin. and before i allow you to marry her, you will have to clear up the whole question of cecily. [rings bell.] jack. cecily! what on earth do you mean? what do you mean, algy, by cecily! i don't know any one of the name of cecily. [enter lane.] algernon. bring me that cigarette case mr. worthing left in the smokingroom the last time he dined here. lane. yes, sir. [lane goes out.] jack. do you mean to say you have had my cigarette case all this time? i wish to goodness you had let me know. i have been writing frantic letters to scotland yard about it. i was very nearly offering a large reward. algernon. well, i wish you would offer one. i happen to be more than usually hard up. jack. there is no good offering a large reward now that the thing is found. [enter lane with the cigarette case on a salver. algernon takes it at once. lane goes out.] algernon. i think that is rather mean of you, ernest, i must say. [opens case and examines it.] however, it makes no matter, for, now that i look at the inscription inside, i find that the thing isn't yours after all. jack. of course it's mine. [moving to him.] you have seen me with it a hundred times, and you have no right whatsoever to read what is written inside. it is a very ungentlemanly thing to read a private cigarette case. algernon. oh! it is absurd to have a hard and fast rule about what one should read and what one shouldn't. more than half of modern culture depends on what one shouldn't read. jack. i am quite aware of the fact, and i don't propose to discuss modern culture. it isn't the sort of thing one should talk of in private. i simply want my cigarette case back. algernon. yes; but this isn't your cigarette case. this cigarette case is a present from some one of the name of cecily, and you said you didn't know any one of that name. jack. well, if you want to know, cecily happens to be my aunt. algernon. your aunt! jack. yes. charming old lady she is, too. lives at tunbridge wells. just give it back to me, algy. algernon. [retreating to back of sofa.] but why does she call herself little cecily if she is your aunt and lives at tunbridge wells? [reading.] 'from little cecily with her fondest love.' jack. [moving to sofa and kneeling upon it.] my dear fellow, what on earth is there in that? some aunts are tall, some aunts are not tall. that is a matter that surely an aunt may be allowed to decide for herself. you seem to think that every aunt should be exactly like your aunt! that is absurd! for heaven's sake give me back my cigarette case. [follows algernon round the room.] algernon. yes. but why does your aunt call you her uncle? 'from little cecily, with her fondest love to her dear uncle jack.' there is no objection, i admit, to an aunt being a small aunt, but why an aunt, no matter what her size may be, should call her own nephew her uncle, i can't quite make out. besides, your name isn't jack at all; it is ernest. jack. it isn't ernest; it's jack. algernon. you have always told me it was ernest. i have introduced you to every one as ernest. you answer to the name of ernest. you look as if your name was ernest. you are the most earnest-looking person i ever saw in my life. it is perfectly absurd your saying that your name isn't ernest. it's on your cards. here is one of them. [taking it from case.] 'mr. ernest worthing, b. 4, the albany.' i'll keep this as a proof that your name is ernest if ever you attempt to deny it to me, or to gwendolen, or to any one else. [puts the card in his pocket.] jack. well, my name is ernest in town and jack in the country, and the cigarette case was given to me in the country. algernon. yes, but that does not account for the fact that your small aunt cecily, who lives at tunbridge wells, calls you her dear uncle. come, old boy, you had much better have the thing out at once. jack. my dear algy, you talk exactly as if you were a dentist. it is very vulgar to talk like a dentist when one isn't a dentist. it produces a false impression. algernon. well, that is exactly what dentists always do. now, go on! tell me the whole thing. i may mention that i have always suspected you of being a confirmed and secret bunburyist; and i am quite sure of it now. jack. bunburyist? what on earth do you mean by a bunburyist? algernon. i'll reveal to you the meaning of that incomparable expression as soon as you are kind enough to inform me why you are ernest in town and jack in the country. jack. well, produce my cigarette case first. algernon. here it is. [hands cigarette case.] now produce your explanation, and pray make it improbable. [sits on sofa.] jack. my dear fellow, there is nothing improbable about my explanation at all. in fact it's perfectly ordinary. old mr. thomas cardew, who adopted me when i was a little boy, made me in his will guardian to his grand-daughter, miss cecily cardew. cecily, who addresses me as her uncle from motives of respect that you could not possibly appreciate, lives at my place in the country under the charge of her admirable governess, miss prism. algernon. where is that place in the country, by the way? jack. that is nothing to you, dear boy. you are not going to be invited . . . i may tell you candidly that the place is not in shropshire. algernon. i suspected that, my dear fellow! i have bunburyed all over shropshire on two separate occasions. now, go on. why are you ernest in town and jack in the country? jack. my dear algy, i don't know whether you will be able to understand my real motives. you are hardly serious enough. when one is placed in the position of guardian, one has to adopt a very high moral tone on all subjects. it's one's duty to do so. and as a high moral tone can hardly be said to conduce very much to either one's health or one's happiness, in order to get up to town i have always pretended to have a younger brother of the name of ernest, who lives in the albany, and gets into the most dreadful scrapes. that, my dear algy, is the whole truth pure and simple. algernon. the truth is rarely pure and never simple. modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature a complete impossibility! jack. that wouldn't be at all a bad thing. algernon. literary criticism is not your forte, my dear fellow. don't try it. you should leave that to people who haven't been at a university. they do it so well in the daily papers. what you really are is a bunburyist. i was quite right in saying you were a bunburyist. you are one of the most advanced bunburyists i know. jack. what on earth do you mean? algernon. you have invented a very useful younger brother called ernest, in order that you may be able to come up to town as often as you like. i have invented an invaluable permanent invalid called bunbury, in order that i may be able to go down into the country whenever i choose. bunbury is perfectly invaluable. if it wasn't for bunbury's extraordinary bad health, for instance, i wouldn't be able to dine with you at willis's tonight, for i have been really engaged to aunt augusta for more than a week. jack. i haven't asked you to dine with me anywhere to-night. algernon. i know. you are absurdly careless about sending out invitations. it is very foolish of you. nothing annoys people so much as not receiving invitations. jack. you had much better dine with your aunt augusta. algernon. i haven't the smallest intention of doing anything of the kind. to begin with, i dined there on monday, and once a week is quite enough to dine with one's own relations. in the second place, whenever i do dine there i am always treated as a member of the family, and sent down with either no woman at all, or two. in the third place, i know perfectly well whom she will place me next to, to-night. she will place me next mary farquhar, who always flirts with her own husband across the dinner-table. that is not very pleasant. indeed, it is not even decent . . . and that sort of thing is enormously on the increase. the amount of women in london who flirt with their own husbands is perfectly scandalous. it looks so bad. it is simply washing one's clean linen in public. besides, now that i know you to be a confirmed bunburyist i naturally want to talk to you about bunburying. i want to tell you the rules. jack. i'm not a bunburyist at all. if gwendolen accepts me, i am going to kill my brother, indeed i think i'll kill him in any case. cecily is a little too much interested in him. it is rather a bore. so i am going to get rid of ernest. and i strongly advise you to do the same with mr. . . . with your invalid friend who has the absurd name. algernon. nothing will induce me to part with bunbury, and if you ever get married, which seems to me extremely problematic, you will be very glad to know bunbury. a man who marries without knowing bunbury has a very tedious time of it. jack. that is nonsense. if i marry a charming girl like gwendolen, and she is the only girl i ever saw in my life that i would marry, i certainly won't want to know bunbury. algernon. then your wife will. you don't seem to realise, that in married life three is company and two is none. jack. [sententiously.] that, my dear young friend, is the theory that the corrupt french drama has been propounding for the last fifty years. algernon. yes; and that the happy english home has proved in half the time. jack. for heaven's sake, don't try to be cynical. it's perfectly easy to be cynical. algernon. my dear fellow, it isn't easy to be anything nowadays. there's such a lot of beastly competition about. [the sound of an electric bell is heard.] ah! that must be aunt augusta. only relatives, or creditors, ever ring in that wagnerian manner. now, if i get her out of the way for ten minutes, so that you can have an opportunity for proposing to gwendolen, may i dine with you to-night at willis's? jack. i suppose so, if you want to. algernon. yes, but you must be serious about it. i hate people who are not serious about meals. it is so shallow of them. [enter lane.] lane. lady bracknell and miss fairfax. [algernon goes forward to meet them. enter lady bracknell and gwendolen.] lady bracknell. good afternoon, dear algernon, i hope you are behaving very well. algernon. i'm feeling very well, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. that's not quite the same thing. in fact the two things rarely go together. [sees jack and bows to him with icy coldness.] algernon. [to gwendolen.] dear me, you are smart! gwendolen. i am always smart! am i not, mr. worthing? jack. you're quite perfect, miss fairfax. gwendolen. oh! i hope i am not that. it would leave no room for developments, and i intend to develop in many directions. [gwendolen and jack sit down together in the corner.] lady bracknell. i'm sorry if we are a little late, algernon, but i was obliged to call on dear lady harbury. i hadn't been there since her poor husband's death. i never saw a woman so altered; she looks quite twenty years younger. and now i'll have a cup of tea, and one of those nice cucumber sandwiches you promised me. algernon. certainly, aunt augusta. [goes over to tea-table.] lady bracknell. won't you come and sit here, gwendolen? gwendolen. thanks, mamma, i'm quite comfortable where i am. algernon. [picking up empty plate in horror.] good heavens! lane! why are there no cucumber sandwiches? i ordered them specially. lane. [gravely.] there were no cucumbers in the market this morning, sir. i went down twice. algernon. no cucumbers! lane. no, sir. not even for ready money. algernon. that will do, lane, thank you. lane. thank you, sir. [goes out.] algernon. i am greatly distressed, aunt augusta, about there being no cucumbers, not even for ready money. lady bracknell. it really makes no matter, algernon. i had some crumpets with lady harbury, who seems to me to be living entirely for pleasure now. algernon. i hear her hair has turned quite gold from grief. lady bracknell. it certainly has changed its colour. from what cause i, of course, cannot say. [algernon crosses and hands tea.] thank you. i've quite a treat for you to-night, algernon. i am going to send you down with mary farquhar. she is such a nice woman, and so attentive to her husband. it's delightful to watch them. algernon. i am afraid, aunt augusta, i shall have to give up the pleasure of dining with you to-night after all. lady bracknell. [frowning.] i hope not, algernon. it would put my table completely out. your uncle would have to dine upstairs. fortunately he is accustomed to that. algernon. it is a great bore, and, i need hardly say, a terrible disappointment to me, but the fact is i have just had a telegram to say that my poor friend bunbury is very ill again. [exchanges glances with jack.] they seem to think i should be with him. lady bracknell. it is very strange. this mr. bunbury seems to suffer from curiously bad health. algernon. yes; poor bunbury is a dreadful invalid. lady bracknell. well, i must say, algernon, that i think it is high time that mr. bunbury made up his mind whether he was going to live or to die. this shilly-shallying with the question is absurd. nor do i in any way approve of the modern sympathy with invalids. i consider it morbid. illness of any kind is hardly a thing to be encouraged in others. health is the primary duty of life. i am always telling that to your poor uncle, but he never seems to take much notice . . . as far as any improvement in his ailment goes. i should be much obliged if you would ask mr. bunbury, from me, to be kind enough not to have a relapse on saturday, for i rely on you to arrange my music for me. it is my last reception, and one wants something that will encourage conversation, particularly at the end of the season when every one has practically said whatever they had to say, which, in most cases, was probably not much. algernon. i'll speak to bunbury, aunt augusta, if he is still conscious, and i think i can promise you he'll be all right by saturday. of course the music is a great difficulty. you see, if one plays good music, people don't listen, and if one plays bad music people don't talk. but i'll run over the programme i've drawn out, if you will kindly come into the next room for a moment. lady bracknell. thank you, algernon. it is very thoughtful of you. [rising, and following algernon.] i'm sure the programme will be delightful, after a few expurgations. french songs i cannot possibly allow. people always seem to think that they are improper, and either look shocked, which is vulgar, or laugh, which is worse. but german sounds a thoroughly respectable language, and indeed, i believe is so. gwendolen, you will accompany me. gwendolen. certainly, mamma. [lady bracknell and algernon go into the music-room, gwendolen remains behind.] jack. charming day it has been, miss fairfax. gwendolen. pray don't talk to me about the weather, mr. worthing. whenever people talk to me about the weather, i always feel quite certain that they mean something else. and that makes me so nervous. jack. i do mean something else. gwendolen. i thought so. in fact, i am never wrong. jack. and i would like to be allowed to take advantage of lady bracknell's temporary absence . . . gwendolen. i would certainly advise you to do so. mamma has a way of coming back suddenly into a room that i have often had to speak to her about. jack. [nervously.] miss fairfax, ever since i met you i have admired you more than any girl . . . i have ever met since . . . i met you. gwendolen. yes, i am quite well aware of the fact. and i often wish that in public, at any rate, you had been more demonstrative. for me you have always had an irresistible fascination. even before i met you i was far from indifferent to you. [jack looks at her in amazement.] we live, as i hope you know, mr. worthing, in an age of ideals. the fact is constantly mentioned in the more expensive monthly magazines, and has reached the provincial pulpits, i am told; and my ideal has always been to love some one of the name of ernest. there is something in that name that inspires absolute confidence. the moment algernon first mentioned to me that he had a friend called ernest, i knew i was destined to love you. jack. you really love me, gwendolen? gwendolen. passionately! jack. darling! you don't know how happy you've made me. gwendolen. my own ernest! jack. but you don't really mean to say that you couldn't love me if my name wasn't ernest? gwendolen. but your name is ernest. jack. yes, i know it is. but supposing it was something else? do you mean to say you couldn't love me then? gwendolen. [glibly.] ah! that is clearly a metaphysical speculation, and like most metaphysical speculations has very little reference at all to the actual facts of real life, as we know them. jack. personally, darling, to speak quite candidly, i don't much care about the name of ernest . . . i don't think the name suits me at all. gwendolen. it suits you perfectly. it is a divine name. it has a music of its own. it produces vibrations. jack. well, really, gwendolen, i must say that i think there are lots of other much nicer names. i think jack, for instance, a charming name. gwendolen. jack? . . . no, there is very little music in the name jack, if any at all, indeed. it does not thrill. it produces absolutely no vibrations . . . i have known several jacks, and they all, without exception, were more than usually plain. besides, jack is a notorious domesticity for john! and i pity any woman who is married to a man called john. she would probably never be allowed to know the entrancing pleasure of a single moment's solitude. the only really safe name is ernest. jack. gwendolen, i must get christened at once--i mean we must get married at once. there is no time to be lost. gwendolen. married, mr. worthing? jack. [astounded.] well . . . surely. you know that i love you, and you led me to believe, miss fairfax, that you were not absolutely indifferent to me. gwendolen. i adore you. but you haven't proposed to me yet. nothing has been said at all about marriage. the subject has not even been touched on. jack. well . . . may i propose to you now? gwendolen. i think it would be an admirable opportunity. and to spare you any possible disappointment, mr. worthing, i think it only fair to tell you quite frankly before-hand that i am fully determined to accept you. jack. gwendolen! gwendolen. yes, mr. worthing, what have you got to say to me? jack. you know what i have got to say to you. gwendolen. yes, but you don't say it. jack. gwendolen, will you marry me? [goes on his knees.] gwendolen. of course i will, darling. how long you have been about it! i am afraid you have had very little experience in how to propose. jack. my own one, i have never loved any one in the world but you. gwendolen. yes, but men often propose for practice. i know my brother gerald does. all my girl-friends tell me so. what wonderfully blue eyes you have, ernest! they are quite, quite, blue. i hope you will always look at me just like that, especially when there are other people present. [enter lady bracknell.] lady bracknell. mr. worthing! rise, sir, from this semi-recumbent posture. it is most indecorous. gwendolen. mamma! [he tries to rise; she restrains him.] i must beg you to retire. this is no place for you. besides, mr. worthing has not quite finished yet. lady bracknell. finished what, may i ask? gwendolen. i am engaged to mr. worthing, mamma. [they rise together.] lady bracknell. pardon me, you are not engaged to any one. when you do become engaged to some one, i, or your father, should his health permit him, will inform you of the fact. an engagement should come on a young girl as a surprise, pleasant or unpleasant, as the case may be. it is hardly a matter that she could be allowed to arrange for herself . . . and now i have a few questions to put to you, mr. worthing. while i am making these inquiries, you, gwendolen, will wait for me below in the carriage. gwendolen. [reproachfully.] mamma! lady bracknell. in the carriage, gwendolen! [gwendolen goes to the door. she and jack blow kisses to each other behind lady bracknell's back. lady bracknell looks vaguely about as if she could not understand what the noise was. finally turns round.] gwendolen, the carriage! gwendolen. yes, mamma. [goes out, looking back at jack.] lady bracknell. [sitting down.] you can take a seat, mr. worthing. [looks in her pocket for note-book and pencil.] jack. thank you, lady bracknell, i prefer standing. lady bracknell. [pencil and note-book in hand.] i feel bound to tell you that you are not down on my list of eligible young men, although i have the same list as the dear duchess of bolton has. we work together, in fact. however, i am quite ready to enter your name, should your answers be what a really affectionate mother requires. do you smoke? jack. well, yes, i must admit i smoke. lady bracknell. i am glad to hear it. a man should always have an occupation of some kind. there are far too many idle men in london as it is. how old are you? jack. twenty-nine. lady bracknell. a very good age to be married at. i have always been of opinion that a man who desires to get married should know either everything or nothing. which do you know? jack. [after some hesitation.] i know nothing, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. i am pleased to hear it. i do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone. the whole theory of modern education is radically unsound. fortunately in england, at any rate, education produces no effect whatsoever. if it did, it would prove a serious danger to the upper classes, and probably lead to acts of violence in grosvenor square. what is your income? jack. between seven and eight thousand a year. lady bracknell. [makes a note in her book.] in land, or in investments? jack. in investments, chiefly. lady bracknell. that is satisfactory. what between the duties expected of one during one's lifetime, and the duties exacted from one after one's death, land has ceased to be either a profit or a pleasure. it gives one position, and prevents one from keeping it up. that's all that can be said about land. jack. i have a country house with some land, of course, attached to it, about fifteen hundred acres, i believe; but i don't depend on that for my real income. in fact, as far as i can make out, the poachers are the only people who make anything out of it. lady bracknell. a country house! how many bedrooms? well, that point can be cleared up afterwards. you have a town house, i hope? a girl with a simple, unspoiled nature, like gwendolen, could hardly be expected to reside in the country. jack. well, i own a house in belgrave square, but it is let by the year to lady bloxham. of course, i can get it back whenever i like, at six months' notice. lady bracknell. lady bloxham? i don't know her. jack. oh, she goes about very little. she is a lady considerably advanced in years. lady bracknell. ah, nowadays that is no guarantee of respectability of character. what number in belgrave square? jack. 149. lady bracknell. [shaking her head.] the unfashionable side. i thought there was something. however, that could easily be altered. jack. do you mean the fashion, or the side? lady bracknell. [sternly.] both, if necessary, i presume. what are your politics? jack. well, i am afraid i really have none. i am a liberal unionist. lady bracknell. oh, they count as tories. they dine with us. or come in the evening, at any rate. now to minor matters. are your parents living? jack. i have lost both my parents. lady bracknell. to lose one parent, mr. worthing, may be regarded as a misfortune; to lose both looks like carelessness. who was your father? he was evidently a man of some wealth. was he born in what the radical papers call the purple of commerce, or did he rise from the ranks of the aristocracy? jack. i am afraid i really don't know. the fact is, lady bracknell, i said i had lost my parents. it would be nearer the truth to say that my parents seem to have lost me . . . i don't actually know who i am by birth. i was . . . well, i was found. lady bracknell. found! jack. the late mr. thomas cardew, an old gentleman of a very charitable and kindly disposition, found me, and gave me the name of worthing, because he happened to have a first-class ticket for worthing in his pocket at the time. worthing is a place in sussex. it is a seaside resort. lady bracknell. where did the charitable gentleman who had a first-class ticket for this seaside resort find you? jack. [gravely.] in a hand-bag. lady bracknell. a hand-bag? jack. [very seriously.] yes, lady bracknell. i was in a hand-bag--a somewhat large, black leather hand-bag, with handles to it--an ordinary hand-bag in fact. lady bracknell. in what locality did this mr. james, or thomas, cardew come across this ordinary hand-bag? jack. in the cloak-room at victoria station. it was given to him in mistake for his own. lady bracknell. the cloak-room at victoria station? jack. yes. the brighton line. lady bracknell. the line is immaterial. mr. worthing, i confess i feel somewhat bewildered by what you have just told me. to be born, or at any rate bred, in a hand-bag, whether it had handles or not, seems to me to display a contempt for the ordinary decencies of family life that reminds one of the worst excesses of the french revolution. and i presume you know what that unfortunate movement led to? as for the particular locality in which the hand-bag was found, a cloak-room at a railway station might serve to conceal a social indiscretion--has probably, indeed, been used for that purpose before now--but it could hardly be regarded as an assured basis for a recognised position in good society. jack. may i ask you then what you would advise me to do? i need hardly say i would do anything in the world to ensure gwendolen's happiness. lady bracknell. i would strongly advise you, mr. worthing, to try and acquire some relations as soon as possible, and to make a definite effort to produce at any rate one parent, of either sex, before the season is quite over. jack. well, i don't see how i could possibly manage to do that. i can produce the hand-bag at any moment. it is in my dressing-room at home. i really think that should satisfy you, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. me, sir! what has it to do with me? you can hardly imagine that i and lord bracknell would dream of allowing our only daughter--a girl brought up with the utmost care--to marry into a cloakroom, and form an alliance with a parcel? good morning, mr. worthing! [lady bracknell sweeps out in majestic indignation.] jack. good morning! [algernon, from the other room, strikes up the wedding march. jack looks perfectly furious, and goes to the door.] for goodness' sake don't play that ghastly tune, algy. how idiotic you are! [the music stops and algernon enters cheerily.] algernon. didn't it go off all right, old boy? you don't mean to say gwendolen refused you? i know it is a way she has. she is always refusing people. i think it is most ill-natured of her. jack. oh, gwendolen is as right as a trivet. as far as she is concerned, we are engaged. her mother is perfectly unbearable. never met such a gorgon . . . i don't really know what a gorgon is like, but i am quite sure that lady bracknell is one. in any case, she is a monster, without being a myth, which is rather unfair . . . i beg your pardon, algy, i suppose i shouldn't talk about your own aunt in that way before you. algernon. my dear boy, i love hearing my relations abused. it is the only thing that makes me put up with them at all. relations are simply a tedious pack of people, who haven't got the remotest knowledge of how to live, nor the smallest instinct about when to die. jack. oh, that is nonsense! algernon. it isn't! jack. well, i won't argue about the matter. you always want to argue about things. algernon. that is exactly what things were originally made for. jack. upon my word, if i thought that, i'd shoot myself . . . [a pause.] you don't think there is any chance of gwendolen becoming like her mother in about a hundred and fifty years, do you, algy? algernon. all women become like their mothers. that is their tragedy. no man does. that's his. jack. is that clever? algernon. it is perfectly phrased! and quite as true as any observation in civilised life should be. jack. i am sick to death of cleverness. everybody is clever nowadays. you can't go anywhere without meeting clever people. the thing has become an absolute public nuisance. i wish to goodness we had a few fools left. algernon. we have. jack. i should extremely like to meet them. what do they talk about? algernon. the fools? oh! about the clever people, of course. jack. what fools! algernon. by the way, did you tell gwendolen the truth about your being ernest in town, and jack in the country? jack. [in a very patronising manner.] my dear fellow, the truth isn't quite the sort of thing one tells to a nice, sweet, refined girl. what extraordinary ideas you have about the way to behave to a woman! algernon. the only way to behave to a woman is to make love to her, if she is pretty, and to some one else, if she is plain. jack. oh, that is nonsense. algernon. what about your brother? what about the profligate ernest? jack. oh, before the end of the week i shall have got rid of him. i'll say he died in paris of apoplexy. lots of people die of apoplexy, quite suddenly, don't they? algernon. yes, but it's hereditary, my dear fellow. it's a sort of thing that runs in families. you had much better say a severe chill. jack. you are sure a severe chill isn't hereditary, or anything of that kind? algernon. of course it isn't! jack. very well, then. my poor brother ernest to carried off suddenly, in paris, by a severe chill. that gets rid of him. algernon. but i thought you said that . . . miss cardew was a little too much interested in your poor brother ernest? won't she feel his loss a good deal? jack. oh, that is all right. cecily is not a silly romantic girl, i am glad to say. she has got a capital appetite, goes long walks, and pays no attention at all to her lessons. algernon. i would rather like to see cecily. jack. i will take very good care you never do. she is excessively pretty, and she is only just eighteen. algernon. have you told gwendolen yet that you have an excessively pretty ward who is only just eighteen? jack. oh! one doesn't blurt these things out to people. cecily and gwendolen are perfectly certain to be extremely great friends. i'll bet you anything you like that half an hour after they have met, they will be calling each other sister. algernon. women only do that when they have called each other a lot of other things first. now, my dear boy, if we want to get a good table at willis's, we really must go and dress. do you know it is nearly seven? jack. [irritably.] oh! it always is nearly seven. algernon. well, i'm hungry. jack. i never knew you when you weren't . . . algernon. what shall we do after dinner? go to a theatre? jack. oh no! i loathe listening. algernon. well, let us go to the club? jack. oh, no! i hate talking. algernon. well, we might trot round to the empire at ten? jack. oh, no! i can't bear looking at things. it is so silly. algernon. well, what shall we do? jack. nothing! algernon. it is awfully hard work doing nothing. however, i don't mind hard work where there is no definite object of any kind. [enter lane.] lane. miss fairfax. [enter gwendolen. lane goes out.] algernon. gwendolen, upon my word! gwendolen. algy, kindly turn your back. i have something very particular to say to mr. worthing. algernon. really, gwendolen, i don't think i can allow this at all. gwendolen. algy, you always adopt a strictly immoral attitude towards life. you are not quite old enough to do that. [algernon retires to the fireplace.] jack. my own darling! gwendolen. ernest, we may never be married. from the expression on mamma's face i fear we never shall. few parents nowadays pay any regard to what their children say to them. the old-fashioned respect for the young is fast dying out. whatever influence i ever had over mamma, i lost at the age of three. but although she may prevent us from becoming man and wife, and i may marry some one else, and marry often, nothing that she can possibly do can alter my eternal devotion to you. jack. dear gwendolen! gwendolen. the story of your romantic origin, as related to me by mamma, with unpleasing comments, has naturally stirred the deeper fibres of my nature. your christian name has an irresistible fascination. the simplicity of your character makes you exquisitely incomprehensible to me. your town address at the albany i have. what is your address in the country? jack. the manor house, woolton, hertfordshire. [algernon, who has been carefully listening, smiles to himself, and writes the address on his shirt-cuff. then picks up the railway guide.] gwendolen. there is a good postal service, i suppose? it may be necessary to do something desperate. that of course will require serious consideration. i will communicate with you daily. jack. my own one! gwendolen. how long do you remain in town? jack. till monday. gwendolen. good! algy, you may turn round now. algernon. thanks, i've turned round already. gwendolen. you may also ring the bell. jack. you will let me see you to your carriage, my own darling? gwendolen. certainly. jack. [to lane, who now enters.] i will see miss fairfax out. lane. yes, sir. [jack and gwendolen go off.] [lane presents several letters on a salver to algernon. it is to be surmised that they are bills, as algernon, after looking at the envelopes, tears them up.] algernon. a glass of sherry, lane. lane. yes, sir. algernon. to-morrow, lane, i'm going bunburying. lane. yes, sir. algernon. i shall probably not be back till monday. you can put up my dress clothes, my smoking jacket, and all the bunbury suits . . . lane. yes, sir. [handing sherry.] algernon. i hope to-morrow will be a fine day, lane. lane. it never is, sir. algernon. lane, you're a perfect pessimist. lane. i do my best to give satisfaction, sir. [enter jack. lane goes off.] jack. there's a sensible, intellectual girl! the only girl i ever cared for in my life. [algernon is laughing immoderately.] what on earth are you so amused at? algernon. oh, i'm a little anxious about poor bunbury, that is all. jack. if you don't take care, your friend bunbury will get you into a serious scrape some day. algernon. i love scrapes. they are the only things that are never serious. jack. oh, that's nonsense, algy. you never talk anything but nonsense. algernon. nobody ever does. [jack looks indignantly at him, and leaves the room. algernon lights a cigarette, reads his shirt-cuff, and smiles.] act drop second act scene garden at the manor house. a flight of grey stone steps leads up to the house. the garden, an old-fashioned one, full of roses. time of year, july. basket chairs, and a table covered with books, are set under a large yew-tree. [miss prism discovered seated at the table. cecily is at the back watering flowers.] miss prism. [calling.] cecily, cecily! surely such a utilitarian occupation as the watering of flowers is rather moulton's duty than yours? especially at a moment when intellectual pleasures await you. your german grammar is on the table. pray open it at page fifteen. we will repeat yesterday's lesson. cecily. [coming over very slowly.] but i don't like german. it isn't at all a becoming language. i know perfectly well that i look quite plain after my german lesson. miss prism. child, you know how anxious your guardian is that you should improve yourself in every way. he laid particular stress on your german, as he was leaving for town yesterday. indeed, he always lays stress on your german when he is leaving for town. cecily. dear uncle jack is so very serious! sometimes he is so serious that i think he cannot be quite well. miss prism. [drawing herself up.] your guardian enjoys the best of health, and his gravity of demeanour is especially to be commended in one so comparatively young as he is. i know no one who has a higher sense of duty and responsibility. cecily. i suppose that is why he often looks a little bored when we three are together. miss prism. cecily! i am surprised at you. mr. worthing has many troubles in his life. idle merriment and triviality would be out of place in his conversation. you must remember his constant anxiety about that unfortunate young man his brother. cecily. i wish uncle jack would allow that unfortunate young man, his brother, to come down here sometimes. we might have a good influence over him, miss prism. i am sure you certainly would. you know german, and geology, and things of that kind influence a man very much. [cecily begins to write in her diary.] miss prism. [shaking her head.] i do not think that even i could produce any effect on a character that according to his own brother's admission is irretrievably weak and vacillating. indeed i am not sure that i would desire to reclaim him. i am not in favour of this modern mania for turning bad people into good people at a moment's notice. as a man sows so let him reap. you must put away your diary, cecily. i really don't see why you should keep a diary at all. cecily. i keep a diary in order to enter the wonderful secrets of my life. if i didn't write them down, i should probably forget all about them. miss prism. memory, my dear cecily, is the diary that we all carry about with us. cecily. yes, but it usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn't possibly have happened. i believe that memory is responsible for nearly all the three-volume novels that mudie sends us. miss prism. do not speak slightingly of the three-volume novel, cecily. i wrote one myself in earlier days. cecily. did you really, miss prism? how wonderfully clever you are! i hope it did not end happily? i don't like novels that end happily. they depress me so much. miss prism. the good ended happily, and the bad unhappily. that is what fiction means. cecily. i suppose so. but it seems very unfair. and was your novel ever published? miss prism. alas! no. the manuscript unfortunately was abandoned. [cecily starts.] i use the word in the sense of lost or mislaid. to your work, child, these speculations are profitless. cecily. [smiling.] but i see dear dr. chasuble coming up through the garden. miss prism. [rising and advancing.] dr. chasuble! this is indeed a pleasure. [enter canon chasuble.] chasuble. and how are we this morning? miss prism, you are, i trust, well? cecily. miss prism has just been complaining of a slight headache. i think it would do her so much good to have a short stroll with you in the park, dr. chasuble. miss prism. cecily, i have not mentioned anything about a headache. cecily. no, dear miss prism, i know that, but i felt instinctively that you had a headache. indeed i was thinking about that, and not about my german lesson, when the rector came in. chasuble. i hope, cecily, you are not inattentive. cecily. oh, i am afraid i am. chasuble. that is strange. were i fortunate enough to be miss prism's pupil, i would hang upon her lips. [miss prism glares.] i spoke metaphorically.--my metaphor was drawn from bees. ahem! mr. worthing, i suppose, has not returned from town yet? miss prism. we do not expect him till monday afternoon. chasuble. ah yes, he usually likes to spend his sunday in london. he is not one of those whose sole aim is enjoyment, as, by all accounts, that unfortunate young man his brother seems to be. but i must not disturb egeria and her pupil any longer. miss prism. egeria? my name is laetitia, doctor. chasuble. [bowing.] a classical allusion merely, drawn from the pagan authors. i shall see you both no doubt at evensong? miss prism. i think, dear doctor, i will have a stroll with you. i find i have a headache after all, and a walk might do it good. chasuble. with pleasure, miss prism, with pleasure. we might go as far as the schools and back. miss prism. that would be delightful. cecily, you will read your political economy in my absence. the chapter on the fall of the rupee you may omit. it is somewhat too sensational. even these metallic problems have their melodramatic side. [goes down the garden with dr. chasuble.] cecily. [picks up books and throws them back on table.] horrid political economy! horrid geography! horrid, horrid german! [enter merriman with a card on a salver.] merriman. mr. ernest worthing has just driven over from the station. he has brought his luggage with him. cecily. [takes the card and reads it.] 'mr. ernest worthing, b. 4, the albany, w.' uncle jack's brother! did you tell him mr. worthing was in town? merriman. yes, miss. he seemed very much disappointed. i mentioned that you and miss prism were in the garden. he said he was anxious to speak to you privately for a moment. cecily. ask mr. ernest worthing to come here. i suppose you had better talk to the housekeeper about a room for him. merriman. yes, miss. [merriman goes off.] cecily. i have never met any really wicked person before. i feel rather frightened. i am so afraid he will look just like every one else. [enter algernon, very gay and debonnair.] he does! algernon. [raising his hat.] you are my little cousin cecily, i'm sure. cecily. you are under some strange mistake. i am not little. in fact, i believe i am more than usually tall for my age. [algernon is rather taken aback.] but i am your cousin cecily. you, i see from your card, are uncle jack's brother, my cousin ernest, my wicked cousin ernest. algernon. oh! i am not really wicked at all, cousin cecily. you mustn't think that i am wicked. cecily. if you are not, then you have certainly been deceiving us all in a very inexcusable manner. i hope you have not been leading a double life, pretending to be wicked and being really good all the time. that would be hypocrisy. algernon. [looks at her in amazement.] oh! of course i have been rather reckless. cecily. i am glad to hear it. algernon. in fact, now you mention the subject, i have been very bad in my own small way. cecily. i don't think you should be so proud of that, though i am sure it must have been very pleasant. algernon. it is much pleasanter being here with you. cecily. i can't understand how you are here at all. uncle jack won't be back till monday afternoon. algernon. that is a great disappointment. i am obliged to go up by the first train on monday morning. i have a business appointment that i am anxious . . . to miss? cecily. couldn't you miss it anywhere but in london? algernon. no: the appointment is in london. cecily. well, i know, of course, how important it is not to keep a business engagement, if one wants to retain any sense of the beauty of life, but still i think you had better wait till uncle jack arrives. i know he wants to speak to you about your emigrating. algernon. about my what? cecily. your emigrating. he has gone up to buy your outfit. algernon. i certainly wouldn't let jack buy my outfit. he has no taste in neckties at all. cecily. i don't think you will require neckties. uncle jack is sending you to australia. algernon. australia! i'd sooner die. cecily. well, he said at dinner on wednesday night, that you would have to choose between this world, the next world, and australia. algernon. oh, well! the accounts i have received of australia and the next world, are not particularly encouraging. this world is good enough for me, cousin cecily. cecily. yes, but are you good enough for it? algernon. i'm afraid i'm not that. that is why i want you to reform me. you might make that your mission, if you don't mind, cousin cecily. cecily. i'm afraid i've no time, this afternoon. algernon. well, would you mind my reforming myself this afternoon? cecily. it is rather quixotic of you. but i think you should try. algernon. i will. i feel better already. cecily. you are looking a little worse. algernon. that is because i am hungry. cecily. how thoughtless of me. i should have remembered that when one is going to lead an entirely new life, one requires regular and wholesome meals. won't you come in? algernon. thank you. might i have a buttonhole first? i never have any appetite unless i have a buttonhole first. cecily. a marechal niel? [picks up scissors.] algernon. no, i'd sooner have a pink rose. cecily. why? [cuts a flower.] algernon. because you are like a pink rose, cousin cecily. cecily. i don't think it can be right for you to talk to me like that. miss prism never says such things to me. algernon. then miss prism is a short-sighted old lady. [cecily puts the rose in his buttonhole.] you are the prettiest girl i ever saw. cecily. miss prism says that all good looks are a snare. algernon. they are a snare that every sensible man would like to be caught in. cecily. oh, i don't think i would care to catch a sensible man. i shouldn't know what to talk to him about. [they pass into the house. miss prism and dr. chasuble return.] miss prism. you are too much alone, dear dr. chasuble. you should get married. a misanthrope i can understand--a womanthrope, never! chasuble. [with a scholar's shudder.] believe me, i do not deserve so neologistic a phrase. the precept as well as the practice of the primitive church was distinctly against matrimony. miss prism. [sententiously.] that is obviously the reason why the primitive church has not lasted up to the present day. and you do not seem to realise, dear doctor, that by persistently remaining single, a man converts himself into a permanent public temptation. men should be more careful; this very celibacy leads weaker vessels astray. chasuble. but is a man not equally attractive when married? miss prism. no married man is ever attractive except to his wife. chasuble. and often, i've been told, not even to her. miss prism. that depends on the intellectual sympathies of the woman. maturity can always be depended on. ripeness can be trusted. young women are green. [dr. chasuble starts.] i spoke horticulturally. my metaphor was drawn from fruits. but where is cecily? chasuble. perhaps she followed us to the schools. [enter jack slowly from the back of the garden. he is dressed in the deepest mourning, with crape hatband and black gloves.] miss prism. mr. worthing! chasuble. mr. worthing? miss prism. this is indeed a surprise. we did not look for you till monday afternoon. jack. [shakes miss prism's hand in a tragic manner.] i have returned sooner than i expected. dr. chasuble, i hope you are well? chasuble. dear mr. worthing, i trust this garb of woe does not betoken some terrible calamity? jack. my brother. miss prism. more shameful debts and extravagance? chasuble. still leading his life of pleasure? jack. [shaking his head.] dead! chasuble. your brother ernest dead? jack. quite dead. miss prism. what a lesson for him! i trust he will profit by it. chasuble. mr. worthing, i offer you my sincere condolence. you have at least the consolation of knowing that you were always the most generous and forgiving of brothers. jack. poor ernest! he had many faults, but it is a sad, sad blow. chasuble. very sad indeed. were you with him at the end? jack. no. he died abroad; in paris, in fact. i had a telegram last night from the manager of the grand hotel. chasuble. was the cause of death mentioned? jack. a severe chill, it seems. miss prism. as a man sows, so shall he reap. chasuble. [raising his hand.] charity, dear miss prism, charity! none of us are perfect. i myself am peculiarly susceptible to draughts. will the interment take place here? jack. no. he seems to have expressed a desire to be buried in paris. chasuble. in paris! [shakes his head.] i fear that hardly points to any very serious state of mind at the last. you would no doubt wish me to make some slight allusion to this tragic domestic affliction next sunday. [jack presses his hand convulsively.] my sermon on the meaning of the manna in the wilderness can be adapted to almost any occasion, joyful, or, as in the present case, distressing. [all sigh.] i have preached it at harvest celebrations, christenings, confirmations, on days of humiliation and festal days. the last time i delivered it was in the cathedral, as a charity sermon on behalf of the society for the prevention of discontent among the upper orders. the bishop, who was present, was much struck by some of the analogies i drew. jack. ah! that reminds me, you mentioned christenings i think, dr. chasuble? i suppose you know how to christen all right? [dr. chasuble looks astounded.] i mean, of course, you are continually christening, aren't you? miss prism. it is, i regret to say, one of the rector's most constant duties in this parish. i have often spoken to the poorer classes on the subject. but they don't seem to know what thrift is. chasuble. but is there any particular infant in whom you are interested, mr. worthing? your brother was, i believe, unmarried, was he not? jack. oh yes. miss prism. [bitterly.] people who live entirely for pleasure usually are. jack. but it is not for any child, dear doctor. i am very fond of children. no! the fact is, i would like to be christened myself, this afternoon, if you have nothing better to do. chasuble. but surely, mr. worthing, you have been christened already? jack. i don't remember anything about it. chasuble. but have you any grave doubts on the subject? jack. i certainly intend to have. of course i don't know if the thing would bother you in any way, or if you think i am a little too old now. chasuble. not at all. the sprinkling, and, indeed, the immersion of adults is a perfectly canonical practice. jack. immersion! chasuble. you need have no apprehensions. sprinkling is all that is necessary, or indeed i think advisable. our weather is so changeable. at what hour would you wish the ceremony performed? jack. oh, i might trot round about five if that would suit you. chasuble. perfectly, perfectly! in fact i have two similar ceremonies to perform at that time. a case of twins that occurred recently in one of the outlying cottages on your own estate. poor jenkins the carter, a most hard-working man. jack. oh! i don't see much fun in being christened along with other babies. it would be childish. would half-past five do? chasuble. admirably! admirably! [takes out watch.] and now, dear mr. worthing, i will not intrude any longer into a house of sorrow. i would merely beg you not to be too much bowed down by grief. what seem to us bitter trials are often blessings in disguise. miss prism. this seems to me a blessing of an extremely obvious kind. [enter cecily from the house.] cecily. uncle jack! oh, i am pleased to see you back. but what horrid clothes you have got on! do go and change them. miss prism. cecily! chasuble. my child! my child! [cecily goes towards jack; he kisses her brow in a melancholy manner.] cecily. what is the matter, uncle jack? do look happy! you look as if you had toothache, and i have got such a surprise for you. who do you think is in the dining-room? your brother! jack. who? cecily. your brother ernest. he arrived about half an hour ago. jack. what nonsense! i haven't got a brother. cecily. oh, don't say that. however badly he may have behaved to you in the past he is still your brother. you couldn't be so heartless as to disown him. i'll tell him to come out. and you will shake hands with him, won't you, uncle jack? [runs back into the house.] chasuble. these are very joyful tidings. miss prism. after we had all been resigned to his loss, his sudden return seems to me peculiarly distressing. jack. my brother is in the dining-room? i don't know what it all means. i think it is perfectly absurd. [enter algernon and cecily hand in hand. they come slowly up to jack.] jack. good heavens! [motions algernon away.] algernon. brother john, i have come down from town to tell you that i am very sorry for all the trouble i have given you, and that i intend to lead a better life in the future. [jack glares at him and does not take his hand.] cecily. uncle jack, you are not going to refuse your own brother's hand? jack. nothing will induce me to take his hand. i think his coming down here disgraceful. he knows perfectly well why. cecily. uncle jack, do be nice. there is some good in every one. ernest has just been telling me about his poor invalid friend mr. bunbury whom he goes to visit so often. and surely there must be much good in one who is kind to an invalid, and leaves the pleasures of london to sit by a bed of pain. jack. oh! he has been talking about bunbury, has he? cecily. yes, he has told me all about poor mr. bunbury, and his terrible state of health. jack. bunbury! well, i won't have him talk to you about bunbury or about anything else. it is enough to drive one perfectly frantic. algernon. of course i admit that the faults were all on my side. but i must say that i think that brother john's coldness to me is peculiarly painful. i expected a more enthusiastic welcome, especially considering it is the first time i have come here. cecily. uncle jack, if you don't shake hands with ernest i will never forgive you. jack. never forgive me? cecily. never, never, never! jack. well, this is the last time i shall ever do it. [shakes with algernon and glares.] chasuble. it's pleasant, is it not, to see so perfect a reconciliation? i think we might leave the two brothers together. miss prism. cecily, you will come with us. cecily. certainly, miss prism. my little task of reconciliation is over. chasuble. you have done a beautiful action to-day, dear child. miss prism. we must not be premature in our judgments. cecily. i feel very happy. [they all go off except jack and algernon.] jack. you young scoundrel, algy, you must get out of this place as soon as possible. i don't allow any bunburying here. [enter merriman.] merriman. i have put mr. ernest's things in the room next to yours, sir. i suppose that is all right? jack. what? merriman. mr. ernest's luggage, sir. i have unpacked it and put it in the room next to your own. jack. his luggage? merriman. yes, sir. three portmanteaus, a dressing-case, two hat-boxes, and a large luncheon-basket. algernon. i am afraid i can't stay more than a week this time. jack. merriman, order the dog-cart at once. mr. ernest has been suddenly called back to town. merriman. yes, sir. [goes back into the house.] algernon. what a fearful liar you are, jack. i have not been called back to town at all. jack. yes, you have. algernon. i haven't heard any one call me. jack. your duty as a gentleman calls you back. algernon. my duty as a gentleman has never interfered with my pleasures in the smallest degree. jack. i can quite understand that. algernon. well, cecily is a darling. jack. you are not to talk of miss cardew like that. i don't like it. algernon. well, i don't like your clothes. you look perfectly ridiculous in them. why on earth don't you go up and change? it is perfectly childish to be in deep mourning for a man who is actually staying for a whole week with you in your house as a guest. i call it grotesque. jack. you are certainly not staying with me for a whole week as a guest or anything else. you have got to leave . . . by the four-five train. algernon. i certainly won't leave you so long as you are in mourning. it would be most unfriendly. if i were in mourning you would stay with me, i suppose. i should think it very unkind if you didn't. jack. well, will you go if i change my clothes? algernon. yes, if you are not too long. i never saw anybody take so long to dress, and with such little result. jack. well, at any rate, that is better than being always over-dressed as you are. algernon. if i am occasionally a little over-dressed, i make up for it by being always immensely over-educated. jack. your vanity is ridiculous, your conduct an outrage, and your presence in my garden utterly absurd. however, you have got to catch the four-five, and i hope you will have a pleasant journey back to town. this bunburying, as you call it, has not been a great success for you. [goes into the house.] algernon. i think it has been a great success. i'm in love with cecily, and that is everything. [enter cecily at the back of the garden. she picks up the can and begins to water the flowers.] but i must see her before i go, and make arrangements for another bunbury. ah, there she is. cecily. oh, i merely came back to water the roses. i thought you were with uncle jack. algernon. he's gone to order the dog-cart for me. cecily. oh, is he going to take you for a nice drive? algernon. he's going to send me away. cecily. then have we got to part? algernon. i am afraid so. it's a very painful parting. cecily. it is always painful to part from people whom one has known for a very brief space of time. the absence of old friends one can endure with equanimity. but even a momentary separation from anyone to whom one has just been introduced is almost unbearable. algernon. thank you. [enter merriman.] merriman. the dog-cart is at the door, sir. [algernon looks appealingly at cecily.] cecily. it can wait, merriman for . . . five minutes. merriman. yes, miss. [exit merriman.] algernon. i hope, cecily, i shall not offend you if i state quite frankly and openly that you seem to me to be in every way the visible personification of absolute perfection. cecily. i think your frankness does you great credit, ernest. if you will allow me, i will copy your remarks into my diary. [goes over to table and begins writing in diary.] algernon. do you really keep a diary? i'd give anything to look at it. may i? cecily. oh no. [puts her hand over it.] you see, it is simply a very young girl's record of her own thoughts and impressions, and consequently meant for publication. when it appears in volume form i hope you will order a copy. but pray, ernest, don't stop. i delight in taking down from dictation. i have reached 'absolute perfection'. you can go on. i am quite ready for more. algernon. [somewhat taken aback.] ahem! ahem! cecily. oh, don't cough, ernest. when one is dictating one should speak fluently and not cough. besides, i don't know how to spell a cough. [writes as algernon speaks.] algernon. [speaking very rapidly.] cecily, ever since i first looked upon your wonderful and incomparable beauty, i have dared to love you wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. cecily. i don't think that you should tell me that you love me wildly, passionately, devotedly, hopelessly. hopelessly doesn't seem to make much sense, does it? algernon. cecily! [enter merriman.] merriman. the dog-cart is waiting, sir. algernon. tell it to come round next week, at the same hour. merriman. [looks at cecily, who makes no sign.] yes, sir. [merriman retires.] cecily. uncle jack would be very much annoyed if he knew you were staying on till next week, at the same hour. algernon. oh, i don't care about jack. i don't care for anybody in the whole world but you. i love you, cecily. you will marry me, won't you? cecily. you silly boy! of course. why, we have been engaged for the last three months. algernon. for the last three months? cecily. yes, it will be exactly three months on thursday. algernon. but how did we become engaged? cecily. well, ever since dear uncle jack first confessed to us that he had a younger brother who was very wicked and bad, you of course have formed the chief topic of conversation between myself and miss prism. and of course a man who is much talked about is always very attractive. one feels there must be something in him, after all. i daresay it was foolish of me, but i fell in love with you, ernest. algernon. darling! and when was the engagement actually settled? cecily. on the 14th of february last. worn out by your entire ignorance of my existence, i determined to end the matter one way or the other, and after a long struggle with myself i accepted you under this dear old tree here. the next day i bought this little ring in your name, and this is the little bangle with the true lover's knot i promised you always to wear. algernon. did i give you this? it's very pretty, isn't it? cecily. yes, you've wonderfully good taste, ernest. it's the excuse i've always given for your leading such a bad life. and this is the box in which i keep all your dear letters. [kneels at table, opens box, and produces letters tied up with blue ribbon.] algernon. my letters! but, my own sweet cecily, i have never written you any letters. cecily. you need hardly remind me of that, ernest. i remember only too well that i was forced to write your letters for you. i wrote always three times a week, and sometimes oftener. algernon. oh, do let me read them, cecily? cecily. oh, i couldn't possibly. they would make you far too conceited. [replaces box.] the three you wrote me after i had broken off the engagement are so beautiful, and so badly spelled, that even now i can hardly read them without crying a little. algernon. but was our engagement ever broken off? cecily. of course it was. on the 22nd of last march. you can see the entry if you like. [shows diary.] 'to-day i broke off my engagement with ernest. i feel it is better to do so. the weather still continues charming.' algernon. but why on earth did you break it off? what had i done? i had done nothing at all. cecily, i am very much hurt indeed to hear you broke it off. particularly when the weather was so charming. cecily. it would hardly have been a really serious engagement if it hadn't been broken off at least once. but i forgave you before the week was out. algernon. [crossing to her, and kneeling.] what a perfect angel you are, cecily. cecily. you dear romantic boy. [he kisses her, she puts her fingers through his hair.] i hope your hair curls naturally, does it? algernon. yes, darling, with a little help from others. cecily. i am so glad. algernon. you'll never break off our engagement again, cecily? cecily. i don't think i could break it off now that i have actually met you. besides, of course, there is the question of your name. algernon. yes, of course. [nervously.] cecily. you must not laugh at me, darling, but it had always been a girlish dream of mine to love some one whose name was ernest. [algernon rises, cecily also.] there is something in that name that seems to inspire absolute confidence. i pity any poor married woman whose husband is not called ernest. algernon. but, my dear child, do you mean to say you could not love me if i had some other name? cecily. but what name? algernon. oh, any name you like--algernon--for instance . . . cecily. but i don't like the name of algernon. algernon. well, my own dear, sweet, loving little darling, i really can't see why you should object to the name of algernon. it is not at all a bad name. in fact, it is rather an aristocratic name. half of the chaps who get into the bankruptcy court are called algernon. but seriously, cecily . . . [moving to her] . . . if my name was algy, couldn't you love me? cecily. [rising.] i might respect you, ernest, i might admire your character, but i fear that i should not be able to give you my undivided attention. algernon. ahem! cecily! [picking up hat.] your rector here is, i suppose, thoroughly experienced in the practice of all the rites and ceremonials of the church? cecily. oh, yes. dr. chasuble is a most learned man. he has never written a single book, so you can imagine how much he knows. algernon. i must see him at once on a most important christening--i mean on most important business. cecily. oh! algernon. i shan't be away more than half an hour. cecily. considering that we have been engaged since february the 14th, and that i only met you to-day for the first time, i think it is rather hard that you should leave me for so long a period as half an hour. couldn't you make it twenty minutes? algernon. i'll be back in no time. [kisses her and rushes down the garden.] cecily. what an impetuous boy he is! i like his hair so much. i must enter his proposal in my diary. [enter merriman.] merriman. a miss fairfax has just called to see mr. worthing. on very important business, miss fairfax states. cecily. isn't mr. worthing in his library? merriman. mr. worthing went over in the direction of the rectory some time ago. cecily. pray ask the lady to come out here; mr. worthing is sure to be back soon. and you can bring tea. merriman. yes, miss. [goes out.] cecily. miss fairfax! i suppose one of the many good elderly women who are associated with uncle jack in some of his philanthropic work in london. i don't quite like women who are interested in philanthropic work. i think it is so forward of them. [enter merriman.] merriman. miss fairfax. [enter gwendolen.] [exit merriman.] cecily. [advancing to meet her.] pray let me introduce myself to you. my name is cecily cardew. gwendolen. cecily cardew? [moving to her and shaking hands.] what a very sweet name! something tells me that we are going to be great friends. i like you already more than i can say. my first impressions of people are never wrong. cecily. how nice of you to like me so much after we have known each other such a comparatively short time. pray sit down. gwendolen. [still standing up.] i may call you cecily, may i not? cecily. with pleasure! gwendolen. and you will always call me gwendolen, won't you? cecily. if you wish. gwendolen. then that is all quite settled, is it not? cecily. i hope so. [a pause. they both sit down together.] gwendolen. perhaps this might be a favourable opportunity for my mentioning who i am. my father is lord bracknell. you have never heard of papa, i suppose? cecily. i don't think so. gwendolen. outside the family circle, papa, i am glad to say, is entirely unknown. i think that is quite as it should be. the home seems to me to be the proper sphere for the man. and certainly once a man begins to neglect his domestic duties he becomes painfully effeminate, does he not? and i don't like that. it makes men so very attractive. cecily, mamma, whose views on education are remarkably strict, has brought me up to be extremely short-sighted; it is part of her system; so do you mind my looking at you through my glasses? cecily. oh! not at all, gwendolen. i am very fond of being looked at. gwendolen. [after examining cecily carefully through a lorgnette.] you are here on a short visit, i suppose. cecily. oh no! i live here. gwendolen. [severely.] really? your mother, no doubt, or some female relative of advanced years, resides here also? cecily. oh no! i have no mother, nor, in fact, any relations. gwendolen. indeed? cecily. my dear guardian, with the assistance of miss prism, has the arduous task of looking after me. gwendolen. your guardian? cecily. yes, i am mr. worthing's ward. gwendolen. oh! it is strange he never mentioned to me that he had a ward. how secretive of him! he grows more interesting hourly. i am not sure, however, that the news inspires me with feelings of unmixed delight. [rising and going to her.] i am very fond of you, cecily; i have liked you ever since i met you! but i am bound to state that now that i know that you are mr. worthing's ward, i cannot help expressing a wish you were--well, just a little older than you seem to be--and not quite so very alluring in appearance. in fact, if i may speak candidly-cecily. pray do! i think that whenever one has anything unpleasant to say, one should always be quite candid. gwendolen. well, to speak with perfect candour, cecily, i wish that you were fully forty-two, and more than usually plain for your age. ernest has a strong upright nature. he is the very soul of truth and honour. disloyalty would be as impossible to him as deception. but even men of the noblest possible moral character are extremely susceptible to the influence of the physical charms of others. modern, no less than ancient history, supplies us with many most painful examples of what i refer to. if it were not so, indeed, history would be quite unreadable. cecily. i beg your pardon, gwendolen, did you say ernest? gwendolen. yes. cecily. oh, but it is not mr. ernest worthing who is my guardian. it is his brother--his elder brother. gwendolen. [sitting down again.] ernest never mentioned to me that he had a brother. cecily. i am sorry to say they have not been on good terms for a long time. gwendolen. ah! that accounts for it. and now that i think of it i have never heard any man mention his brother. the subject seems distasteful to most men. cecily, you have lifted a load from my mind. i was growing almost anxious. it would have been terrible if any cloud had come across a friendship like ours, would it not? of course you are quite, quite sure that it is not mr. ernest worthing who is your guardian? cecily. quite sure. [a pause.] in fact, i am going to be his. gwendolen. [inquiringly.] i beg your pardon? cecily. [rather shy and confidingly.] dearest gwendolen, there is no reason why i should make a secret of it to you. our little county newspaper is sure to chronicle the fact next week. mr. ernest worthing and i are engaged to be married. gwendolen. [quite politely, rising.] my darling cecily, i think there must be some slight error. mr. ernest worthing is engaged to me. the announcement will appear in the _morning post_ on saturday at the latest. cecily. [very politely, rising.] i am afraid you must be under some misconception. ernest proposed to me exactly ten minutes ago. [shows diary.] gwendolen. [examines diary through her lorgnettte carefully.] it is certainly very curious, for he asked me to be his wife yesterday afternoon at 5.30. if you would care to verify the incident, pray do so. [produces diary of her own.] i never travel without my diary. one should always have something sensational to read in the train. i am so sorry, dear cecily, if it is any disappointment to you, but i am afraid i have the prior claim. cecily. it would distress me more than i can tell you, dear gwendolen, if it caused you any mental or physical anguish, but i feel bound to point out that since ernest proposed to you he clearly has changed his mind. gwendolen. [meditatively.] if the poor fellow has been entrapped into any foolish promise i shall consider it my duty to rescue him at once, and with a firm hand. cecily. [thoughtfully and sadly.] whatever unfortunate entanglement my dear boy may have got into, i will never reproach him with it after we are married. gwendolen. do you allude to me, miss cardew, as an entanglement? you are presumptuous. on an occasion of this kind it becomes more than a moral duty to speak one's mind. it becomes a pleasure. cecily. do you suggest, miss fairfax, that i entrapped ernest into an engagement? how dare you? this is no time for wearing the shallow mask of manners. when i see a spade i call it a spade. gwendolen. [satirically.] i am glad to say that i have never seen a spade. it is obvious that our social spheres have been widely different. [enter merriman, followed by the footman. he carries a salver, table cloth, and plate stand. cecily is about to retort. the presence of the servants exercises a restraining influence, under which both girls chafe.] merriman. shall i lay tea here as usual, miss? cecily. [sternly, in a calm voice.] yes, as usual. [merriman begins to clear table and lay cloth. a long pause. cecily and gwendolen glare at each other.] gwendolen. are there many interesting walks in the vicinity, miss cardew? cecily. oh! yes! a great many. from the top of one of the hills quite close one can see five counties. gwendolen. five counties! i don't think i should like that; i hate crowds. cecily. [sweetly.] i suppose that is why you live in town? [gwendolen bites her lip, and beats her foot nervously with her parasol.] gwendolen. [looking round.] quite a well-kept garden this is, miss cardew. cecily. so glad you like it, miss fairfax. gwendolen. i had no idea there were any flowers in the country. cecily. oh, flowers are as common here, miss fairfax, as people are in london. gwendolen. personally i cannot understand how anybody manages to exist in the country, if anybody who is anybody does. the country always bores me to death. cecily. ah! this is what the newspapers call agricultural depression, is it not? i believe the aristocracy are suffering very much from it just at present. it is almost an epidemic amongst them, i have been told. may i offer you some tea, miss fairfax? gwendolen. [with elaborate politeness.] thank you. [aside.] detestable girl! but i require tea! cecily. [sweetly.] sugar? gwendolen. [superciliously.] no, thank you. sugar is not fashionable any more. [cecily looks angrily at her, takes up the tongs and puts four lumps of sugar into the cup.] cecily. [severely.] cake or bread and butter? gwendolen. [in a bored manner.] bread and butter, please. cake is rarely seen at the best houses nowadays. cecily. [cuts a very large slice of cake, and puts it on the tray.] hand that to miss fairfax. [merriman does so, and goes out with footman. gwendolen drinks the tea and makes a grimace. puts down cup at once, reaches out her hand to the bread and butter, looks at it, and finds it is cake. rises in indignation.] gwendolen. you have filled my tea with lumps of sugar, and though i asked most distinctly for bread and butter, you have given me cake. i am known for the gentleness of my disposition, and the extraordinary sweetness of my nature, but i warn you, miss cardew, you may go too far. cecily. [rising.] to save my poor, innocent, trusting boy from the machinations of any other girl there are no lengths to which i would not go. gwendolen. from the moment i saw you i distrusted you. i felt that you were false and deceitful. i am never deceived in such matters. my first impressions of people are invariably right. cecily. it seems to me, miss fairfax, that i am trespassing on your valuable time. no doubt you have many other calls of a similar character to make in the neighbourhood. [enter jack.] gwendolen. [catching sight of him.] ernest! my own ernest! jack. gwendolen! darling! [offers to kiss her.] gwendolen. [draws back.] a moment! may i ask if you are engaged to be married to this young lady? [points to cecily.] jack. [laughing.] to dear little cecily! of course not! what could have put such an idea into your pretty little head? gwendolen. thank you. you may! [offers her cheek.] cecily. [very sweetly.] i knew there must be some misunderstanding, miss fairfax. the gentleman whose arm is at present round your waist is my guardian, mr. john worthing. gwendolen. i beg your pardon? cecily. this is uncle jack. gwendolen. [receding.] jack! oh! [enter algernon.] cecily. here is ernest. algernon. [goes straight over to cecily without noticing any one else.] my own love! [offers to kiss her.] cecily. [drawing back.] a moment, ernest! may i ask you--are you engaged to be married to this young lady? algernon. [looking round.] to what young lady? good heavens! gwendolen! cecily. yes! to good heavens, gwendolen, i mean to gwendolen. algernon. [laughing.] of course not! what could have put such an idea into your pretty little head? cecily. thank you. [presenting her cheek to be kissed.] you may. [algernon kisses her.] gwendolen. i felt there was some slight error, miss cardew. the gentleman who is now embracing you is my cousin, mr. algernon moncrieff. cecily. [breaking away from algernon.] algernon moncrieff! oh! [the two girls move towards each other and put their arms round each other's waists as if for protection.] cecily. are you called algernon? algernon. i cannot deny it. cecily. oh! gwendolen. is your name really john? jack. [standing rather proudly.] i could deny it if i liked. i could deny anything if i liked. but my name certainly is john. it has been john for years. cecily. [to gwendolen.] a gross deception has been practised on both of us. gwendolen. my poor wounded cecily! cecily. my sweet wronged gwendolen! gwendolen. [slowly and seriously.] you will call me sister, will you not? [they embrace. jack and algernon groan and walk up and down.] cecily. [rather brightly.] there is just one question i would like to be allowed to ask my guardian. gwendolen. an admirable idea! mr. worthing, there is just one question i would like to be permitted to put to you. where is your brother ernest? we are both engaged to be married to your brother ernest, so it is a matter of some importance to us to know where your brother ernest is at present. jack. [slowly and hesitatingly.] gwendolen--cecily--it is very painful for me to be forced to speak the truth. it is the first time in my life that i have ever been reduced to such a painful position, and i am really quite inexperienced in doing anything of the kind. however, i will tell you quite frankly that i have no brother ernest. i have no brother at all. i never had a brother in my life, and i certainly have not the smallest intention of ever having one in the future. cecily. [surprised.] no brother at all? jack. [cheerily.] none! gwendolen. [severely.] had you never a brother of any kind? jack. [pleasantly.] never. not even of any kind. gwendolen. i am afraid it is quite clear, cecily, that neither of us is engaged to be married to any one. cecily. it is not a very pleasant position for a young girl suddenly to find herself in. is it? gwendolen. let us go into the house. they will hardly venture to come after us there. cecily. no, men are so cowardly, aren't they? [they retire into the house with scornful looks.] jack. this ghastly state of things is what you call bunburying, i suppose? algernon. yes, and a perfectly wonderful bunbury it is. the most wonderful bunbury i have ever had in my life. jack. well, you've no right whatsoever to bunbury here. algernon. that is absurd. one has a right to bunbury anywhere one chooses. every serious bunburyist knows that. jack. serious bunburyist! good heavens! algernon. well, one must be serious about something, if one wants to have any amusement in life. i happen to be serious about bunburying. what on earth you are serious about i haven't got the remotest idea. about everything, i should fancy. you have such an absolutely trivial nature. jack. well, the only small satisfaction i have in the whole of this wretched business is that your friend bunbury is quite exploded. you won't be able to run down to the country quite so often as you used to do, dear algy. and a very good thing too. algernon. your brother is a little off colour, isn't he, dear jack? you won't be able to disappear to london quite so frequently as your wicked custom was. and not a bad thing either. jack. as for your conduct towards miss cardew, i must say that your taking in a sweet, simple, innocent girl like that is quite inexcusable. to say nothing of the fact that she is my ward. algernon. i can see no possible defence at all for your deceiving a brilliant, clever, thoroughly experienced young lady like miss fairfax. to say nothing of the fact that she is my cousin. jack. i wanted to be engaged to gwendolen, that is all. i love her. algernon. well, i simply wanted to be engaged to cecily. i adore her. jack. there is certainly no chance of your marrying miss cardew. algernon. i don't think there is much likelihood, jack, of you and miss fairfax being united. jack. well, that is no business of yours. algernon. if it was my business, i wouldn't talk about it. [begins to eat muffins.] it is very vulgar to talk about one's business. only people like stock-brokers do that, and then merely at dinner parties. jack. how can you sit there, calmly eating muffins when we are in this horrible trouble, i can't make out. you seem to me to be perfectly heartless. algernon. well, i can't eat muffins in an agitated manner. the butter would probably get on my cuffs. one should always eat muffins quite calmly. it is the only way to eat them. jack. i say it's perfectly heartless your eating muffins at all, under the circumstances. algernon. when i am in trouble, eating is the only thing that consoles me. indeed, when i am in really great trouble, as any one who knows me intimately will tell you, i refuse everything except food and drink. at the present moment i am eating muffins because i am unhappy. besides, i am particularly fond of muffins. [rising.] jack. [rising.] well, that is no reason why you should eat them all in that greedy way. [takes muffins from algernon.] algernon. [offering tea-cake.] i wish you would have tea-cake instead. i don't like tea-cake. jack. good heavens! i suppose a man may eat his own muffins in his own garden. algernon. but you have just said it was perfectly heartless to eat muffins. jack. i said it was perfectly heartless of you, under the circumstances. that is a very different thing. algernon. that may be. but the muffins are the same. [he seizes the muffin-dish from jack.] jack. algy, i wish to goodness you would go. algernon. you can't possibly ask me to go without having some dinner. it's absurd. i never go without my dinner. no one ever does, except vegetarians and people like that. besides i have just made arrangements with dr. chasuble to be christened at a quarter to six under the name of ernest. jack. my dear fellow, the sooner you give up that nonsense the better. i made arrangements this morning with dr. chasuble to be christened myself at 5.30, and i naturally will take the name of ernest. gwendolen would wish it. we can't both be christened ernest. it's absurd. besides, i have a perfect right to be christened if i like. there is no evidence at all that i have ever been christened by anybody. i should think it extremely probable i never was, and so does dr. chasuble. it is entirely different in your case. you have been christened already. algernon. yes, but i have not been christened for years. jack. yes, but you have been christened. that is the important thing. algernon. quite so. so i know my constitution can stand it. if you are not quite sure about your ever having been christened, i must say i think it rather dangerous your venturing on it now. it might make you very unwell. you can hardly have forgotten that some one very closely connected with you was very nearly carried off this week in paris by a severe chill. jack. yes, but you said yourself that a severe chill was not hereditary. algernon. it usen't to be, i know--but i daresay it is now. science is always making wonderful improvements in things. jack. [picking up the muffin-dish.] oh, that is nonsense; you are always talking nonsense. algernon. jack, you are at the muffins again! i wish you wouldn't. there are only two left. [takes them.] i told you i was particularly fond of muffins. jack. but i hate tea-cake. algernon. why on earth then do you allow tea-cake to be served up for your guests? what ideas you have of hospitality! jack. algernon! i have already told you to go. i don't want you here. why don't you go! algernon. i haven't quite finished my tea yet! and there is still one muffin left. [jack groans, and sinks into a chair. algernon still continues eating.] act drop third act scene morning-room at the manor house. [gwendolen and cecily are at the window, looking out into the garden.] gwendolen. the fact that they did not follow us at once into the house, as any one else would have done, seems to me to show that they have some sense of shame left. cecily. they have been eating muffins. that looks like repentance. gwendolen. [after a pause.] they don't seem to notice us at all. couldn't you cough? cecily. but i haven't got a cough. gwendolen. they're looking at us. what effrontery! cecily. they're approaching. that's very forward of them. gwendolen. let us preserve a dignified silence. cecily. certainly. it's the only thing to do now. [enter jack followed by algernon. they whistle some dreadful popular air from a british opera.] gwendolen. this dignified silence seems to produce an unpleasant effect. cecily. a most distasteful one. gwendolen. but we will not be the first to speak. cecily. certainly not. gwendolen. mr. worthing, i have something very particular to ask you. much depends on your reply. cecily. gwendolen, your common sense is invaluable. mr. moncrieff, kindly answer me the following question. why did you pretend to be my guardian's brother? algernon. in order that i might have an opportunity of meeting you. cecily. [to gwendolen.] that certainly seems a satisfactory explanation, does it not? gwendolen. yes, dear, if you can believe him. cecily. i don't. but that does not affect the wonderful beauty of his answer. gwendolen. true. in matters of grave importance, style, not sincerity is the vital thing. mr. worthing, what explanation can you offer to me for pretending to have a brother? was it in order that you might have an opportunity of coming up to town to see me as often as possible? jack. can you doubt it, miss fairfax? gwendolen. i have the gravest doubts upon the subject. but i intend to crush them. this is not the moment for german scepticism. [moving to cecily.] their explanations appear to be quite satisfactory, especially mr. worthing's. that seems to me to have the stamp of truth upon it. cecily. i am more than content with what mr. moncrieff said. his voice alone inspires one with absolute credulity. gwendolen. then you think we should forgive them? cecily. yes. i mean no. gwendolen. true! i had forgotten. there are principles at stake that one cannot surrender. which of us should tell them? the task is not a pleasant one. cecily. could we not both speak at the same time? gwendolen. an excellent idea! i nearly always speak at the same time as other people. will you take the time from me? cecily. certainly. [gwendolen beats time with uplifted finger.] gwendolen and cecily [speaking together.] your christian names are still an insuperable barrier. that is all! jack and algernon [speaking together.] our christian names! is that all? but we are going to be christened this afternoon. gwendolen. [to jack.] for my sake you are prepared to do this terrible thing? jack. i am. cecily. [to algernon.] to please me you are ready to face this fearful ordeal? algernon. i am! gwendolen. how absurd to talk of the equality of the sexes! where questions of self-sacrifice are concerned, men are infinitely beyond us. jack. we are. [clasps hands with algernon.] cecily. they have moments of physical courage of which we women know absolutely nothing. gwendolen. [to jack.] darling! algernon. [to cecily.] darling! [they fall into each other's arms.] [enter merriman. when he enters he coughs loudly, seeing the situation.] merriman. ahem! ahem! lady bracknell! jack. good heavens! [enter lady bracknell. the couples separate in alarm. exit merriman.] lady bracknell. gwendolen! what does this mean? gwendolen. merely that i am engaged to be married to mr. worthing, mamma. lady bracknell. come here. sit down. sit down immediately. hesitation of any kind is a sign of mental decay in the young, of physical weakness in the old. [turns to jack.] apprised, sir, of my daughter's sudden flight by her trusty maid, whose confidence i purchased by means of a small coin, i followed her at once by a luggage train. her unhappy father is, i am glad to say, under the impression that she is attending a more than usually lengthy lecture by the university extension scheme on the influence of a permanent income on thought. i do not propose to undeceive him. indeed i have never undeceived him on any question. i would consider it wrong. but of course, you will clearly understand that all communication between yourself and my daughter must cease immediately from this moment. on this point, as indeed on all points, i am firm. jack. i am engaged to be married to gwendolen, lady bracknell! lady bracknell. you are nothing of the kind, sir. and now, as regards algernon! . . . algernon! algernon. yes, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. may i ask if it is in this house that your invalid friend mr. bunbury resides? algernon. [stammering.] oh! no! bunbury doesn't live here. bunbury is somewhere else at present. in fact, bunbury is dead. lady bracknell. dead! when did mr. bunbury die? his death must have been extremely sudden. algernon. [airily.] oh! i killed bunbury this afternoon. i mean poor bunbury died this afternoon. lady bracknell. what did he die of? algernon. bunbury? oh, he was quite exploded. lady bracknell. exploded! was he the victim of a revolutionary outrage? i was not aware that mr. bunbury was interested in social legislation. if so, he is well punished for his morbidity. algernon. my dear aunt augusta, i mean he was found out! the doctors found out that bunbury could not live, that is what i mean--so bunbury died. lady bracknell. he seems to have had great confidence in the opinion of his physicians. i am glad, however, that he made up his mind at the last to some definite course of action, and acted under proper medical advice. and now that we have finally got rid of this mr. bunbury, may i ask, mr. worthing, who is that young person whose hand my nephew algernon is now holding in what seems to me a peculiarly unnecessary manner? jack. that lady is miss cecily cardew, my ward. [lady bracknell bows coldly to cecily.] algernon. i am engaged to be married to cecily, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. i beg your pardon? cecily. mr. moncrieff and i are engaged to be married, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. [with a shiver, crossing to the sofa and sitting down.] i do not know whether there is anything peculiarly exciting in the air of this particular part of hertfordshire, but the number of engagements that go on seems to me considerably above the proper average that statistics have laid down for our guidance. i think some preliminary inquiry on my part would not be out of place. mr. worthing, is miss cardew at all connected with any of the larger railway stations in london? i merely desire information. until yesterday i had no idea that there were any families or persons whose origin was a terminus. [jack looks perfectly furious, but restrains himself.] jack. [in a clear, cold voice.] miss cardew is the grand-daughter of the late mr. thomas cardew of 149 belgrave square, s.w.; gervase park, dorking, surrey; and the sporran, fifeshire, n.b. lady bracknell. that sounds not unsatisfactory. three addresses always inspire confidence, even in tradesmen. but what proof have i of their authenticity? jack. i have carefully preserved the court guides of the period. they are open to your inspection, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. [grimly.] i have known strange errors in that publication. jack. miss cardew's family solicitors are messrs. markby, markby, and markby. lady bracknell. markby, markby, and markby? a firm of the very highest position in their profession. indeed i am told that one of the mr. markby's is occasionally to be seen at dinner parties. so far i am satisfied. jack. [very irritably.] how extremely kind of you, lady bracknell! i have also in my possession, you will be pleased to hear, certificates of miss cardew's birth, baptism, whooping cough, registration, vaccination, confirmation, and the measles; both the german and the english variety. lady bracknell. ah! a life crowded with incident, i see; though perhaps somewhat too exciting for a young girl. i am not myself in favour of premature experiences. [rises, looks at her watch.] gwendolen! the time approaches for our departure. we have not a moment to lose. as a matter of form, mr. worthing, i had better ask you if miss cardew has any little fortune? jack. oh! about a hundred and thirty thousand pounds in the funds. that is all. goodbye, lady bracknell. so pleased to have seen you. lady bracknell. [sitting down again.] a moment, mr. worthing. a hundred and thirty thousand pounds! and in the funds! miss cardew seems to me a most attractive young lady, now that i look at her. few girls of the present day have any really solid qualities, any of the qualities that last, and improve with time. we live, i regret to say, in an age of surfaces. [to cecily.] come over here, dear. [cecily goes across.] pretty child! your dress is sadly simple, and your hair seems almost as nature might have left it. but we can soon alter all that. a thoroughly experienced french maid produces a really marvellous result in a very brief space of time. i remember recommending one to young lady lancing, and after three months her own husband did not know her. jack. and after six months nobody knew her. lady bracknell. [glares at jack for a few moments. then bends, with a practised smile, to cecily.] kindly turn round, sweet child. [cecily turns completely round.] no, the side view is what i want. [cecily presents her profile.] yes, quite as i expected. there are distinct social possibilities in your profile. the two weak points in our age are its want of principle and its want of profile. the chin a little higher, dear. style largely depends on the way the chin is worn. they are worn very high, just at present. algernon! algernon. yes, aunt augusta! lady bracknell. there are distinct social possibilities in miss cardew's profile. algernon. cecily is the sweetest, dearest, prettiest girl in the whole world. and i don't care twopence about social possibilities. lady bracknell. never speak disrespectfully of society, algernon. only people who can't get into it do that. [to cecily.] dear child, of course you know that algernon has nothing but his debts to depend upon. but i do not approve of mercenary marriages. when i married lord bracknell i had no fortune of any kind. but i never dreamed for a moment of allowing that to stand in my way. well, i suppose i must give my consent. algernon. thank you, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. cecily, you may kiss me! cecily. [kisses her.] thank you, lady bracknell. lady bracknell. you may also address me as aunt augusta for the future. cecily. thank you, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. the marriage, i think, had better take place quite soon. algernon. thank you, aunt augusta. cecily. thank you, aunt augusta. lady bracknell. to speak frankly, i am not in favour of long engagements. they give people the opportunity of finding out each other's character before marriage, which i think is never advisable. jack. i beg your pardon for interrupting you, lady bracknell, but this engagement is quite out of the question. i am miss cardew's guardian, and she cannot marry without my consent until she comes of age. that consent i absolutely decline to give. lady bracknell. upon what grounds may i ask? algernon is an extremely, i may almost say an ostentatiously, eligible young man. he has nothing, but he looks everything. what more can one desire? jack. it pains me very much to have to speak frankly to you, lady bracknell, about your nephew, but the fact is that i do not approve at all of his moral character. i suspect him of being untruthful. [algernon and cecily look at him in indignant amazement.] lady bracknell. untruthful! my nephew algernon? impossible! he is an oxonian. jack. i fear there can be no possible doubt about the matter. this afternoon during my temporary absence in london on an important question of romance, he obtained admission to my house by means of the false pretence of being my brother. under an assumed name he drank, i've just been informed by my butler, an entire pint bottle of my perrier-jouet, brut, '89; wine i was specially reserving for myself. continuing his disgraceful deception, he succeeded in the course of the afternoon in alienating the affections of my only ward. he subsequently stayed to tea, and devoured every single muffin. and what makes his conduct all the more heartless is, that he was perfectly well aware from the first that i have no brother, that i never had a brother, and that i don't intend to have a brother, not even of any kind. i distinctly told him so myself yesterday afternoon. lady bracknell. ahem! mr. worthing, after careful consideration i have decided entirely to overlook my nephew's conduct to you. jack. that is very generous of you, lady bracknell. my own decision, however, is unalterable. i decline to give my consent. lady bracknell. [to cecily.] come here, sweet child. [cecily goes over.] how old are you, dear? cecily. well, i am really only eighteen, but i always admit to twenty when i go to evening parties. lady bracknell. you are perfectly right in making some slight alteration. indeed, no woman should ever be quite accurate about her age. it looks so calculating . . . [in a meditative manner.] eighteen, but admitting to twenty at evening parties. well, it will not be very long before you are of age and free from the restraints of tutelage. so i don't think your guardian's consent is, after all, a matter of any importance. jack. pray excuse me, lady bracknell, for interrupting you again, but it is only fair to tell you that according to the terms of her grandfather's will miss cardew does not come legally of age till she is thirty-five. lady bracknell. that does not seem to me to be a grave objection. thirtyfive is a very attractive age. london society is full of women of the very highest birth who have, of their own free choice, remained thirtyfive for years. lady dumbleton is an instance in point. to my own knowledge she has been thirty-five ever since she arrived at the age of forty, which was many years ago now. i see no reason why our dear cecily should not be even still more attractive at the age you mention than she is at present. there will be a large accumulation of property. cecily. algy, could you wait for me till i was thirty-five? algernon. of course i could, cecily. you know i could. cecily. yes, i felt it instinctively, but i couldn't wait all that time. i hate waiting even five minutes for anybody. it always makes me rather cross. i am not punctual myself, i know, but i do like punctuality in others, and waiting, even to be married, is quite out of the question. algernon. then what is to be done, cecily? cecily. i don't know, mr. moncrieff. lady bracknell. my dear mr. worthing, as miss cardew states positively that she cannot wait till she is thirty-five--a remark which i am bound to say seems to me to show a somewhat impatient nature--i would beg of you to reconsider your decision. jack. but my dear lady bracknell, the matter is entirely in your own hands. the moment you consent to my marriage with gwendolen, i will most gladly allow your nephew to form an alliance with my ward. lady bracknell. [rising and drawing herself up.] you must be quite aware that what you propose is out of the question. jack. then a passionate celibacy is all that any of us can look forward to. lady bracknell. that is not the destiny i propose for gwendolen. algernon, of course, can choose for himself. [pulls out her watch.] come, dear, [gwendolen rises] we have already missed five, if not six, trains. to miss any more might expose us to comment on the platform. [enter dr. chasuble.] chasuble. everything is quite ready for the christenings. lady bracknell. the christenings, sir! is not that somewhat premature? chasuble. [looking rather puzzled, and pointing to jack and algernon.] both these gentlemen have expressed a desire for immediate baptism. lady bracknell. at their age? the idea is grotesque and irreligious! algernon, i forbid you to be baptized. i will not hear of such excesses. lord bracknell would be highly displeased if he learned that that was the way in which you wasted your time and money. chasuble. am i to understand then that there are to be no christenings at all this afternoon? jack. i don't think that, as things are now, it would be of much practical value to either of us, dr. chasuble. chasuble. i am grieved to hear such sentiments from you, mr. worthing. they savour of the heretical views of the anabaptists, views that i have completely refuted in four of my unpublished sermons. however, as your present mood seems to be one peculiarly secular, i will return to the church at once. indeed, i have just been informed by the pew-opener that for the last hour and a half miss prism has been waiting for me in the vestry. lady bracknell. [starting.] miss prism! did i hear you mention a miss prism? chasuble. yes, lady bracknell. i am on my way to join her. lady bracknell. pray allow me to detain you for a moment. this matter may prove to be one of vital importance to lord bracknell and myself. is this miss prism a female of repellent aspect, remotely connected with education? chasuble. [somewhat indignantly.] she is the most cultivated of ladies, and the very picture of respectability. lady bracknell. it is obviously the same person. may i ask what position she holds in your household? chasuble. [severely.] i am a celibate, madam. jack. [interposing.] miss prism, lady bracknell, has been for the last three years miss cardew's esteemed governess and valued companion. lady bracknell. in spite of what i hear of her, i must see her at once. let her be sent for. chasuble. [looking off.] she approaches; she is nigh. [enter miss prism hurriedly.] miss prism. i was told you expected me in the vestry, dear canon. i have been waiting for you there for an hour and three-quarters. [catches sight of lady bracknell, who has fixed her with a stony glare. miss prism grows pale and quails. she looks anxiously round as if desirous to escape.] lady bracknell. [in a severe, judicial voice.] prism! [miss prism bows her head in shame.] come here, prism! [miss prism approaches in a humble manner.] prism! where is that baby? [general consternation. the canon starts back in horror. algernon and jack pretend to be anxious to shield cecily and gwendolen from hearing the details of a terrible public scandal.] twenty-eight years ago, prism, you left lord bracknell's house, number 104, upper grosvenor street, in charge of a perambulator that contained a baby of the male sex. you never returned. a few weeks later, through the elaborate investigations of the metropolitan police, the perambulator was discovered at midnight, standing by itself in a remote corner of bayswater. it contained the manuscript of a three-volume novel of more than usually revolting sentimentality. [miss prism starts in involuntary indignation.] but the baby was not there! [every one looks at miss prism.] prism! where is that baby? [a pause.] miss prism. lady bracknell, i admit with shame that i do not know. i only wish i did. the plain facts of the case are these. on the morning of the day you mention, a day that is for ever branded on my memory, i prepared as usual to take the baby out in its perambulator. i had also with me a somewhat old, but capacious hand-bag in which i had intended to place the manuscript of a work of fiction that i had written during my few unoccupied hours. in a moment of mental abstraction, for which i never can forgive myself, i deposited the manuscript in the basinette, and placed the baby in the hand-bag. jack. [who has been listening attentively.] but where did you deposit the hand-bag? miss prism. do not ask me, mr. worthing. jack. miss prism, this is a matter of no small importance to me. i insist on knowing where you deposited the hand-bag that contained that infant. miss prism. i left it in the cloak-room of one of the larger railway stations in london. jack. what railway station? miss prism. [quite crushed.] victoria. the brighton line. [sinks into a chair.] jack. i must retire to my room for a moment. gwendolen, wait here for me. gwendolen. if you are not too long, i will wait here for you all my life. [exit jack in great excitement.] chasuble. what do you think this means, lady bracknell? lady bracknell. i dare not even suspect, dr. chasuble. i need hardly tell you that in families of high position strange coincidences are not supposed to occur. they are hardly considered the thing. [noises heard overhead as if some one was throwing trunks about. every one looks up.] cecily. uncle jack seems strangely agitated. chasuble. your guardian has a very emotional nature. lady bracknell. this noise is extremely unpleasant. it sounds as if he was having an argument. i dislike arguments of any kind. they are always vulgar, and often convincing. chasuble. [looking up.] it has stopped now. [the noise is redoubled.] lady bracknell. i wish he would arrive at some conclusion. gwendolen. this suspense is terrible. i hope it will last. [enter jack with a hand-bag of black leather in his hand.] jack. [rushing over to miss prism.] is this the hand-bag, miss prism? examine it carefully before you speak. the happiness of more than one life depends on your answer. miss prism. [calmly.] it seems to be mine. yes, here is the injury it received through the upsetting of a gower street omnibus in younger and happier days. here is the stain on the lining caused by the explosion of a temperance beverage, an incident that occurred at leamington. and here, on the lock, are my initials. i had forgotten that in an extravagant mood i had had them placed there. the bag is undoubtedly mine. i am delighted to have it so unexpectedly restored to me. it has been a great inconvenience being without it all these years. jack. [in a pathetic voice.] miss prism, more is restored to you than this hand-bag. i was the baby you placed in it. miss prism. [amazed.] you? jack. [embracing her.] yes . . . mother! miss prism. [recoiling in indignant astonishment.] mr. worthing! i am unmarried! jack. unmarried! i do not deny that is a serious blow. but after all, who has the right to cast a stone against one who has suffered? cannot repentance wipe out an act of folly? why should there be one law for men, and another for women? mother, i forgive you. [tries to embrace her again.] miss prism. [still more indignant.] mr. worthing, there is some error. [pointing to lady bracknell.] there is the lady who can tell you who you really are. jack. [after a pause.] lady bracknell, i hate to seem inquisitive, but would you kindly inform me who i am? lady bracknell. i am afraid that the news i have to give you will not altogether please you. you are the son of my poor sister, mrs. moncrieff, and consequently algernon's elder brother. jack. algy's elder brother! then i have a brother after all. i knew i had a brother! i always said i had a brother! cecily,--how could you have ever doubted that i had a brother? [seizes hold of algernon.] dr. chasuble, my unfortunate brother. miss prism, my unfortunate brother. gwendolen, my unfortunate brother. algy, you young scoundrel, you will have to treat me with more respect in the future. you have never behaved to me like a brother in all your life. algernon. well, not till to-day, old boy, i admit. i did my best, however, though i was out of practice. [shakes hands.] gwendolen. [to jack.] my own! but what own are you? what is your christian name, now that you have become some one else? jack. good heavens! . . . i had quite forgotten that point. your decision on the subject of my name is irrevocable, i suppose? gwendolen. i never change, except in my affections. cecily. what a noble nature you have, gwendolen! jack. then the question had better be cleared up at once. aunt augusta, a moment. at the time when miss prism left me in the hand-bag, had i been christened already? lady bracknell. every luxury that money could buy, including christening, had been lavished on you by your fond and doting parents. jack. then i was christened! that is settled. now, what name was i given? let me know the worst. lady bracknell. being the eldest son you were naturally christened after your father. jack. [irritably.] yes, but what was my father's christian name? lady bracknell. [meditatively.] i cannot at the present moment recall what the general's christian name was. but i have no doubt he had one. he was eccentric, i admit. but only in later years. and that was the result of the indian climate, and marriage, and indigestion, and other things of that kind. jack. algy! can't you recollect what our father's christian name was? algernon. my dear boy, we were never even on speaking terms. he died before i was a year old. jack. his name would appear in the army lists of the period, i suppose, aunt augusta? lady bracknell. the general was essentially a man of peace, except in his domestic life. but i have no doubt his name would appear in any military directory. jack. the army lists of the last forty years are here. these delightful records should have been my constant study. [rushes to bookcase and tears the books out.] m. generals . . . mallam, maxbohm, magley, what ghastly names they have--markby, migsby, mobbs, moncrieff! lieutenant 1840, captain, lieutenant-colonel, colonel, general 1869, christian names, ernest john. [puts book very quietly down and speaks quite calmly.] i always told you, gwendolen, my name was ernest, didn't i? well, it is ernest after all. i mean it naturally is ernest. lady bracknell. yes, i remember now that the general was called ernest, i knew i had some particular reason for disliking the name. gwendolen. ernest! my own ernest! i felt from the first that you could have no other name! jack. gwendolen, it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth. can you forgive me? gwendolen. i can. for i feel that you are sure to change. jack. my own one! chasuble. [to miss prism.] laetitia! [embraces her] miss prism. [enthusiastically.] frederick! at last! algernon. cecily! [embraces her.] at last! jack. gwendolen! [embraces her.] at last! lady bracknell. my nephew, you seem to be displaying signs of triviality. jack. on the contrary, aunt augusta, i've now realised for the first time in my life the vital importance of being earnest. tableau hedda gabler by henrik ibsen translated by edmund gosse and william archer introduction by william archer introduction. from munich, on june 29, 1890, ibsen wrote to the swedish poet, count carl soilsky: "our intention has all along been to spend the summer in the tyrol again. but circumstances are against our doing so. i am at present engaged upon a new dramatic work, which for several reasons has made very slow progress, and i do not leave munich until i can take with me the completed first draft. there is little or no prospect of my being able to complete it in july." ibsen did not leave munich at all that season. on october 30 he wrote: "at present i am utterly engrossed in a new play. not one leisure hour have i had for several months." three weeks later (november 20) he wrote to his french translator, count prozor: "my new play is finished; the manuscript went off to copenhagen the day before yesterday.... it produces a curious feeling of emptiness to be thus suddenly separated from a work which has occupied one's time and thoughts for several months, to the exclusion of all else. but it is a good thing, too, to have done with it. the constant intercourse with the fictitious personages was beginning to make me quite nervous." to the same correspondent he wrote on december 4: "the title of the play is _hedda gabler_. my intention in giving it this name was to indicate that hedda, as a personality, is to be regarded rather as her father's daughter than as her husband's wife. it was not my desire to deal in this play with so-called problems. what i principally wanted to do was to depict human beings, human emotions, and human destinies, upon a groundwork of certain of the social conditions and principles of the present day." so far we read the history of the play in the official "correspondence."(1) some interesting glimpses into the poet's moods during the period between the completion of _the lady from the sea_ and the publication of _hedda gabler_ are to be found in the series of letters to fraulein emilie bardach, of vienna, published by dr. george brandes.(2) this young lady ibsen met at gossensass in the tyrol in the autumn of 1889. the record of their brief friendship belongs to the history of _the master builder_ rather than to that of _hedda gabler_, but the allusions to his work in his letters to her during the winter of 1889 demand some examination. so early as october 7, 1889, he writes to her: "a new poem begins to dawn in me. i will execute it this winter, and try to transfer to it the bright atmosphere of the summer. but i feel that it will end in sadness--such is my nature." was this "dawning" poem _hedda gabler_? or was it rather _the master builder_ that was germinating in his mind? who shall say? the latter hypothesis seems the more probable, for it is hard to believe that at any stage in the incubation of _hedda gabler_ he can have conceived it as even beginning in gaiety. a week later, however, he appears to have made up his mind that the time had not come for the poetic utilisation of his recent experiences. he writes on october 15: "here i sit as usual at my writing-table. now i would fain work, but am unable to. my fancy, indeed, is very active. but it always wanders away ours. i cannot repress my summer memories--nor do i wish to. i live through my experience again and again and yet again. to transmute it all into a poem, i find, in the meantime, impossible." clearly, then, he felt that his imagination ought to have been engaged on some theme having no relation to his summer experiences--the theme, no doubt, of _hedda gabler_. in his next letter, dated october 29, he writes: "do not be troubled because i cannot, in the meantime, create (_dichten_). in reality i am for ever creating, or, at any rate, dreaming of something which, when in the fulness of time it ripens, will reveal itself as a creation (_dichtung_)." on november 19 he says: "i am very busily occupied with preparations for my new poem. i sit almost the whole day at my writing-table. go out only in the evening for a little while." the five following letters contain no allusion to the play; but on september 18, 1890, he wrote: "my wife and son are at present at riva, on the lake of garda, and will probably remain there until the middle of october, or even longer. thus i am quite alone here, and cannot get away. the new play on which i am at present engaged will probably not be ready until november, though i sit at my writing-table daily, and almost the whole day long." here ends the history of _hedda gabler_, so far as the poet's letters carry us. its hard clear outlines, and perhaps somewhat bleak atmosphere, seem to have resulted from a sort of reaction against the sentimental "dreamery" begotten of his gossensass experiences. he sought refuge in the chill materialism of hedda from the ardent transcendentalism of hilda, whom he already heard knocking at the door. he was not yet in the mood to deal with her on the plane of poetry.(3) _hedda gabler_ was published in copenhagen on december 16, 1890. this was the first of ibsen's plays to be translated from proof-sheets and published in england and america almost simultaneously with its first appearance in scandinavia. the earliest theatrical performance took place at the residenz theater, munich, on the last day of january 1891, in the presence of the poet, frau conrad-ramlo playing the title-part. the lessing theater, berlin, followed suit on february 10. not till february 25 was the play seen in copenhagen, with fru hennings as hedda. on the following night it was given for the first time in christiania, the norwegian hedda being froken constance bruun. it was this production which the poet saw when he visited the christiania theater for the first time after his return to norway, august 28, 1891. it would take pages to give even the baldest list of the productions and revivals of _hedda gabler_ in scandinavia and germany, where it has always ranked among ibsen's most popular works. the admirable production of the play by miss elizabeth robins and miss marion lea, at the vaudeville theatre, london, april 20, 1891, may rank as the second great step towards the popularisation of ibsen in england, the first being the charrington-achurch production of _a doll's house_ in 1889. miss robins afterwards repeated her fine performance of hedda many times, in london, in the english provinces, and in new york. the character has also been acted in london by eleonora duse, and as i write (march, 5, 1907) by mrs. patrick campbell, at the court theatre. in australia and america, hedda has frequently been acted by miss nance o'neill and other actresses--quite recently by a russian actress, madame alla nazimova, who (playing in english) seems to have made a notable success both in this part and in nora. the first french hedda gabler was mlle. marthe brandes, who played the part at the vaudeville theatre, paris, on december 17, 1891, the performance being introduced by a lecture by m. jules lemaitre. in holland, in italy, in russia, the play has been acted times without number. in short (as might easily have been foretold) it has rivalled _a doll's house_ in world-wide popularity. it has been suggested,(4) i think without sufficient ground, that ibsen deliberately conceived _hedda gabler_ as an "international" play, and that the scene is really the "west end" of any european city. to me it seems quite clear that ibsen had christiania in mind, and the christiania of a somewhat earlier period than the 'nineties. the electric cars, telephones, and other conspicuous factors in the life of a modern capital are notably absent from the play. there is no electric light in secretary falk's villa. it is still the habit for ladies to return on foot from evening parties, with gallant swains escorting them. this "suburbanism," which so distressed the london critics of 1891, was characteristic of the christiania ibsen himself had known in the 'sixties--the christiania of _love's comedy_--rather than of the greatly extended and modernised city of the end of the century. moreover lovborg's allusions to the fiord, and the suggested picture of sheriff elvsted, his family and his avocations are all distinctively norwegian. the truth seems to be very simple--the environment and the subsidiary personages are all thoroughly national, but hedda herself is an "international" type, a product of civilisation by no means peculiar to norway. we cannot point to any individual model or models who "sat to" ibsen for the character of hedda.(5) the late grant allen declared that hedda was "nothing more nor less than the girl we take down to dinner in london nineteen times out of twenty"; in which case ibsen must have suffered from a superfluidity of models, rather than from any difficulty in finding one. but the fact is that in this, as in all other instances, the word "model" must be taken in a very different sense from that in which it is commonly used in painting. ibsen undoubtedly used models for this trait and that, but never for a whole figure. if his characters can be called portraits at all, they are composite portraits. even when it seems pretty clear that the initial impulse towards the creation of a particular character came from some individual, the original figure is entirely transmuted in the process of harmonisation with the dramatic scheme. we need not, therefore, look for a definite prototype of hedda; but dr. brandes shows that two of that lady's exploits were probably suggested by the anecdotic history of the day. ibsen had no doubt heard how the wife of a well-known norwegian composer, in a fit of raging jealousy excited by her husband's prolonged absence from home, burnt the manuscript of a symphony which he had just finished. the circumstances under which hedda burns lovborg's manuscript are, of course, entirely different and infinitely more dramatic; but here we have merely another instance of the dramatisation or "poetisation" of the raw material of life. again, a still more painful incident probably came to his knowledge about the same time. a beautiful and very intellectual woman was married to a well-known man who had been addicted to drink, but had entirely conquered the vice. one day a mad whim seized her to put his self-mastery and her power over him to the test. as it happened to be his birthday, she rolled into his study a small keg of brandy, and then withdrew. she returned some time after wards to find that he had broached the keg, and lay insensible on the floor. in this anecdote we cannot but recognise the germ, not only of hedda's temptation of lovborg, but of a large part of her character. "thus," says dr. brandes, "out of small and scattered traits of reality ibsen fashioned his close-knit and profoundly thought-out works of art." for the character of eilert lovborg, again, ibsen seem unquestionably to have borrowed several traits from a definite original. a young danish man of letters, whom dr. brandes calls holm, was an enthusiastic admirer of ibsen, and came to be on very friendly terms with him. one day ibsen was astonished to receive, in munich, a parcel addressed from berlin by this young man, containing, without a word of explanation, a packet of his (ibsen's) letters, and a photograph which he had presented to holm. ibsen brooded and brooded over the incident, and at last came to the conclusion that the young man had intended to return her letters and photograph to a young lady to whom he was known to be attached, and had in a fit of aberration mixed up the two objects of his worship. some time after, holm appeared at ibsen's rooms. he talked quite rationally, but professed to have no knowledge whatever of the letter-incident, though he admitted the truth of ibsen's conjecture that the "belle dame sans merci" had demanded the return of her letters and portrait. ibsen was determined to get at the root of the mystery; and a little inquiry into his young friend's habits revealed the fact that he broke his fast on a bottle of port wine, consumed a bottle of rhine wine at lunch, of burgundy at dinner, and finished off the evening with one or two more bottles of port. then he heard, too, how, in the course of a night's carouse, holm had lost the manuscript of a book; and in these traits he saw the outline of the figure of eilert lovborg. some time elapsed, and again ibsen received a postal packet from holm. this one contained his will, in which ibsen figured as his residuary legatee. but many other legatees were mentioned in the instrument--all of them ladies, such as fraulein alma rothbart, of bremen, and fraulein elise kraushaar, of berlin. the bequests to these meritorious spinsters were so generous that their sum considerably exceeded the amount of the testator's property. ibsen gently but firmly declined the proffered inheritance; but holm's will no doubt suggested to him the figure of that red-haired "mademoiselle diana," who is heard of but not seen in _hedda gabler_, and enabled him to add some further traits to the portraiture of lovborg. when the play appeared, holm recognised himself with glee in the character of the bibulous man of letters, and thereafter adopted "eilert lovborg" as his pseudonym. i do not, therefore, see why dr. brandes should suppress his real name; but i willingly imitate him in erring on the side of discretion. the poor fellow died several years ago. some critics have been greatly troubled as to the precise meaning of hedda's fantastic vision of lovborg "with vine-leaves in his hair." surely this is a very obvious image or symbol of the beautiful, the ideal, aspect of bacchic elation and revelry. antique art, or i am much mistaken, shows us many figures of dionysus himself and his followers with vine-leaves entwined their hair. to ibsen's mind, at any rate, the image had long been familiar. in _peer gynt_ (act iv. sc. 8), when peer, having carried off anitra, finds himself in a particularly festive mood, he cries: "were there vine-leaves around, i would garland my brow." again, in _emperor and galilean_ (pt. ii. act 1) where julian, in the procession of dionysus, impersonates the god himself, it is directed that he shall wear a wreath of vine-leaves. professor dietrichson relates that among the young artists whose society ibsen frequented during his first years in rome, it was customary, at their little festivals, for the revellers to deck themselves in this fashion. but the image is so obvious that there is no need to trace it to any personal experience. the attempt to place hedda's vine-leaves among ibsen's obscurities is an example of the firm resolution not to understand which animated the criticism of the 'nineties. dr. brandes has dealt very severely with the character of eilert lovborg, alleging that we cannot believe in the genius attributed to him. but where is he described as a genius? the poet represents him as a very able student of sociology; but that is quite a different thing from attributing to him such genius as must necessarily shine forth in every word he utters. dr. brandes, indeed, declines to believe even in his ability as a sociologist, on the ground that it is idle to write about the social development of the future. "to our prosaic minds," he says, "it may seem as if the most sensible utterance on the subject is that of the fool of the play: 'the future! good heavens, we know nothing of the future.'" the best retort to this criticism is that which eilert himself makes: "there's a thing or two to be said about it all the same." the intelligent forecasting of the future (as mr. h. g. wells has shown) is not only clearly distinguishable from fantastic utopianism, but is indispensable to any large statesmanship or enlightened social activity. with very real and very great respect for dr. brandes, i cannot think that he has been fortunate in his treatment of lovborg's character. it has been represented as an absurdity that he would think of reading abstracts from his new book to a man like tesman, whom he despises. but though tesman is a ninny, he is, as hedda says, a "specialist"--he is a competent, plodding student of his subject. lovborg may quite naturally wish to see how his new method, or his excursion into a new field, strikes the average scholar of the tesman type. he is, in fact, "trying it on the dog"--neither an unreasonable nor an unusual proceeding. there is, no doubt, a certain improbability in the way in which lovborg is represented as carrying his manuscript around, and especially in mrs. elvsted's production of his rough draft from her pocket; but these are mechanical trifles, on which only a niggling criticism would dream of laying stress. of all ibsen's works, _hedda gabler_ is the most detached, the most objective--a character-study pure and simple. it is impossible--or so it seems to me--to extract any sort of general idea from it. one cannot even call it a satire, unless one is prepared to apply that term to the record of a "case" in a work of criminology. reverting to dumas's dictum that a play should contain "a painting, a judgment, an ideal," we may say the _hedda gabler_ fulfils only the first of these requirements. the poet does not even pass judgment on his heroine: he simply paints her full-length portrait with scientific impassivity. but what a portrait! how searching in insight, how brilliant in colouring, how rich in detail! grant allen's remark, above quoted, was, of course, a whimsical exaggeration; the hedda type is not so common as all that, else the world would quickly come to an end. but particular traits and tendencies of the hedda type are very common in modern life, and not only among women. hyperaesthesia lies at the root of her tragedy. with a keenly critical, relentlessly solvent intelligence, she combines a morbid shrinking from all the gross and prosaic detail of the sensual life. she has nothing to take her out of herself--not a single intellectual interest or moral enthusiasm. she cherishes, in a languid way, a petty social ambition; and even that she finds obstructed and baffled. at the same time she learns that another woman has had the courage to love and venture all, where she, in her cowardice, only hankered and refrained. her malign egoism rises up uncontrolled, and calls to its aid her quick and subtle intellect. she ruins the other woman's happiness, but in doing so incurs a danger from which her sense of personal dignity revolts. life has no such charm for her that she cares to purchase it at the cost of squalid humiliation and self-contempt. the good and the bad in her alike impel her to have done with it all; and a pistol-shot ends what is surely one of the most poignant character-tragedies in literature. ibsen's brain never worked at higher pressure than in the conception and adjustment of those "crowded hours" in which hedda, tangled in the web of will and circumstance, struggles on till she is too weary to struggle any more. it may not be superfluous to note that the "a" in "gabler" should be sounded long and full, like the "a" in "garden"--not like the "a" in "gable" or in "gabble." w. a. footnotes. (1)letters 214, 216, 217, 219. (2)in the ibsen volume of _die literatur_ (berlin). (3)dr. julius elias (_neue deutsche rundschau_, december 1906, p. 1462) makes the curious assertion that the character of thea elvsted was in part borrowed from this "gossensasser hildetypus." it is hard to see how even gibes' ingenuity could distil from the same flower two such different essences as thea and hilda. (4)see article by herman bang in _neue deutsche rundschau_, december 1906, p. 1495. (5)dr. brahm (_neue deutsche rundschau_, december 1906, p. 1422) says that after the first performance of _hedda gabler_ in berlin ibsen confided to him that the character had been suggested by a german lady whom he met in munich, and who did not shoot, but poisoned herself. nothing more seems to be known of this lady. see, too, an article by julius elias in the same magazine, p. 1460. transcriber's note: the inclusion or omission of commas between repeated words ("well, well"; "there there", etc.) in this etext is reproduced faithfully from both the 1914 and 1926 editions of _hedda gabler_, copyright 1907 by charles scribner's sons. modern editions of the same translation use the commas consistently throughout.--d.l. hedda gabler. play in four acts. characters. george tesman.* hedda tesman, his wife. miss juliana tesman, his aunt. mrs. elvsted. judge** brack. eilert lovborg. berta, servant at the tesmans. *tesman, whose christian name in the original is "jorgen," is described as "stipendiat i kulturhistorie"--that is to say, the holder of a scholarship for purposes of research into the history of civilisation. **in the original "assessor." the scene of the action is tesman's villa, in the west end of christiania. act first. a spacious, handsome, and tastefully furnished drawing room, decorated in dark colours. in the back, a wide doorway with curtains drawn back, leading into a smaller room decorated in the same style as the drawing-room. in the right-hand wall of the front room, a folding door leading out to the hall. in the opposite wall, on the left, a glass door, also with curtains drawn back. through the panes can be seen part of a verandah outside, and trees covered with autumn foliage. an oval table, with a cover on it, and surrounded by chairs, stands well forward. in front, by the wall on the right, a wide stove of dark porcelain, a high-backed arm-chair, a cushioned foot-rest, and two footstools. a settee, with a small round table in front of it, fills the upper right-hand corner. in front, on the left, a little way from the wall, a sofa. further back than the glass door, a piano. on either side of the doorway at the back a whatnot with terra-cotta and majolica ornaments.- against the back wall of the inner room a sofa, with a table, and one or two chairs. over the sofa hangs the portrait of a handsome elderly man in a general's uniform. over the table a hanging lamp, with an opal glass shade.--a number of bouquets are arranged about the drawing-room, in vases and glasses. others lie upon the tables. the floors in both rooms are covered with thick carpets.--morning light. the sun shines in through the glass door. miss juliana tesman, with her bonnet on a carrying a parasol, comes in from the hall, followed by berta, who carries a bouquet wrapped in paper. miss tesman is a comely and pleasant looking lady of about sixty-five. she is nicely but simply dressed in a grey walking-costume. berta is a middle-aged woman of plain and rather countrified appearance. miss tesman. [stops close to the door, listens, and says softly:] upon my word, i don't believe they are stirring yet! berta. [also softly.] i told you so, miss. remember how late the steamboat got in last night. and then, when they got home!--good lord, what a lot the young mistress had to unpack before she could get to bed. miss tesman. well well--let them have their sleep out. but let us see that they get a good breath of the fresh morning air when they do appear. [she goes to the glass door and throws it open. berta. [beside the table, at a loss what to do with the bouquet in her hand.] i declare there isn't a bit of room left. i think i'll put it down here, miss. [she places it on the piano. miss tesman. so you've got a new mistress now, my dear berta. heaven knows it was a wrench to me to part with you. berta. [on the point of weeping.] and do you think it wasn't hard for me, too, miss? after all the blessed years i've been with you and miss rina.(1) miss tesman. we must make the best of it, berta. there was nothing else to be done. george can't do without you, you see-he absolutely can't. he has had you to look after him ever since he was a little boy. berta. ah but, miss julia, i can't help thinking of miss rina lying helpless at home there, poor thing. and with only that new girl too! she'll never learn to take proper care of an invalid. miss tesman. oh, i shall manage to train her. and of course, you know, i shall take most of it upon myself. you needn't be uneasy about my poor sister, my dear berta. berta. well, but there's another thing, miss. i'm so mortally afraid i shan't be able to suit the young mistress. miss tesman. oh well--just at first there may be one or two things-berta. most like she'll be terrible grand in her ways. miss tesman. well, you can't wonder at that--general gabler's daughter! think of the sort of life she was accustomed to in her father's time. don't you remember how we used to see her riding down the road along with the general? in that long black habit--and with feathers in her hat? berta. yes, indeed--i remember well enough!--but, good lord, i should never have dreamt in those days that she and master george would make a match of it. miss tesman. nor i.--but by-the-bye, berta--while i think of it: in future you mustn't say master george. you must say dr. tesman. berta. yes, the young mistress spoke of that too--last night--the moment they set foot in the house. is it true then, miss? miss tesman. yes, indeed it is. only think, berta--some foreign university has made him a doctor--while he has been abroad, you understand. i hadn't heard a word about it, until he told me himself upon the pier. berta. well well, he's clever enough for anything, he is. but i didn't think he'd have gone in for doctoring people. miss tesman. no no, it's not that sort of doctor he is. [nods significantly.] but let me tell you, we may have to call him something still grander before long. berta. you don't say so! what can that be, miss? miss tesman. [smiling.] h'm--wouldn't you like to know! [with emotion.] ah, dear dear--if my poor brother could only look up from his grave now, and see what his little boy has grown into! [looks around.] but bless me, berta--why have you done this? taken the chintz covers off all the furniture. berta. the mistress told me to. she can't abide covers on the chairs, she says. miss tesman. are they going to make this their everyday sitting-room then? berta. yes, that's what i understood--from the mistress. master george--the doctor--he said nothing. george tesman comes from the right into the inner room, humming to himself, and carrying an unstrapped empty portmanteau. he is a middle-sized, young-looking man of thirty-three, rather stout, with a round, open, cheerful face, fair hair and beard. he wears spectacles, and is somewhat carelessly dressed in comfortable indoor clothes. miss tesman. good morning, good morning, george. tesman. [in the doorway between the rooms.] aunt julia! dear aunt julia! [goes up to her and shakes hands warmly.] come all this way--so early! eh? miss tesman. why, of course i had to come and see how you were getting on. tesman. in spite of your having had no proper night's rest? miss tesman. oh, that makes no difference to me. tesman. well, i suppose you got home all right from the pier? eh? miss tesman. yes, quite safely, thank goodness. judge brack was good enough to see me right to my door. tesman. we were so sorry we couldn't give you a seat in the carriage. but you saw what a pile of boxes hedda had to bring with her. miss tesman. yes, she had certainly plenty of boxes. berta. [to tesman.] shall i go in and see if there's anything i can do for the mistress? tesman. no thank you, berta--you needn't. she said she would ring if she wanted anything. berta. [going towards the right.] very well. tesman. but look here--take this portmanteau with you. berta. [taking it.] i'll put it in the attic. [she goes out by the hall door. tesman. fancy, auntie--i had the whole of that portmanteau chock full of copies of the documents. you wouldn't believe how much i have picked up from all the archives i have been examining--curious old details that no one has had any idea of-miss tesman. yes, you don't seem to have wasted your time on your wedding trip, george. tesman. no, that i haven't. but do take off your bonnet, auntie. look here! let me untie the strings--eh? miss tesman. [while he does so.] well well--this is just as if you were still at home with us. tesman. [with the bonnet in his hand, looks at it from all sides.] why, what a gorgeous bonnet you've been investing in! miss tesman. i bought it on hedda's account. tesman. on hedda's account? eh? miss tesman. yes, so that hedda needn't be ashamed of me if we happened to go out together. tesman. [patting her cheek.] you always think of everything, aunt julia. [lays the bonnet on a chair beside the table.] and now, look here--suppose we sit comfortably on the sofa and have a little chat, till hedda comes. [they seat themselves. she places her parasol in the corner of the sofa. miss tesman. [takes both his hands and looks at him.] what a delight it is to have you again, as large as life, before my very eyes, george! my george--my poor brother's own boy! tesman. and it's a delight for me, too, to see you again, aunt julia! you, who have been father and mother in one to me. miss tesman. oh yes, i know you will always keep a place in your heart for your old aunts. tesman. and what about aunt rina? no improvement--eh? miss tesman. oh, no--we can scarcely look for any improvement in her case, poor thing. there she lies, helpless, as she has lain for all these years. but heaven grant i may not lose her yet awhile! for if i did, i don't know what i should make of my life, george--especially now that i haven't you to look after any more. tesman. [patting her back.] there there there--! miss tesman. [suddenly changing her tone.] and to think that here are you a married man, george!--and that you should be the one to carry off hedda gabler --the beautiful hedda gabler! only think of it--she, that was so beset with admirers! tesman. [hums a little and smiles complacently.] yes, i fancy i have several good friends about town who would like to stand in my shoes--eh? miss tesman. and then this fine long wedding-tour you have had! more than five-nearly six months-tesman. well, for me it has been a sort of tour of research as well. i have had to do so much grubbing among old records--and to read no end of books too, auntie. miss tesman. oh yes, i suppose so. [more confidentially, and lowering her voice a little.] but listen now, george,--have you nothing--nothing special to tell me? tesman. as to our journey? miss tesman. yes. tesman. no, i don't know of anything except what i have told you in my letters. i had a doctor's degree conferred on me--but that i told you yesterday. miss tesman. yes, yes, you did. but what i mean is--haven't you any--any-expectations--? tesman. expectations? miss tesman. why you know, george--i'm your old auntie! tesman. why, of course i have expectations. miss tesman. ah! tesman. i have every expectation of being a professor one of these days. miss tesman. oh yes, a professor-tesman. indeed, i may say i am certain of it. but my dear auntie--you know all about that already! miss tesman. [laughing to herself.] yes, of course i do. you are quite right there. [changing the subject.] but we were talking about your journey. it must have cost a great deal of money, george? tesman. well, you see--my handsome travelling-scholarship went a good way. miss tesman. but i can't understand how you can have made it go far enough for two. tesman. no, that's not easy to understand--eh? miss tesman. and especially travelling with a lady--they tell me that makes it ever so much more expensive. tesman. yes, of course--it makes it a little more expensive. but hedda had to have this trip, auntie! she really had to. nothing else would have done. miss tesman. no no, i suppose not. a wedding-tour seems to be quite indispensable nowadays.--but tell me now--have you gone thoroughly over the house yet? tesman. yes, you may be sure i have. i have been afoot ever since daylight. miss tesman. and what do you think of it all? tesman. i'm delighted! quite delighted! only i can't think what we are to do with the two empty rooms between this inner parlour and hedda's bedroom. miss tesman. [laughing.] oh my dear george, i daresay you may find some use for them--in the course of time. tesman. why of course you are quite right, aunt julia! you mean as my library increases--eh? miss tesman. yes, quite so, my dear boy. it was your library i was thinking of. tesman. i am specially pleased on hedda's account. often and often, before we were engaged, she said that she would never care to live anywhere but in secretary falk's villa.(2) miss tesman. yes, it was lucky that this very house should come into the market, just after you had started. tesman. yes, aunt julia, the luck was on our side, wasn't it--eh? miss tesman. but the expense, my dear george! you will find it very expensive, all this. tesman. [looks at her, a little cast down.] yes, i suppose i shall, aunt! miss tesman. oh, frightfully! tesman. how much do you think? in round numbers?--eh? miss tesman. oh, i can't even guess until all the accounts come in. tesman. well, fortunately, judge brack has secured the most favourable terms for me, so he said in a letter to hedda. miss tesman. yes, don't be uneasy, my dear boy.--besides, i have given security for the furniture and all the carpets. tesman. security? you? my dear aunt julia--what sort of security could you give? miss tesman. i have given a mortgage on our annuity. tesman. [jumps up.] what! on your--and aunt rina's annuity! miss tesman. yes, i knew of no other plan, you see. tesman. [placing himself before her.] have you gone out of your senses, auntie? your annuity--it's all that you and aunt rina have to live upon. miss tesman. well well--don't get so excited about it. it's only a matter of form you know--judge brack assured me of that. it was he that was kind enough to arrange the whole affair for me. a mere matter of form, he said. tesman. yes, that may be all very well. but nevertheless-miss tesman. you will have your own salary to depend upon now. and, good heavens, even if we did have to pay up a little--! to eke things out a bit at the start--! why, it would be nothing but a pleasure to us. tesman. oh auntie--will you never be tired of making sacrifices for me! miss tesman. [rises and lays her hand on his shoulders.] have i any other happiness in this world except to smooth your way for you, my dear boy. you, who have had neither father nor mother to depend on. and now we have reached the goal, george! things have looked black enough for us, sometimes; but, thank heaven, now you have nothing to fear. tesman. yes, it is really marvellous how every thing has turned out for the best. miss tesman. and the people who opposed you--who wanted to bar the way for you-now you have them at your feet. they have fallen, george. your most dangerous rival--his fall was the worst.--and now he has to lie on the bed he has made for himself--poor misguided creature. tesman. have you heard anything of eilert? since i went away, i mean. miss tesman. only that he is said to have published a new book. tesman. what! eilert lovborg! recently--eh? miss tesman. yes, so they say. heaven knows whether it can be worth anything! ah, when your new book appears--that will be another story, george! what is it to be about? tesman. it will deal with the domestic industries of brabant during the middle ages. miss tesman. fancy--to be able to write on such a subject as that! tesman. however, it may be some time before the book is ready. i have all these collections to arrange first, you see. miss tesman. yes, collecting and arranging--no one can beat you at that. there you are my poor brother's own son. tesman. i am looking forward eagerly to setting to work at it; especially now that i have my own delightful home to work in. miss tesman. and, most of all, now that you have got the wife of your heart, my dear george. tesman. [embracing her.] oh yes, yes, aunt julia! hedda--she is the best part of it all! i believe i hear her coming--eh? hedda enters from the left through the inner room. her face and figure show refinement and distinction. her complexion is pale and opaque. her steel-grey eyes express a cold, unruffled repose. her hair is of an agreeable brown, but not particularly abundant. she is dressed in a tasteful, somewhat loose-fitting morning gown. miss tesman. [going to meet hedda.] good morning, my dear hedda! good morning, and a hearty welcome! hedda. [holds out her hand.] good morning, dear miss tesman! so early a call! that is kind of you. miss tesman. [with some embarrassment.] well--has the bride slept well in her new home? hedda. oh yes, thanks. passably. tesman. [laughing.] passably! come, that's good, hedda! you were sleeping like a stone when i got up. hedda. fortunately. of course one has always to accustom one's self to new surroundings, miss tesman--little by little. [looking towards the left.] oh, there the servant has gone and opened the veranda door, and let in a whole flood of sunshine. miss tesman. [going towards the door.] well, then we will shut it. hedda. no no, not that! tesman, please draw the curtains. that will give a softer light. tesman. [at the door.] all right--all right.--there now, hedda, now you have both shade and fresh air. hedda. yes, fresh air we certainly must have, with all these stacks of flowers--. but--won't you sit down, miss tesman? miss tesman. no, thank you. now that i have seen that everything is all right here--thank heaven!--i must be getting home again. my sister is lying longing for me, poor thing. tesman. give her my very best love, auntie; and say i shall look in and see her later in the day. miss tesman. yes, yes, i'll be sure to tell her. but by-the-bye, george--[feeling in her dress pocket]--i had almost forgotten--i have something for you here. tesman. what is it, auntie? eh? miss tesman. [produces a flat parcel wrapped in newspaper and hands it to him.] look here, my dear boy. tesman. [opening the parcel.] well, i declare!--have you really saved them for me, aunt julia! hedda! isn't this touching--eh? hedda. [beside the whatnot on the right.] well, what is it? tesman. my old morning-shoes! my slippers. hedda. indeed. i remember you often spoke of them while we were abroad. tesman. yes, i missed them terribly. [goes up to her.] now you shall see them, hedda! hedda. [going towards the stove.] thanks, i really don't care about it. tesman. [following her.] only think--ill as she was, aunt rina embroidered these for me. oh you can't think how many associations cling to them. hedda. [at the table.] scarcely for me. miss tesman. of course not for hedda, george. tesman. well, but now that she belongs to the family, i thought-hedda. [interrupting.] we shall never get on with this servant, tesman. miss tesman. not get on with berta? tesman. why, dear, what puts that in your head? eh? hedda. [pointing.] look there! she has left her old bonnet lying about on a chair. tesman. [in consternation, drops the slippers on the floor.] why, hedda-hedda. just fancy, if any one should come in and see it! tesman. but hedda--that's aunt julia's bonnet. hedda. is it! miss tesman. [taking up the bonnet.] yes, indeed it's mine. and, what's more, it's not old, madam hedda. hedda. i really did not look closely at it, miss tesman. miss tesman. [trying on the bonnet.] let me tell you it's the first time i have worn it--the very first time. tesman. and a very nice bonnet it is too--quite a beauty! miss tesman. oh, it's no such great things, george. [looks around her.] my parasol--? ah, here. [takes it.] for this is mine too-[mutters] --not berta's. tesman. a new bonnet and a new parasol! only think, hedda. hedda. very handsome indeed. tesman. yes, isn't it? eh? but auntie, take a good look at hedda before you go! see how handsome she is! miss tesman. oh, my dear boy, there's nothing new in that. hedda was always lovely. [she nods and goes toward the right. tesman. [following.] yes, but have you noticed what splendid condition she is in? how she has filled out on the journey? hedda. [crossing the room.] oh, do be quiet--! miss tesman. [who has stopped and turned.] filled out? tesman. of course you don't notice it so much now that she has that dress on. but i, who can see-hedda. [at the glass door, impatiently.] oh, you can't see anything. tesman. it must be the mountain air in the tyrol-hedda. [curtly, interrupting.] i am exactly as i was when i started. tesman. so you insist; but i'm quite certain you are not. don't you agree with me, auntie? miss tesman. [who has been gazing at her with folded hands.] hedda is lovely-lovely--lovely. [goes up to her, takes her head between both hands, draws it downwards, and kisses her hair.] god bless and preserve hedda tesman--for george's sake. hedda. [gently freeing herself.] oh--! let me go. miss tesman. [in quiet emotion.] i shall not let a day pass without coming to see you. tesman. no you won't, will you, auntie? eh? miss tesman. good-bye--good-bye! [she goes out by the hall door. tesman accompanies her. the door remains half open. tesman can be heard repeating his message to aunt rina and his thanks for the slippers. [in the meantime, hedda walks about the room, raising her arms and clenching her hands as if in desperation. then she flings back the curtains from the glass door, and stands there looking out. [presently, tesman returns and closes the door behind him. tesman. [picks up the slippers from the floor.] what are you looking at, hedda? hedda. [once more calm and mistress of herself.] i am only looking at the leaves. they are so yellow--so withered. tesman. [wraps up the slippers and lays them on the table.] well, you see, we are well into september now. hedda. [again restless.] yes, to think of it!--already in--in september. tesman. don't you think aunt julia's manner was strange, dear? almost solemn? can you imagine what was the matter with her? eh? hedda. i scarcely know her, you see. is she not often like that? tesman. no, not as she was to-day. hedda. [leaving the glass door.] do you think she was annoyed about the bonnet? tesman. oh, scarcely at all. perhaps a little, just at the moment-hedda. but what an idea, to pitch her bonnet about in the drawing-room! no one does that sort of thing. tesman. well you may be sure aunt julia won't do it again. hedda. in any case, i shall manage to make my peace with her. tesman. yes, my dear, good hedda, if you only would. hedda. when you call this afternoon, you might invite her to spend the evening here. tesman. yes, that i will. and there's one thing more you could do that would delight her heart. hedda. what is it? tesman. if you could only prevail on yourself to say _du_(3) to her. for my sake, hedda? eh? hedda. no, no, tesman--you really mustn't ask that of me. i have told you so already. i shall try to call her "aunt"; and you must be satisfied with that. tesman. well well. only i think now that you belong to the family, you-hedda. h'm--i can't in the least see why- [she goes up towards the middle doorway. tesman. [after a pause.] is there anything the matter with you, hedda? eh? hedda. i'm only looking at my old piano. it doesn't go at all well with all the other things. tesman. the first time i draw my salary, we'll see about exchanging it. hedda. no, no--no exchanging. i don't want to part with it. suppose we put it there in the inner room, and then get another here in its place. when it's convenient, i mean. tesman. [a little taken aback.] yes--of course we could do that. hedda. [takes up the bouquet from the piano.] these flowers were not here last night when we arrived. tesman. aunt julia must have brought them for you. hedda. [examining the bouquet.] a visiting-card. [takes it out and reads:] "shall return later in the day." can you guess whose card it is? tesman. no. whose? eh? hedda. the name is "mrs. elvsted." tesman. is it really? sheriff elvsted's wife? miss rysing that was. hedda. exactly. the girl with the irritating hair, that she was always showing off. an old flame of yours i've been told. tesman. [laughing.] oh, that didn't last long; and it was before i met you, hedda. but fancy her being in town! hedda. it's odd that she should call upon us. i have scarcely seen her since we left school. tesman. i haven't see her either for--heaven knows how long. i wonder how she can endure to live in such an out-of-the way hole--eh? hedda. [after a moment's thought, says suddenly.] tell me, tesman--isn't it somewhere near there that he--that--eilert lovborg is living? tesman. yes, he is somewhere in that part of the country. berta enters by the hall door. berta. that lady, ma'am, that brought some flowers a little while ago, is here again. [pointing.] the flowers you have in your hand, ma'am. hedda. ah, is she? well, please show her in. berta opens the door for mrs. elvsted, and goes out herself. --mrs. elvsted is a woman of fragile figure, with pretty, soft features. her eyes are light blue, large, round, and somewhat prominent, with a startled, inquiring expression. her hair is remarkably light, almost flaxen, and unusually abundant and wavy. she is a couple of years younger than hedda. she wears a dark visiting dress, tasteful, but not quite in the latest fashion. hedda. [receives her warmly.] how do you do, my dear mrs. elvsted? it's delightful to see you again. mrs. elvsted. [nervously, struggling for self-control.] yes, it's a very long time since we met. tesman. [gives her his hand.] and we too--eh? hedda. thanks for your lovely flowers-mrs. elvsted. oh, not at all--. i would have come straight here yesterday afternoon; but i heard that you were away-tesman. have you just come to town? eh? mrs. elvsted. i arrived yesterday, about midday. oh, i was quite in despair when i heard that you were not at home. hedda. in despair! how so? tesman. why, my dear mrs. rysing--i mean mrs. elvsted-hedda. i hope that you are not in any trouble? mrs. elvsted. yes, i am. and i don't know another living creature here that i can turn to. hedda. [laying the bouquet on the table.] come--let us sit here on the sofa-mrs. elvsted. oh, i am too restless to sit down. hedda. oh no, you're not. come here. [she draws mrs. elvsted down upon the sofa and sits at her side. tesman. well? what is it, mrs. elvsted--? hedda. has anything particular happened to you at home? mrs. elvsted. yes--and no. oh--i am so anxious you should not misunderstand me-hedda. then your best plan is to tell us the whole story, mrs. elvsted. tesman. i suppose that's what you have come for--eh? mrs. elvsted. yes, yes--of course it is. well then, i must tell you--if you don't already know--that eilert lovborg is in town, too. hedda. lovborg--! tesman. what! has eilert lovborg come back? fancy that, hedda! hedda. well well--i hear it. mrs. elvsted. he has been here a week already. just fancy--a whole week! in this terrible town, alone! with so many temptations on all sides. hedda. but, my dear mrs. elvsted--how does he concern you so much? mrs. elvsted. [looks at her with a startled air, and says rapidly.] he was the children's tutor. hedda. your children's? mrs. elvsted. my husband's. i have none. hedda. your step-children's, then? mrs. elvsted. yes. tesman. [somewhat hesitatingly.] then was he--i don't know how to express it--was he--regular enough in his habits to be fit for the post? eh? mrs. elvsted. for the last two years his conduct has been irreproachable. tesman. has it indeed? fancy that, hedda! hedda. i hear it. mrs. elvsted. perfectly irreproachable, i assure you! in every respect. but all the same--now that i know he is here--in this great town--and with a large sum of money in his hands--i can't help being in mortal fear for him. tesman. why did he not remain where he was? with you and your husband? eh? mrs. elvsted. after his book was published he was too restless and unsettled to remain with us. tesman. yes, by-the-bye, aunt julia told me he had published a new book. mrs. elvsted. yes, a big book, dealing with the march of civilisation--in broad outline, as it were. it came out about a fortnight ago. and since it has sold so well, and been so much read--and made such a sensation-tesman. has it indeed? it must be something he has had lying by since his better days. mrs. elvsted. long ago, you mean? tesman. yes. mrs. elvsted. no, he has written it all since he has been with us--within the last year. tesman. isn't that good news, hedda? think of that. mrs. elvsted. ah yes, if only it would last! hedda. have you seen him here in town? mrs. elvsted. no, not yet. i have had the greatest difficulty in finding out his address. but this morning i discovered it at last. hedda. [looks searchingly at her.] do you know, it seems to me a little odd of your husband--h'm-mrs. elvsted. [starting nervously.] of my husband! what? hedda. that he should send you to town on such an errand--that he does not come himself and look after his friend. mrs. elvsted. oh no, no--my husband has no time. and besides, i--i had some shopping to do. hedda. [with a slight smile.] ah, that is a different matter. mrs. elvsted. [rising quickly and uneasily.] and now i beg and implore you, mr. tesman--receive eilert lovborg kindly if he comes to you! and that he is sure to do. you see you were such great friends in the old days. and then you are interested in the same studies--the same branch of science--so far as i can understand. tesman. we used to be at any rate. mrs. elvsted. that is why i beg so earnestly that you--you too--will keep a sharp eye upon him. oh, you will promise me that, mr. tesman--won't you? tesman. with the greatest of pleasure, mrs. rysing-hedda. elvsted. tesman. i assure you i shall do all i possibly can for eilert. you may rely upon me. mrs. elvsted. oh, how very, very kind of you! [presses his hands.] thanks, thanks, thanks! [frightened.] you see, my husband is so very fond of him! hedda. [rising.] you ought to write to him, tesman. perhaps he may not care to come to you of his own accord. tesman. well, perhaps it would be the right thing to do, hedda? eh? hedda. and the sooner the better. why not at once? mrs. elvsted. [imploringly.] oh, if you only would! tesman. i'll write this moment. have you his address, mrs.--mrs. elvsted. mrs. elvsted. yes. [takes a slip of paper from her pocket, and hands it to him.] here it is. tesman. good, good. then i'll go in-[looks about him.] by-the-bye,--my slippers? oh, here. [takes the packet and is about to go. hedda. be sure you write him a cordial, friendly letter. and a good long one too. tesman. yes, i will. mrs. elvsted. but please, please don't say a word to show that i have suggested it. tesman. no, how could you think i would? eh? [he goes out to the right, through the inner room. hedda. [goes up to mrs. elvsted, smiles, and says in a low voice.] there! we have killed two birds with one stone. mrs. elvsted. what do you mean? hedda. could you not see that i wanted him to go? mrs. elvsted. yes, to write the letter-hedda. and that i might speak to you alone. mrs. elvsted. [confused.] about the same thing? hedda. precisely. mrs. elvsted. [apprehensively.] but there is nothing more, mrs. tesman! absolutely nothing! hedda. oh yes, but there is. there is a great deal more--i can see that. sit here--and we'll have a cosy, confidential chat. [she forces mrs. elvsted to sit in the easy-chair beside the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools. mrs. elvsted. [anxiously, looking at her watch.] but, my dear mrs. tesman--i was really on the point of going. hedda. oh, you can't be in such a hurry.--well? now tell me something about your life at home. mrs. elvsted. oh, that is just what i care least to speak about. hedda. but to me, dear--? why, weren't we schoolfellows? mrs. elvsted. yes, but you were in the class above me. oh, how dreadfully afraid of you i was then! hedda. afraid of me? mrs. elvsted. yes, dreadfully. for when we met on the stairs you used always to pull my hair. hedda. did i, really? mrs. elvsted. yes, and once you said you would burn it off my head. hedda. oh that was all nonsense, of course. mrs. elvsted. yes, but i was so silly in those days.--and since then, too--we have drifted so far--far apart from each other. our circles have been so entirely different. hedda. well then, we must try to drift together again. now listen. at school we said _du_(4) to each other; and we called each other by our christian names-mrs. elvsted. no, i am sure you must be mistaken. hedda. no, not at all! i can remember quite distinctly. so now we are going to renew our old friendship. [draws the footstool closer to mrs. elvsted.] there now! [kisses her cheek.] you must say _du_ to me and call me hedda. mrs. elvsted. [presses and pats her hands.] oh, how good and kind you are! i am not used to such kindness. hedda. there, there, there! and i shall say _du_ to you, as in the old days, and call you my dear thora. mrs. elvsted. my name is thea.(5) hedda. why, of course! i meant thea. [looks at her compassionately.] so you are not accustomed to goodness and kindness, thea? not in your own home? mrs. elvsted. oh, if i only had a home! but i haven't any; i have never had a home. hedda. [looks at her for a moment.] i almost suspected as much. mrs. elvsted. [gazing helplessly before her.] yes--yes--yes. hedda. i don't quite remember--was it not as housekeeper that you first went to mr. elvsted's? mrs. elvsted. i really went as governess. but his wife--his late wife--was an invalid,--and rarely left her room. so i had to look after the housekeeping as well. hedda. and then--at last--you became mistress of the house. mrs. elvsted. [sadly.] yes, i did. hedda. let me see--about how long ago was that? mrs. elvsted. my marriage? hedda. yes. mrs. elvsted. five years ago. hedda. to be sure; it must be that. mrs. elvsted. oh those five years--! or at all events the last two or three of them! oh, if you(6) could only imagine-hedda. [giving her a little slap on the hand.] de? fie, thea! mrs. elvsted. yes, yes, i will try--. well, if--you could only imagine and understand-hedda. [lightly.] eilert lovborg has been in your neighbourhood about three years, hasn't he? mrs. elvsted. [looks at here doubtfully.] eilert lovborg? yes--he has. hedda. had you known him before, in town here? mrs. elvsted. scarcely at all. i mean--i knew him by name of course. hedda. but you saw a good deal of him in the country? mrs. elvsted. yes, he came to us every day. you see, he gave the children lessons; for in the long run i couldn't manage it all myself. hedda. no, that's clear.--and your husband--? i suppose he is often away from home? mrs. elvsted. yes. being sheriff, you know, he has to travel about a good deal in his district. hedda. [leaning against the arm of the chair.] thea--my poor, sweet thea--now you must tell me everything--exactly as it stands. mrs. elvsted. well, then you must question me. hedda. what sort of a man is your husband, thea? i mean--you know--in everyday life. is he kind to you? mrs. elvsted. [evasively.] i am sure he means well in everything. hedda. i should think he must be altogether too old for you. there is at least twenty years' difference between you, is there not? mrs. elvsted. [irritably.] yes, that is true, too. everything about him is repellent to me! we have not a thought in common. we have no single point of sympathy--he and i. hedda. but is he not fond of you all the same? in his own way? mrs. elvsted. oh i really don't know. i think he regards me simply as a useful property. and then it doesn't cost much to keep me. i am not expensive. hedda. that is stupid of you. mrs. elvsted. [shakes her head.] it cannot be otherwise--not with him. i don't think he really cares for any one but himself--and perhaps a little for the children. hedda. and for eilert lovborg, thea? mrs. elvsted. [looking at her.] for eilert lovborg? what puts that into your head? hedda. well, my dear--i should say, when he sends you after him all the way to town-[smiling almost imperceptibly.] and besides, you said so yourself, to tesman. mrs. elvsted. [with a little nervous twitch.] did i? yes, i suppose i did. [vehemently, but not loudly.] no--i may just as well make a clean breast of it at once! for it must all come out in any case. hedda. why, my dear thea--? mrs. elvsted. well, to make a long story short: my husband did not know that i was coming. hedda. what! your husband didn't know it! mrs. elvsted. no, of course not. for that matter, he was away from home himself-he was travelling. oh, i could bear it no longer, hedda! i couldn't indeed--so utterly alone as i should have been in future. hedda. well? and then? mrs. elvsted. so i put together some of my things--what i needed most--as quietly as possible. and then i left the house. hedda. without a word? mrs. elvsted. yes--and took the train to town. hedda. why, my dear, good thea--to think of you daring to do it! mrs. elvsted. [rises and moves about the room.] what else could i possibly do? hedda. but what do you think your husband will say when you go home again? mrs. elvsted. [at the table, looks at her.] back to him? hedda. of course. mrs. elvsted. i shall never go back to him again. hedda. [rising and going towards her.] then you have left your home--for good and all? mrs. elvsted. yes. there was nothing else to be done. hedda. but then--to take flight so openly. mrs. elvsted. oh, it's impossible to keep things of that sort secret. hedda. but what do you think people will say of you, thea? mrs. elvsted. they may say what they like, for aught _i_ care. [seats herself wearily and sadly on the sofa.] i have done nothing but what i had to do. hedda. [after a short silence.] and what are your plans now? what do you think of doing. mrs. elvsted. i don't know yet. i only know this, that i must live here, where eilert lovborg is--if i am to live at all. hedda. [takes a chair from the table, seats herself beside her, and strokes her hands.] my dear thea--how did this--this friendship--between you and eilert lovborg come about? mrs. elvsted. oh it grew up gradually. i gained a sort of influence over him. hedda. indeed? mrs. elvsted. he gave up his old habits. not because i asked him to, for i never dared do that. but of course he saw how repulsive they were to me; and so he dropped them. hedda. [concealing an involuntary smile of scorn.] then you have reclaimed him--as the saying goes--my little thea. mrs. elvsted. so he says himself, at any rate. and he, on his side, has made a real human being of me--taught me to think, and to understand so many things. hedda. did he give you lessons too, then? mrs. elvsted. no, not exactly lessons. but he talked to me--talked about such an infinity of things. and then came the lovely, happy time when i began to share in his work--when he allowed me to help him! hedda. oh he did, did he? mrs. elvsted. yes! he never wrote anything without my assistance. hedda. you were two good comrades, in fact? mrs. elvsted. [eagerly.] comrades! yes, fancy, hedda--that is the very word he used!--oh, i ought to feel perfectly happy; and yet i cannot; for i don't know how long it will last. hedda. are you no surer of him than that? mrs. elvsted. [gloomily.] a woman's shadow stands between eilert lovborg and me. hedda. [looks at her anxiously.] who can that be? mrs. elvsted. i don't know. some one he knew in his--in his past. some one he has never been able wholly to forget. hedda. what has he told you--about this? mrs. elvsted. he has only once--quite vaguely--alluded to it. hedda. well! and what did he say? mrs. elvsted. he said that when they parted, she threatened to shoot him with a pistol. hedda. [with cold composure.] oh nonsense! no one does that sort of thing here. mrs. elvsted. no. and that is why i think it must have been that red-haired singing-woman whom he once-hedda. yes, very likely. mrs. elvsted. for i remember they used to say of her that she carried loaded firearms. hedda. oh--then of course it must have been she. mrs. elvsted. [wringing her hands.] and now just fancy, hedda--i hear that this singing-woman--that she is in town again! oh, i don't know what to do-hedda. [glancing towards the inner room.] hush! here comes tesman. [rises and whispers.] thea--all this must remain between you and me. mrs. elvsted. [springing up.] oh yes--yes! for heaven's sake--! george tesman, with a letter in his hand, comes from the right through the inner room. tesman. there now--the epistle is finished. hedda. that's right. and now mrs. elvsted is just going. wait a moment--i'll go with you to the garden gate. tesman. do you think berta could post the letter, hedda dear? hedda. [takes it.] i will tell her to. berta enters from the hall. berta. judge brack wishes to know if mrs. tesman will receive him. hedda. yes, ask judge brack to come in. and look here--put this letter in the post. berta. [taking the letter.] yes, ma'am. [she opens the door for judge brack and goes out herself. brack is a main of forty-five; thick set, but well-built and elastic in his movements. his face is roundish with an aristocratic profile. his hair is short, still almost black, and carefully dressed. his eyebrows thick. his moustaches are also thick, with short-cut ends. he wears a well-cut walking-suit, a little too youthful for his age. he uses an eye-glass, which he now and then lets drop. judge brack. [with his hat in his hand, bowing.] may one venture to call so early in the day? hedda. of course one may. tesman. [presses his hand.] you are welcome at any time. [introducing him.] judge brack--miss rysing-hedda. oh--! brack. [bowing.] ah--delighted-hedda. [looks at him and laughs.] it's nice to have a look at you by daylight, judge! brack. so you find me--altered? hedda. a little younger, i think. brack. thank you so much. tesman. but what do you think of hedda--eh? doesn't she look flourishing? she has actually-hedda. oh, do leave me alone. you haven't thanked judge brack for all the trouble he has taken-brack. oh, nonsense--it was a pleasure to me-hedda. yes, you are a friend indeed. but here stands thea all impatience to be off--so _au revoir_ judge. i shall be back again presently. [mutual salutations. mrs. elvsted and hedda go out by the hall door. brack. well,--is your wife tolerably satisfied-tesman. yes, we can't thank you sufficiently. of course she talks of a little re-arrangement here and there; and one or two things are still wanting. we shall have to buy some additional trifles. brack. indeed! tesman. but we won't trouble you about these things. hedda say she herself will look after what is wanting.--shan't we sit down? eh? brack. thanks, for a moment. [seats himself beside the table.] there is something i wanted to speak to about, my dear tesman. tesman. indeed? ah, i understand! [seating himself.] i suppose it's the serious part of the frolic that is coming now. eh? brack. oh, the money question is not so very pressing; though, for that matter, i wish we had gone a little more economically to work. tesman. but that would never have done, you know! think of hedda, my dear fellow! you, who know her so well--! i couldn't possibly ask her to put up with a shabby style of living! brack. no, no--that is just the difficulty. tesman. and then--fortunately--it can't be long before i receive my appointment. brack. well, you see--such things are often apt to hang fire for a long time. tesman. have you heard anything definite? eh? brack. nothing exactly definite--. [interrupting himself.] but by-the-bye--i have one piece of news for you. tesman. well? brack. your old friend, eilert lovborg, has returned to town. tesman. i know that already. brack. indeed! how did you learn it? tesman. from that lady who went out with hedda. brack. really? what was her name? i didn't quite catch it. tesman. mrs. elvsted. brack. aha--sheriff elvsted's wife? of course--he has been living up in their regions. tesman. and fancy--i'm delighted to hear that he is quite a reformed character. brack. so they say. tesman. and then he has published a new book--eh? brack. yes, indeed he has. tesman. and i hear it has made some sensation! brack. quite an unusual sensation. tesman. fancy--isn't that good news! a man of such extraordinary talents--. i felt so grieved to think that he had gone irretrievably to ruin. brack. that was what everybody thought. tesman. but i cannot imagine what he will take to now! how in the world will he be able to make his living? eh? [during the last words, hedda has entered by the hall door. hedda. [to brack, laughing with a touch of scorn.] tesman is for ever worrying about how people are to make their living. tesman. well you see, dear--we were talking about poor eilert lovborg. hedda. [glancing at him rapidly.] oh, indeed? [sets herself in the arm-chair beside the stove and asks indifferently:] what is the matter with him? tesman. well--no doubt he has run through all his property long ago; and he can scarcely write a new book every year--eh? so i really can't see what is to become of him. brack. perhaps i can give you some information on that point. tesman. indeed! brack. you must remember that his relations have a good deal of influence. tesman. oh, his relations, unfortunately, have entirely washed their hands of him. brack. at one time they called him the hope of the family. tesman. at one time, yes! but he has put an end to all that. hedda. who knows? [with a slight smile.] i hear they have reclaimed him up at sheriff elvsted's-brack. and then this book that he has published-tesman. well well, i hope to goodness they may find something for him to do. i have just written to him. i asked him to come and see us this evening, hedda dear. brack. but my dear fellow, you are booked for my bachelor's party this evening. you promised on the pier last night. hedda. had you forgotten, tesman? tesman. yes, i had utterly forgotten. brack. but it doesn't matter, for you may be sure he won't come. tesman. what makes you think that? eh? brack. [with a little hesitation, rising and resting his hands on the back of his chair.] my dear tesman--and you too, mrs. tesman--i think i ought not to keep you in the dark about something that--that-tesman. that concerns eilert--? brack. both you and him. tesman. well, my dear judge, out with it. brack. you must be prepared to find your appointment deferred longer than you desired or expected. tesman. [jumping up uneasily.] is there some hitch about it? eh? brack. the nomination may perhaps be made conditional on the result of a competition-tesman. competition! think of that, hedda! hedda. [leans further back in the chair.] aha--aha! tesman. but who can my competitor be? surely not--? brack. yes, precisely--eilert lovborg. tesman. [clasping his hands.] no, no--it's quite impossible! eh? brack. h'm--that is what it may come to, all the same. tesman. well but, judge brack--it would show the most incredible lack of consideration for me. [gesticulates with his arms.] for--just think--i'm a married man! we have married on the strength of these prospects, hedda and i; and run deep into debt; and borrowed money from aunt julia too. good heavens, they had as good as promised me the appointment. eh? brack. well, well, well--no doubt you will get it in the end; only after a contest. hedda. [immovable in her arm-chair.] fancy, tesman, there will be a sort of sporting interest in that. tesman. why, my dearest hedda, how can you be so indifferent about it? hedda. [as before.] i am not at all indifferent. i am most eager to see who wins. brack. in any case, mrs. tesman, it is best that you should know how matters stand. i mean--before you set about the little purchases i hear you are threatening. hedda. this can make no difference. brack. indeed! then i have no more to say. good-bye! [to tesman.] i shall look in on my way back from my afternoon walk, and take you home with me. tesman. oh yes, yes--your news has quite upset me. hedda. [reclining, holds out her hand.] good-bye, judge; and be sure you call in the afternoon. brack. many thanks. good-bye, good-bye! tesman. [accompanying him to the door.] good-bye my dear judge! you must really excuse me-[judge brack goes out by the hall door. tesman. [crosses the room.] oh hedda--one should never rush into adventures. eh? hedda. [looks at him, smiling.] do you do that? tesman. yes, dear--there is no denying--it was adventurous to go and marry and set up house upon mere expectations. hedda. perhaps you are right there. tesman. well--at all events, we have our delightful home, hedda! fancy, the home we both dreamed of--the home we were in love with, i may almost say. eh? hedda. [rising slowly and wearily.] it was part of our compact that we were to go into society--to keep open house. tesman. yes, if you only knew how i had been looking forward to it! fancy--to see you as hostess--in a select circle! eh? well, well, well--for the present we shall have to get on without society, hedda--only to invite aunt julia now and then.--oh, i intended you to lead such an utterly different life, dear--! hedda. of course i cannot have my man in livery just yet. tesman. oh, no, unfortunately. it would be out of the question for us to keep a footman, you know. hedda. and the saddle-horse i was to have had-tesman. [aghast.] the saddle-horse! hedda. --i suppose i must not think of that now. tesman. good heavens, no!--that's as clear as daylight! hedda. [goes up the room.] well, i shall have one thing at least to kill time with in the meanwhile. tesman. [beaming.] oh thank heaven for that! what is it, hedda. eh? hedda. [in the middle doorway, looks at him with covert scorn.] my pistols, george. tesman. [in alarm.] your pistols! hedda. [with cold eyes.] general gabler's pistols. [she goes out through the inner room, to the left. tesman. [rushes up to the middle doorway and calls after her:] no, for heaven's sake, hedda darling--don't touch those dangerous things! for my sake hedda! eh? act second. the room at the tesmans' as in the first act, except that the piano has been removed, and an elegant little writing-table with the book-shelves put in its place. a smaller table stands near the sofa on the left. most of the bouquets have been taken away. mrs. elvsted's bouquet is upon the large table in front.--it is afternoon. hedda, dressed to receive callers, is alone in the room. she stands by the open glass door, loading a revolver. the fellow to it lies in an open pistol-case on the writing table. hedda. [looks down the garden, and calls:] so you are here again, judge! brack. [is heard calling from a distance.] as you see, mrs. tesman! hedda. [raises the pistol and points.] now i'll shoot you, judge brack! brack. [calling unseen.] no, no, no! don't stand aiming at me! hedda. this is what comes of sneaking in by the back way.(7) [she fires. brack. [nearer.] are you out of your senses--! hedda. dear me--did i happen to hit you? brack. [still outside.] i wish you would let these pranks alone! hedda. come in then, judge. judge brack, dressed as though for a men's party, enters by the glass door. he carries a light overcoat over his arm. brack. what the deuce--haven't you tired of that sport, yet? what are you shooting at? hedda. oh, i am only firing in the air. brack. [gently takes the pistol out of her hand.] allow me, madam! [looks at it.] ah--i know this pistol well! [looks around.] where is the case? ah, here it is. [lays the pistol in it, and shuts it.] now we won't play at that game any more to-day. hedda. then what in heaven's name would you have me do with myself? brack. have you had no visitors? hedda. [closing the glass door.] not one. i suppose all our set are still out of town. brack. and is tesman not at home either? hedda. [at the writing-table, putting the pistol-case in a drawer which she shuts.] no. he rushed off to his aunt's directly after lunch; he didn't expect you so early. brack. h'm--how stupid of me not to have thought of that! hedda. [turning her head to look at him.] why stupid? brack. because if i had thought of it i should have come a little--earlier. hedda. [crossing the room.] then you would have found no one to receive you; for i have been in my room changing my dress ever since lunch. brack. and is there no sort of little chink that we could hold a parley through? hedda. you have forgotten to arrange one. brack. that was another piece of stupidity. hedda. well, we must just settle down here--and wait. tesman is not likely to be back for some time yet. brack. never mind; i shall not be impatient. hedda seats herself in the corner of the sofa. brack lays his overcoat over the back of the nearest chair, and sits down, but keeps his hat in his hand. a short silence. they look at each other. hedda. well? brack. [in the same tone.] well? hedda. i spoke first. brack. [bending a little forward.] come, let us have a cosy little chat, mrs. hedda.(8) hedda. [leaning further back in the sofa.] does it not seem like a whole eternity since our last talk? of course i don't count those few words yesterday evening and this morning. brack. you mean since out last confidential talk? our last _tete-a-tete_? hedda. well yes--since you put it so. brack. not a day passed but i have wished that you were home again. hedda. and i have done nothing but wish the same thing. brack. you? really, mrs. hedda? and i thought you had been enjoying your tour so much! hedda. oh yes, you may be sure of that! brack. but tesman's letters spoke of nothing but happiness. hedda. oh, tesman! you see, he thinks nothing is so delightful as grubbing in libraries and making copies of old parchments, or whatever you call them. brack. [with a smile of malice.] well, that is his vocation in life--or part of it at any rate. hedda. yes, of course; and no doubt when it's your vocation--. but _i_! oh, my dear mr. brack, how mortally bored i have been. brack. [sympathetically.] do you really say so? in downright earnest? hedda. yes, you can surely understand it--! to go for six whole months without meeting a soul that knew anything of our circle, or could talk about things we were interested in. brack. yes, yes--i too should feel that a deprivation. hedda. and then, what i found most intolerable of all-brack. well? hedda. --was being everlastingly in the company of--one and the same person-brack. [with a nod of assent.] morning, noon, and night, yes--at all possible times and seasons. hedda. i said "everlastingly." brack. just so. but i should have thought, with our excellent tesman, one could-hedda. tesman is--a specialist, my dear judge. brack. undeniable. hedda. and specialists are not at all amusing to travel with. not in the long run at any rate. brack. not even--the specialist one happens to love? hedda. faugh--don't use that sickening word! brack. [taken aback.] what do you say, mrs. hedda? hedda. [half laughing, half irritated.] you should just try it! to hear of nothing but the history of civilisation, morning, noon, and night-brack. everlastingly. hedda. yes yes yes! and then all this about the domestic industry of the middle ages--! that's the most disgusting part of it! brack. [looks searchingly at her.] but tell me--in that case, how am i to understand your--? h'm-hedda. my accepting george tesman, you mean? brack. well, let us put it so. hedda. good heavens, do you see anything so wonderful in that? brack. yes and no--mrs. hedda. hedda. i had positively danced myself tired, my dear judge. my day was done-[with a slight shudder.] oh no--i won't say that; nor think it either! brack. you have assuredly no reason to. hedda. oh, reasons-[watching him closely.] and george tesman--after all, you must admit that he is correctness itself. brack. his correctness and respectability are beyond all question. hedda. and i don't see anything absolutely ridiculous about him.--do you? brack. ridiculous? n--no--i shouldn't exactly say so-hedda. well--and his powers of research, at all events, are untiring.--i see no reason why he should not one day come to the front, after all. brack. [looks at her hesitatingly.] i thought that you, like every one else, expected him to attain the highest distinction. hedda. [with an expression of fatigue.] yes, so i did.--and then, since he was bent, at all hazards, on being allowed to provide for me--i really don't know why i should not have accepted his offer? brack. no--if you look at it in that light-hedda. it was more than my other adorers were prepared to do for me, my dear judge. brack. [laughing.] well, i can't answer for all the rest; but as for myself, you know quite well that i have always entertained a--a certain respect for the marriage tie--for marriage as an institution, mrs. hedda. hedda. [jestingly.] oh, i assure you i have never cherished any hopes with respect to you. brack. all i require is a pleasant and intimate interior, where i can make myself useful in every way, and am free to come and go as--as a trusted friend-hedda. of the master of the house, do you mean? brack. [bowing.] frankly--of the mistress first of all; but of course of the master too, in the second place. such a triangular friendship--if i may call it so--is really a great convenience for all the parties, let me tell you. hedda. yes, i have many a time longed for some one to make a third on our travels. oh--those railway-carriage _tete-a-tetes_--! brack. fortunately your wedding journey is over now. hedda. [shaking her head.] not by a long--long way. i have only arrived at a station on the line. brack. well, then the passengers jump out and move about a little, mrs. hedda. hedda. i never jump out. brack. really? hedda. no--because there is always some one standing by to-brack. [laughing.] to look at your ankles, do you mean? hedda. precisely. brack. well but, dear me-hedda. [with a gesture of repulsion.] i won't have it. i would rather keep my seat where i happen to be--and continue the _tete-a-tete_. brack. but suppose a third person were to jump in and join the couple. hedda. ah--that is quite another matter! brack. a trusted, sympathetic friend-hedda. --with a fund of conversation on all sorts of lively topics-brack. --and not the least bit of a specialist! hedda. [with an audible sigh.] yes, that would be a relief indeed. brack. [hears the front door open, and glances in that direction.] the triangle is completed. hedda. [half aloud.] and on goes the train. george tesman, in a grey walking-suit, with a soft felt hat, enters from the hall. he has a number of unbound books under his arm and in his pockets. tesman. [goes up to the table beside the corner settee.] ouf--what a load for a warm day--all these books. [lays them on the table.] i'm positively perspiring, hedda. hallo--are you there already, my dear judge? eh? berta didn't tell me. brack. [rising.] i came in through the garden. hedda. what books have you got there? tesman. [stands looking them through.] some new books on my special subjects --quite indispensable to me. hedda. your special subjects? brack. yes, books on his special subjects, mrs. tesman. [brack and hedda exchange a confidential smile. hedda. do you need still more books on your special subjects? tesman. yes, my dear hedda, one can never have too many of them. of course one must keep up with all that is written and published. hedda. yes, i suppose one must. tesman. [searching among his books.] and look here--i have got hold of eilert lovborg's new book too. [offering it to her.] perhaps you would like to glance through it, hedda? eh? hedda. no, thank you. or rather--afterwards perhaps. tesman. i looked into it a little on the way home. brack. well, what do you think of it--as a specialist? tesman. i think it shows quite remarkable soundness of judgment. he never wrote like that before. [putting the books together.] now i shall take all these into my study. i'm longing to cut the leaves--! and then i must change my clothes. [to brack.] i suppose we needn't start just yet? eh? brack. oh, dear no--there is not the slightest hurry. tesman. well then, i will take my time. [is going with his books, but stops in the doorway and turns.] by-the-bye, hedda--aunt julia is not coming this evening. hedda. not coming? is it that affair of the bonnet that keeps her away? tesman. oh, not at all. how could you think such a thing of aunt julia? just fancy--! the fact is, aunt rina is very ill. hedda. she always is. tesman. yes, but to-day she is much worse than usual, poor dear. hedda. oh, then it's only natural that her sister should remain with her. i must bear my disappointment. tesman. and you can't imagine, dear, how delighted aunt julia seemed to be-because you had come home looking so flourishing! hedda. [half aloud, rising.] oh, those everlasting aunts! tesman. what? hedda. [going to the glass door.] nothing. tesman. oh, all right. [he goes through the inner room, out to the right. brack. what bonnet were you talking about? hedda. oh, it was a little episode with miss tesman this morning. she had laid down her bonnet on the chair there--[looks at him and smiles.]--and i pretended to think it was the servant's. brack. [shaking his head.] now my dear mrs. hedda, how could you do such a thing? to the excellent old lady, too! hedda. [nervously crossing the room.] well, you see--these impulses come over me all of a sudden; and i cannot resist them. [throws herself down in the easy-chair by the stove.] oh, i don't know how to explain it. brack. [behind the easy-chair.] you are not really happy--that is at the bottom of it. hedda. [looking straight before her.] i know of no reason why i should be-happy. perhaps you can give me one? brack. well-amongst other things, because you have got exactly the home you had set your heart on. hedda. [looks up at him and laughs.] do you too believe in that legend? brack. is there nothing in it, then? hedda. oh yes, there is something in it. brack. well? hedda. there is this in it, that i made use of tesman to see me home from evening parties last summer-brack. i, unfortunately, had to go quite a different way. hedda. that's true. i know you were going a different way last summer. brack. [laughing.] oh fie, mrs. hedda! well, then--you and tesman--? hedda. well, we happened to pass here one evening; tesman, poor fellow, was writhing in the agony of having to find conversation; so i took pity on the learned man-brack. [smiles doubtfully.] you took pity? h'm-hedda. yes, i really did. and so--to help him out of his torment--i happened to say, in pure thoughtlessness, that i should like to live in this villa. brack. no more than that? hedda. not that evening. brack. but afterwards? hedda. yes, my thoughtlessness had consequences, my dear judge. brack. unfortunately that too often happens, mrs. hedda. hedda. thanks! so you see it was this enthusiasm for secretary falk's villa that first constituted a bond of sympathy between george tesman and me. from that came our engagement and our marriage, and our wedding journey, and all the rest of it. well, well, my dear judge--as you make your bed so you must lie, i could almost say. brack. this is exquisite! and you really cared not a rap about it all the time? hedda. no, heaven knows i didn't. brack. but now? now that we have made it so homelike for you? hedda. uh--the rooms all seem to smell of lavender and dried rose-leaves.--but perhaps it's aunt julia that has brought that scent with her. brack. [laughing.] no, i think it must be a legacy from the late mrs. secretary falk. hedda. yes, there is an odour of mortality about it. it reminds me of a bouquet--the day after the ball. [clasps her hands behind her head, leans back in her chair and looks at him.] oh, my dear judge--you cannot imagine how horribly i shall bore myself here. brack. why should not you, too, find some sort of vocation in life, mrs. hedda? hedda. a vocation--that should attract me? brack. if possible, of course. hedda. heaven knows what sort of a vocation that could be. i often wonder whether-[breaking off.] but that would never do either. brack. who can tell? let me hear what it is. hedda. whether i might not get tesman to go into politics, i mean. brack. [laughing.] tesman? no really now, political life is not the thing for him--not at all in his line. hedda. no, i daresay not.--but if i could get him into it all the same? brack. why--what satisfaction could you find in that? if he is not fitted for that sort of thing, why should you want to drive him into it? hedda. because i am bored, i tell you! [after a pause.] so you think it quite out of the question that tesman should ever get into the ministry? brack. h'm--you see, my dear mrs. hedda--to get into the ministry, he would have to be a tolerably rich man. hedda. [rising impatiently.] yes, there we have it! it is this genteel poverty i have managed to drop into--! [crosses the room.] that is what makes life so pitiable! so utterly ludicrous!--for that's what it is. brack. now _i_ should say the fault lay elsewhere. hedda. where, then? brack. you have never gone through any really stimulating experience. hedda. anything serious, you mean? brack. yes, you may call it so. but now you may perhaps have one in store. hedda. [tossing her head.] oh, you're thinking of the annoyances about this wretched professorship! but that must be tesman's own affair. i assure you i shall not waste a thought upon it. brack. no, no, i daresay not. but suppose now that what people call--in elegant language--a solemn responsibility were to come upon you? [smiling.] a new responsibility, mrs. hedda? hedda. [angrily.] be quiet! nothing of that sort will ever happen! brack. [warily.] we will speak of this again a year hence--at the very outside. hedda. [curtly.] i have no turn for anything of the sort, judge brack. no responsibilities for me! brack. are you so unlike the generality of women as to have no turn for duties which--? hedda. [beside the glass door.] oh, be quiet, i tell you!--i often think there is only one thing in the world i have any turn for. brack. [drawing near to her.] and what is that, if i may ask? hedda. [stands looking out.] boring myself to death. now you know it. [turns, looks towards the inner room, and laughs.] yes, as i thought! here comes the professor. brack. [softly, in a tone of warning.] come, come, come, mrs. hedda! george tesman, dressed for the party, with his gloves and hat in his hand, enters from the right through the inner room. tesman. hedda, has no message come from eilert lovborg? eh? hedda. no. tesman. then you'll see he'll be here presently. brack. do you really think he will come? tesman. yes, i am almost sure of it. for what you were telling us this morning must have been a mere floating rumour. brack. you think so? tesman. at any rate, aunt julia said she did not believe for a moment that he would ever stand in my way again. fancy that! brack. well then, that's all right. tesman. [placing his hat and gloves on a chair on the right.] yes, but you must really let me wait for him as long as possible. brack. we have plenty of time yet. none of my guests will arrive before seven or half-past. tesman. then meanwhile we can keep hedda company, and see what happens. eh? hedda. [placing brack's hat and overcoat upon the corner settee.] and at the worst mr. lovborg can remain here with me. brack. [offering to take his things.] oh, allow me, mrs. tesman!--what do you mean by "at the worst"? hedda. if he won't go with you and tesman. tesman. [looks dubiously at her.] but, hedda dear--do you think it would quite do for him to remain here with you? eh? remember, aunt julia can't come. hedda. no, but mrs. elvsted is coming. we three can have a cup of tea together. tesman. oh yes, that will be all right. brack. [smiling.] and that would perhaps be the safest plan for him. hedda. why so? brack. well, you know, mrs. tesman, how you used to gird at my little bachelor parties. you declared they were adapted only for men of the strictest principles. hedda. but no doubt mr. lovborg's principles are strict enough now. a converted sinner-[berta appears at the hall door. berta. there's a gentleman asking if you are at home, ma'am-hedda. well, show him in. tesman. [softly.] i'm sure it is he! fancy that! eilert lovborg enters from the hall. he is slim and lean; of the same age as tesman, but looks older and somewhat worn-out. his hair and beard are of a blackish brown, his face long and pale, but with patches of colour on the cheeks. he is dressed in a well-cut black visiting suit, quite new. he has dark gloves and a silk hat. he stops near the door, and makes a rapid bow, seeming somewhat embarrassed. tesman. [goes up to him and shakes him warmly by the hand.] well, my dear eilert--so at last we meet again! eilert lovborg. [speaks in a subdued voice.] thanks for your letter, tesman. [approaching hedda.] will you too shake hands with me, mrs. tesman? hedda. [taking his hand.] i am glad to see you, mr. lovborg. [with a motion of her hand.] i don't know whether you two gentlemen--? lovborg. [bowing slightly.] judge brack, i think. brack. [doing likewise.] oh yes,--in the old days-tesman. [to lovborg, with his hands on his shoulders.] and now you must make yourself entirely at home, eilert! mustn't he, hedda?--for i hear you are going to settle in town again? eh? lovborg. yes, i am. tesman. quite right, quite right. let me tell you, i have got hold of your new book; but i haven't had time to read it yet. lovborg. you may spare yourself the trouble. tesman. why so? lovborg. because there is very little in it. tesman. just fancy--how can you say so? brack. but it has been very much praised, i hear. lovborg. that was what i wanted; so i put nothing into the book but what every one would agree with. brack. very wise of you. tesman. well but, my dear eilert--! lovborg. for now i mean to win myself a position again--to make a fresh start. tesman. [a little embarrassed.] ah, that is what you wish to do? eh? lovborg. [smiling, lays down his hat, and draws a packet wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket.] but when this one appears, george tesman, you will have to read it. for this is the real book--the book i have put my true self into. tesman. indeed? and what is it? lovborg. it is the continuation. tesman. the continuation? of what? lovborg. of the book. tesman. of the new book? lovborg. of course. tesman. why, my dear eilert--does it not come down to our own days? lovborg. yes, it does; and this one deals with the future. tesman. with the future! but, good heavens, we know nothing of the future! lovborg. no; but there is a thing or two to be said about it all the same. [opens the packet.] look here-tesman. why, that's not your handwriting. lovborg. i dictated it. [turning over the pages.] it falls into two sections. the first deals with the civilising forces of the future. and here is the second--[running through the pages towards the end]--forecasting the probable line of development. tesman. how odd now! i should never have thought of writing anything of that sort. hedda. [at the glass door, drumming on the pane.] h'm--. i daresay not. lovborg. [replacing the manuscript in its paper and laying the packet on the table.] i brought it, thinking i might read you a little of it this evening. tesman. that was very good of you, eilert. but this evening--? [looking back at brack.] i don't see how we can manage it-lovborg. well then, some other time. there is no hurry. brack. i must tell you, mr. lovborg--there is a little gathering at my house this evening--mainly in honour of tesman, you know-lovborg. [looking for his hat.] oh--then i won't detain you-brack. no, but listen--will you not do me the favour of joining us? lovborg. [curtly and decidedly.] no, i can't--thank you very much. brack. oh, nonsense--do! we shall be quite a select little circle. and i assure you we shall have a "lively time," as mrs. hed--as mrs. tesman says. lovborg. i have no doubt of it. but nevertheless-brack. and then you might bring your manuscript with you, and read it to tesman at my house. i could give you a room to yourselves. tesman. yes, think of that, eilert,--why shouldn't you? eh? hedda. [interposing.] but, tesman, if mr. lovborg would really rather not! i am sure mr. lovborg is much more inclined to remain here and have supper with me. lovborg. [looking at her.] with you, mrs. tesman? hedda. and with mrs. elvsted. lovborg. ah-[lightly.] i saw her for a moment this morning. hedda. did you? well, she is coming this evening. so you see you are almost bound to remain, mr. lovborg, or she will have no one to see her home. lovborg. that's true. many thanks, mrs. tesman--in that case i will remain. hedda. then i have one or two orders to give the servant- [she goes to the hall door and rings. berta enters. hedda talks to her in a whisper, and points towards the inner room. berta nods and goes out again. tesman. [at the same time, to lovborg.] tell me, eilert--is it this new subject--the future--that you are going to lecture about? lovborg. yes. tesman. they told me at the bookseller's that you are going to deliver a course of lectures this autumn. lovborg. that is my intention. i hope you won't take it ill, tesman. tesman. oh no, not in the least! but--? lovborg. i can quite understand that it must be very disagreeable to you. tesman. [cast down.] oh, i can't expect you, out of consideration for me, to-lovborg. but i shall wait till you have received your appointment. tesman. will you wait? yes but--yes but--are you not going to compete with me? eh? lovborg. no; it is only the moral victory i care for. tesman. why, bless me--then aunt julia was right after all! oh yes--i knew it! hedda! just fancy--eilert lovborg is not going to stand in our way! hedda. [curtly.] our way? pray leave me out of the question. [she goes up towards the inner room, where berta is placing a tray with decanters and glasses on the table. hedda nods approval, and comes forward again. berta goes out. tesman. [at the same time.] and you, judge brack--what do you say to this? eh? brack. well, i say that a moral victory--h'm--may be all very fine-tesman. yes, certainly. but all the same-hedda. [looking at tesman with a cold smile.] you stand there looking as if you were thunderstruck-tesman. yes--so i am--i almost think-brack. don't you see, mrs. tesman, a thunderstorm has just passed over? hedda. [pointing towards the room.] will you not take a glass of cold punch, gentlemen? brack. [looking at his watch.] a stirrup-cup? yes, it wouldn't come amiss. tesman. a capital idea, hedda! just the thing! now that the weight has been taken off my mind-hedda. will you not join them, mr. lovborg? lovborg. [with a gesture of refusal.] no, thank you. nothing for me. brack. why bless me--cold punch is surely not poison. lovborg. perhaps not for everyone. hedda. i will keep mr. lovborg company in the meantime. tesman. yes, yes, hedda dear, do. [he and brack go into the inner room, seat themselves, drink punch, smoke cigarettes, and carry on a lively conversation during what follows. eilert lovborg remains standing beside the stove. hedda goes to the writing-table. hedda. [raising he voice a little.] do you care to look at some photographs, mr. lovborg? you know tesman and i made a tour in the tyrol on our way home? [she takes up an album, and places it on the table beside the sofa, in the further corner of which she seats herself. eilert lovborg approaches, stops, and looks at her. then he takes a chair and seats himself to her left. hedda. [opening the album.] do you see this range of mountains, mr. lovborg? it's the ortler group. tesman has written the name underneath. here it is: "the ortler group near meran." lovborg. [who has never taken his eyes off her, says softly and slowly:] hedda--gabler! hedda. [glancing hastily at him.] ah! hush! lovborg. [repeats softly.] hedda gabler! hedda. [looking at the album.] that was my name in the old days--when we two knew each other. lovborg. and i must teach myself never to say hedda gabler again--never, as long as i live. hedda. [still turning over the pages.] yes, you must. and i think you ought to practise in time. the sooner the better, i should say. lovborg. [in a tone of indignation.] hedda gabler married? and married to-george tesman! hedda. yes--so the world goes. lovborg. oh, hedda, hedda--how could you(9) throw yourself away! hedda. [looks sharply at him.] what? i can't allow this! lovborg. what do you mean? [tesman comes into the room and goes towards the sofa. hedda. [hears him coming and says in an indifferent tone.] and this is a view from the val d'ampezzo, mr. lovborg. just look at these peaks! [looks affectionately up at tesman.] what's the name of these curious peaks, dear? tesman. let me see. oh, those are the dolomites. hedda. yes, that's it!--those are the dolomites, mr. lovborg. tesman. hedda, dear,--i only wanted to ask whether i shouldn't bring you a little punch after all? for yourself at any rate--eh? hedda. yes, do, please; and perhaps a few biscuits. tesman. no cigarettes? hedda. no. tesman. very well. [he goes into the inner room and out to the right. brack sits in the inner room, and keeps an eye from time to time on hedda and lovborg. lovborg. [softly, as before.] answer me, hedda--how could you go and do this? hedda. [apparently absorbed in the album.] if you continue to say _du_ to me i won't talk to you. lovborg. may i not say _du_ even when we are alone? hedda. no. you may think it; but you mustn't say it. lovborg. ah, i understand. it is an offence against george tesman, whom you(10)--love. hedda. [glances at him and smiles.] love? what an idea! lovborg. you don't love him then! hedda. but i won't hear of any sort of unfaithfulness! remember that. lovborg. hedda--answer me one thing-hedda. hush! [tesman enters with a small tray from the inner room. tesman. here you are! isn't this tempting? [he puts the tray on the table. hedda. why do you bring it yourself? tesman. [filling the glasses.] because i think it's such fun to wait upon you, hedda. hedda. but you have poured out two glasses. mr. lovborg said he wouldn't have any-tesman. no, but mrs. elvsted will soon be here, won't she? hedda. yes, by-the-bye--mrs. elvsted-tesman. had you forgotten her? eh? hedda. we were so absorbed in these photographs. [shows him a picture.] do you remember this little village? tesman. oh, it's that one just below the brenner pass. it was there we passed the night-hedda. --and met that lively party of tourists. tesman. yes, that was the place. fancy--if we could only have had you with us, eilert! eh? [he returns to the inner room and sits beside brack. lovborg. answer me one thing, hedda-hedda. well? lovborg. was there no love in your friendship for me either? not a spark--not a tinge of love in it? hedda. i wonder if there was? to me it seems as though we were two good comrades--two thoroughly intimate friends. [smilingly.] you especially were frankness itself. lovborg. it was you that made me so. hedda. as i look back upon it all, i think there was really something beautiful, something fascinating--something daring--in--in that secret intimacy--that comradeship which no living creature so much as dreamed of. lovborg. yes, yes, hedda! was there not?--when i used to come to your father's in the afternoon--and the general sat over at the window reading his papers--with his back towards us-hedda. and we two on the corner sofa-lovborg. always with the same illustrated paper before us-hedda. for want of an album, yes. lovborg. yes, hedda, and when i made my confessions to you--told you about myself, things that at that time no one else knew! there i would sit and tell you of my escapades--my days and nights of devilment. oh, hedda--what was the power in you that forced me to confess these things? hedda. do you think it was any power in me? lovborg. how else can i explain it? and all those--those roundabout questions you used to put to me-hedda. which you understood so particularly well-lovborg. how could you sit and question me like that? question me quite frankly-hedda. in roundabout terms, please observe. lovborg. yes, but frankly nevertheless. cross-question me about--all that sort of thing? hedda. and how could you answer, mr. lovborg? lovborg. yes, that is just what i can't understand--in looking back upon it. but tell me now, hedda--was there not love at the bottom of our friendship? on your side, did you not feel as though you might purge my stains away--if i made you my confessor? was it not so? hedda. no, not quite. lovborg. what was you motive, then? hedda. do think it quite incomprehensible that a young girl--when it can be done--without any one knowing-lovborg. well? hedda. --should be glad to have a peep, now and then, into a world which--? lovborg. which--? hedda. --which she is forbidden to know anything about? lovborg. so that was it? hedda. partly. partly--i almost think. lovborg. comradeship in the thirst for life. but why should not that, at any rate, have continued? hedda. the fault was yours. lovborg. it was you that broke with me. hedda. yes, when our friendship threatened to develop into something more serious. shame upon you, eilert lovborg! how could you think of wronging your--your frank comrade. lovborg. [clenches his hands.] oh, why did you not carry out your threat? why did you not shoot me down? hedda. because i have such a dread of scandal. lovborg. yes, hedda, you are a coward at heart. hedda. a terrible coward. [changing her tone.] but it was a lucky thing for you. and now you have found ample consolation at the elvsteds'. lovborg. i know what thea has confided to you. hedda. and perhaps you have confided to her something about us? lovborg. not a word. she is too stupid to understand anything of that sort. hedda. stupid? lovborg. she is stupid about matters of that sort. hedda. and i am cowardly. [bends over towards him, without looking him in the face, and says more softly:] but now i will confide something to you. lovborg. [eagerly.] well? hedda. the fact that i dared not shoot you down-lovborg. yes! hedda. --that was not my arrant cowardice--that evening. lovborg. [looks at her a moment, understands, and whispers passionately.] oh, hedda! hedda gabler! now i begin to see a hidden reason beneath our comradeship! you(11) and i--! after all, then, it was your craving for life-hedda. [softly, with a sharp glance.] take care! believe nothing of the sort! [twilight has begun to fall. the hall door is opened from without by berta. hedda. [closes the album with a bang and calls smilingly:] ah, at last! my darling thea,--come along! mrs. elvsted enters from the hall. she is in evening dress. the door is closed behind her. hedda. [on the sofa, stretches out her arms towards her.] my sweet thea--you can't think how i have been longing for you! [mrs. elvsted, in passing, exchanges slight salutations with the gentlemen in the inner room, then goes up to the table and gives hedda her hand. eilert lovborg has risen. he and mrs. elvsted greet each other with a silent nod. mrs. elvsted. ought i to go in and talk to your husband for a moment? hedda. oh, not at all. leave those two alone. they will soon be going. mrs. elvsted. are they going out? hedda. yes, to a supper-party. mrs. elvsted. [quickly, to lovborg.] not you? lovborg. no. hedda. mr. lovborg remains with us. mrs. elvsted. [takes a chair and is about to seat herself at his side.] oh, how nice it is here! hedda. no, thank you, my little thea! not there! you'll be good enough to come over here to me. i will sit between you. mrs. elvsted. yes, just as you please. [she goes round the table and seats herself on the sofa on hedda's right. lovborg re-seats himself on his chair. lovborg. [after a short pause, to hedda.] is not she lovely to look at? hedda. [lightly stroking her hair.] only to look at! lovborg. yes. for we two--she and i--we are two real comrades. we have absolute faith in each other; so we can sit and talk with perfect frankness-hedda. not round about, mr. lovborg? lovborg. well-mrs. elvsted. [softly clinging close to hedda.] oh, how happy i am, hedda! for only think, he says i have inspired him too. hedda. [looks at her with a smile.] ah! does he say that, dear? lovborg. and then she is so brave, mrs. tesman! mrs. elvsted. good heavens--am i brave? lovborg. exceedingly--where your comrade is concerned. hedda. exceedingly--where your comrade is concerned. hedda. ah, yes--courage! if one only had that! lovborg. what then? what do you mean? hedda. then life would perhaps be liveable, after all. [with a sudden change of tone.] but now, my dearest thea, you really must have a glass of cold punch. mrs. elvsted. no, thanks--i never take anything of that kind. hedda. well then, you, mr. lovborg. lovborg. nor i, thank you. mrs. elvsted. no, he doesn't either. hedda. [looks fixedly at him.] but if i say you shall? lovborg. it would be of no use. hedda. [laughing.] then i, poor creature, have no sort of power over you? lovborg. not in that respect. hedda. but seriously, i think you ought to--for your own sake. mrs. elvsted. why, hedda--! lovborg. how so? hedda. or rather on account of other people. lovborg. indeed? hedda. otherwise people might be apt to suspect that--in your heart of hearts--you did not feel quite secure--quite confident in yourself. mrs. elvsted. [softly.] oh please, hedda--! lovborg. people may suspect what they like--for the present. mrs. elvsted. [joyfully.] yes, let them! hedda. i saw it plainly in judge brack's face a moment ago. lovborg. what did you see? hedda. his contemptuous smile, when you dared not go with them into the inner room. lovborg. dared not? of course i preferred to stop here and talk to you. mrs. elvsted. what could be more natural, hedda? hedda. but the judge could not guess that. and i say, too, the way he smiled and glanced at tesman when you dared not accept his invitation to this wretched little supper-party of his. lovborg. dared not! do you say i dared not? hedda. _i_ don't say so. but that was how judge brack understood it. lovborg. well, let him. hedda. then you are not going with them? lovborg. i will stay here with you and thea. mrs. elvsted. yes, hedda--how can you doubt that? hedda. [smiles and nods approvingly to lovborg.] firm as a rock! faithful to your principles, now and for ever! ah, that is how a man should be! [turns to mrs. elvsted and caresses her.] well now, what did i tell you, when you came to us this morning in such a state of distraction-lovborg. [surprised.] distraction! mrs. elvsted. [terrified.] hedda--oh hedda--! hedda. you can see for yourself! you haven't the slightest reason to be in such mortal terror-[interrupting herself.] there! now we can all three enjoy ourselves! lovborg. [who has given a start.] ah--what is all this, mrs. tesman? mrs. elvsted. oh my god, hedda! what are you saying? what are you doing? hedda. don't get excited! that horrid judge brack is sitting watching you. lovborg. so she was in mortal terror! on my account! mrs. elvsted. [softly and piteously.] oh, hedda--now you have ruined everything! lovborg. [looks fixedly at her for a moment. his face is distorted.] so that was my comrade's frank confidence in me? mrs. elvsted. [imploringly.] oh, my dearest friend--only let me tell you-lovborg. [takes one of the glasses of punch, raises it to his lips, and says in a low, husky voice.] your health, thea! [he empties the glass, puts it down, and takes the second. mrs. elvsted. [softly.] oh, hedda, hedda--how could you do this? hedda. _i_ do it? _i_? are you crazy? lovborg. here's to your health too, mrs. tesman. thanks for the truth. hurrah for the truth! [he empties the glass and is about to re-fill it. hedda. [lays her hand on his arm.] come, come--no more for the present. remember you are going out to supper. mrs. elvsted. no, no, no! hedda. hush! they are sitting watching you. lovborg. [putting down the glass.] now, thea--tell me the truth-mrs. elvsted. yes. lovborg. did your husband know that you had come after me? mrs. elvsted. [wringing her hands.] oh, hedda--do you hear what his is asking? lovborg. was it arranged between you and him that you were to come to town and look after me? perhaps it was the sheriff himself that urged you to come? aha, my dear--no doubt he wanted my help in his office! or was it at the card-table that he missed me? mrs. elvsted. [softly, in agony.] oh, lovborg, lovborg--! lovborg. [seizes a glass and is on the point of filling it.] here's a glass for the old sheriff too! hedda. [preventing him.] no more just now. remember, you have to read your manuscript to tesman. lovborg. [calmly, putting down the glass.] it was stupid of me all this. thea--to take it in this way, i mean. don't be angry with me, my dear, dear comrade. you shall see--both you and the others--that if i was fallen once--now i have risen again! thanks to you, thea. mrs. elvsted. [radiant with joy.] oh, heaven be praised--! [brack has in the meantime looked at his watch. he and tesman rise and come into the drawing-room. brack. [takes his hat and overcoat.] well, mrs. tesman, our time has come. hedda. i suppose it has. lovborg. [rising.] mine too, judge brack. mrs. elvsted. [softly and imploringly.] oh, lovborg, don't do it! hedda. [pinching her arm.] they can hear you! mrs. elvsted. [with a suppressed shriek.] ow! lovborg. [to brack.] you were good enough to invite me. judge brack. well, are you coming after all? lovborg. yes, many thanks. brack. i'm delighted-lovborg. [to tesman, putting the parcel of ms. in his pocket.] i should like to show you one or two things before i send it to the printers. tesman. fancy--that will be delightful. but, hedda dear, how is mrs. elvsted to get home? eh? hedda. oh, that can be managed somehow. lovborg. [looking towards the ladies.] mrs. elvsted? of course, i'll come again and fetch her. [approaching.] at ten or thereabouts, mrs. tesman? will that do? hedda. certainly. that will do capitally. tesman. well, then, that's all right. but you must not expect me so early, hedda. hedda. oh, you may stop as long--as long as ever you please. mrs. elvsted. [trying to conceal her anxiety.] well then, mr. lovborg--i shall remain here until you come. lovborg. [with his hat in his hand.] pray do, mrs. elvsted. brack. and now off goes the excursion train, gentlemen! i hope we shall have a lively time, as a certain fair lady puts it. hedda. ah, if only the fair lady could be present unseen--! brack. why unseen? hedda. in order to hear a little of your liveliness at first hand, judge brack. brack. [laughing.] i should not advise the fair lady to try it. tesman. [also laughing.] come, you're a nice one hedda! fancy that! brack. well, good-bye, good-bye, ladies. lovborg. [bowing.] about ten o'clock, then, [brack, lovborg, and tesman go out by the hall door. at the same time, berta enters from the inner room with a lighted lamp, which she places on the drawing-room table; she goes out by the way she came. mrs. elvsted. [who has risen and is wandering restlessly about the room.] hedda-hedda--what will come of all this? hedda. at ten o'clock--he will be here. i can see him already--with vine-leaves in his hair--flushed and fearless-mrs. elvsted. oh, i hope he may. hedda. and then, you see--then he will have regained control over himself. then he will be a free man for all his days. mrs. elvsted. oh god!--if he would only come as you see him now! hedda. he will come as i see him--so, and not otherwise! [rises and approaches thea.] you may doubt him as long as you please; _i_ believe in him. and now we will try-mrs. elvsted. you have some hidden motive in this, hedda! hedda. yes, i have. i want for once in my life to have power to mould a human destiny. mrs. elvsted. have you not the power? hedda. i have not--and have never had it. mrs. elvsted. not your husband's? hedda. do you think that is worth the trouble? oh, if you could only understand how poor i am. and fate has made you so rich! [clasps her passionately in her arms.] i think i must burn your hair off after all. mrs. elvsted. let me go! let me go! i am afraid of you, hedda! berta. [in the middle doorway.] tea is laid in the dining-room, ma'am. hedda. very well. we are coming mrs. elvsted. no, no, no! i would rather go home alone! at once! hedda. nonsense! first you shall have a cup of tea, you little stupid. and then--at ten o'clock--eilert lovborg will be here--with vine-leaves in his hair. [she drags mrs. elvsted almost by force to the middle doorway. act third. the room at the tesmans'. the curtains are drawn over the middle doorway, and also over the glass door. the lamp, half turned down, and with a shade over it, is burning on the table. in the stove, the door of which stands open, there has been a fire, which is now nearly burnt out. mrs. elvsted, wrapped in a large shawl, and with her feet upon a foot-rest, sits close to the stove, sunk back in the arm-chair. hedda, fully dressed, lies sleeping upon the sofa, with a sofa-blanket over her. mrs. elvsted. [after a pause, suddenly sits up in her chair, and listens eagerly. then she sinks back again wearily, moaning to herself.] not yet!--oh god--oh god--not yet! berta slips cautiously in by the hall door. she has a letter in her hand. mrs. elvsted. [turns and whispers eagerly.] well--has any one come? berta. [softly.] yes, a girl has just brought this letter. mrs. elvsted. [quickly, holding out her hand.] a letter! give it to me! berta. no, it's for dr. tesman, ma'am. mrs. elvsted. oh, indeed. berta. it was miss tesman's servant that brought it. i'll lay it here on the table. mrs. elvsted. yes, do. berta. [laying down the letter.] i think i had better put out the lamp. it's smoking. mrs. elvsted. yes, put it out. it must soon be daylight now. berta. [putting out the lamp.] it is daylight already, ma'am. mrs. elvsted. yes, broad day! and no one come back yet--! berta. lord bless you, ma'am--i guessed how it would be. mrs. elvsted. you guessed? berta. yes, when i saw that a certain person had come back to town--and that he went off with them. for we've heard enough about that gentleman before now. mrs. elvsted. don't speak so loud. you will waken mrs. tesman. berta. [looks towards the sofa and sighs.] no, no--let her sleep, poor thing. shan't i put some wood on the fire? mrs. elvsted. thanks, not for me. berta. oh, very well. [she goes softly out by the hall door. hedda. [is wakened by the shutting of the door, and looks up.] what's that--? mrs. elvsted. it was only the servant. hedda. [looking about her.] oh, we're here--! yes, now i remember. [sits erect upon the sofa, stretches herself, and rubs her eyes.] what o'clock is it, thea? mrs. elvsted. [looks at her watch.] it's past seven. hedda. when did tesman come home? mrs. elvsted. he has not come. hedda. not come home yet? mrs. elvsted. [rising.] no one has come. hedda. think of our watching and waiting here till four in the morning-mrs. elvsted. [wringing her hands.] and how i watched and waited for him! hedda. [yawns, and says with her hand before her mouth.] well well--we might have spared ourselves the trouble. mrs. elvsted. did you get a little sleep? hedda. oh yes; i believe i have slept pretty well. have you not? mrs. elvsted. not for a moment. i couldn't, hedda!--not to save my life. hedda. [rises and goes towards her.] there there there! there's nothing to be so alarmed about. i understand quite well what has happened. mrs. elvsted. well, what do you think? won't you tell me? hedda. why, of course it has been a very late affair at judge brack's-mrs. elvsted. yes, yes--that is clear enough. but all the same-hedda. and then, you see, tesman hasn't cared to come home and ring us up in the middle of the night. [laughing.] perhaps he wasn't inclined to show himself either--immediately after a jollification. mrs. elvsted. but in that case--where can he have gone? hedda. of course he has gone to his aunts' and slept there. they have his old room ready for him. mrs. elvsted. no, he can't be with them for a letter has just come for him from miss tesman. there it lies. hedda. indeed? [looks at the address.] why yes, it's addressed in aunt julia's hand. well then, he has remained at judge brack's. and as for eilert lovborg--he is sitting, with vine-leaves in his hair, reading his manuscript. mrs. elvsted. oh, hedda, you are just saying things you don't believe a bit. hedda. you really are a little blockhead, thea. mrs. elvsted. oh yes, i suppose i am. hedda. and how mortally tired you look. mrs. elvsted. yes, i am mortally tired. hedda. well then, you must do as i tell you. you must go into my room and lie down for a little while. mrs. elvsted. oh no, no--i shouldn't be able to sleep. hedda. i am sure you would. mrs. elvsted. well, but you husband is certain to come soon now; and then i want to know at once-hedda. i shall take care to let you know when he comes. mrs. elvsted. do you promise me, hedda? hedda. yes, rely upon me. just you go in and have a sleep in the meantime. mrs. elvsted. thanks; then i'll try. [she goes off to the inner room. [hedda goes up to the glass door and draws back the curtains. the broad daylight streams into the room. then she takes a little hand-glass from the writing-table, looks at herself in it, and arranges her hair. next she goes to the hall door and presses the bell-button. berta presently appears at the hall door. berta. did you want anything, ma'am? hedda. yes; you must put some more wood in the stove. i am shivering. berta. bless me--i'll make up the fire at once. [she rakes the embers together and lays a piece of wood upon them; then stops and listens.] that was a ring at the front door, ma'am. hedda. then go to the door. i will look after the fire. berta. it'll soon burn up. [she goes out by the hall door. [hedda kneels on the foot-rest and lays some more pieces of wood in the stove. after a short pause, george tesman enters from the hall. he steals on tiptoe towards the middle doorway and is about to slip through the curtains. hedda. [at the stove, without looking up.] good morning. tesman. [turns.] hedda! [approaching her.] good heavens--are you up so early? eh? hedda. yes, i am up very early this morning. tesman. and i never doubted you were still sound asleep! fancy that, hedda! hedda. don't speak so loud. mrs. elvsted is resting in my room. tesman. has mrs. elvsted been here all night? hedda. yes, since no one came to fetch her. tesman. ah, to be sure. hedda. [closes the door of the stove and rises.] well, did you enjoy yourselves at judge brack's? tesman. have you been anxious about me? eh? hedda. no, i should never think of being anxious. but i asked if you had enjoyed yourself. tesman. oh yes,--for once in a way. especially the beginning of the evening; for then eilert read me part of his book. we arrived more than an hour too early--fancy that! and brack had all sorts of arrangements to make--so eilert read to me. hedda. [seating herself by the table on the right.] well? tell me then-tesman. [sitting on a footstool near the stove.] oh, hedda, you can't conceive what a book that is going to be! i believe it is one of the most remarkable things that have ever been written. fancy that! hedda. yes yes; i don't care about that-tesman. i must make a confession to you, hedda. when he had finished reading--a horrid feeling came over me. hedda. a horrid feeling? tesman. i felt jealous of eilert for having had it in him to write such a book. only think, hedda! hedda. yes, yes, i am thinking! tesman. and then how pitiful to think that he--with all his gifts--should be irreclaimable, after all. hedda. i suppose you mean that he has more courage than the rest? tesman. no, not at all--i mean that he is incapable of taking his pleasure in moderation. hedda. and what came of it all--in the end? tesman. well, to tell the truth, i think it might best be described as an orgie, hedda. hedda. had he vine-leaves in his hair? tesman. vine-leaves? no, i saw nothing of the sort. but he made a long, rambling speech in honour of the woman who had inspired him in his work--that was the phrase he used. hedda. did he name her? tesman. no, he didn't; but i can't help thinking he meant mrs. elvsted. you may be sure he did. hedda. well--where did you part from him? tesman. on the way to town. we broke up--the last of us at any rate--all together; and brack came with us to get a breath of fresh air. and then, you see, we agreed to take eilert home; for he had had far more than was good for him. hedda. i daresay. tesman. but now comes the strange part of it, hedda; or, i should rather say, the melancholy part of it. i declare i am almost ashamed--on eilert's account--to tell you-hedda. oh, go on--! tesman. well, as we were getting near town, you see, i happened to drop a little behind the others. only for a minute or two--fancy that! hedda. yes yes yes, but--? tesman. and then, as i hurried after them--what do you think i found by the wayside? eh? hedda. oh, how should i know! tesman. you mustn't speak of it to a soul, hedda! do you hear! promise me, for eilert's sake. [draws a parcel, wrapped in paper, from his coat pocket.] fancy, dear--i found this. hedda. is not that the parcel he had with him yesterday? tesman. yes, it is the whole of his precious, irreplaceable manuscript! and he had gone and lost it, and knew nothing about it. only fancy, hedda! so deplorably-hedda. but why did you not give him back the parcel at once? tesman. i didn't dare to--in the state he was then in-hedda. did you not tell any of the others that you had found it? tesman. oh, far from it! you can surely understand that, for eilert's sake, i wouldn't do that. hedda. so no one knows that eilert lovborg's manuscript is in your possession? tesman. no. and no one must know it. hedda. then what did you say to him afterwards? tesman. i didn't talk to him again at all; for when we got in among the streets, he and two or three of the others gave us the slip and disappeared. fancy that! hedda. indeed! they must have taken him home then. tesman. yes, so it would appear. and brack, too, left us. hedda. and what have you been doing with yourself since? tesman. well, i and some of the others went home with one of the party, a jolly fellow, and took our morning coffee with him; or perhaps i should rather call it our night coffee--eh? but now, when i have rested a little, and given eilert, poor fellow, time to have his sleep out, i must take this back to him. hedda. [holds out her hand for the packet.] no--don't give it to him! not in such a hurry, i mean. let me read it first. tesman. no, my dearest hedda, i mustn't, i really mustn't. hedda. you must not? tesman. no--for you can imagine what a state of despair he will be in when he wakens and misses the manuscript. he has no copy of it, you must know! he told me so. hedda. [looking searchingly at him.] can such a thing not be reproduced? written over again? tesman. no, i don't think that would be possible. for the inspiration, you see-hedda. yes, yes--i suppose it depends on that--[lightly.] but, by-the-bye --here is a letter for you. tesman. fancy--! hedda. [handing it to him.] it came early this morning. tesman. it's from aunt julia! what can it be? [he lays the packet on the other footstool, opens the letter, runs his eye through it, and jumps up.] oh, hedda--she says that poor aunt rina is dying! hedda. well, we were prepared for that. tesman. and that if i want to see her again, i must make haste. i'll run in to them at once. hedda. [suppressing a smile.] will you run? tesman. oh, my dearest hedda--if you could only make up your mind to come with me! just think! hedda. [rises and says wearily, repelling the idea.] no, no don't ask me. i will not look upon sickness and death. i loathe all sorts of ugliness. tesman. well, well, then--! [bustling around.] my hat--? my overcoat--? oh, in the hall--. i do hope i mayn't come too late, hedda! eh? hedda. oh, if you run-[berta appears at the hall door. berta. judge brack is at the door, and wishes to know if he may come in. tesman. at this time! no, i can't possibly see him. hedda. but i can. [to berta.] ask judge brack to come in. [berta goes out. hedda. [quickly, whispering.] the parcel, tesman! [she snatches it up from the stool. tesman. yes, give it to me! hedda. no, no, i will keep it till you come back. [she goes to the writing-table and places it in the bookcase. tesman stands in a flurry of haste, and cannot get his gloves on. judge brack enters from the hall. hedda. [nodding to him.] you are an early bird, i must say. brack. yes, don't you think so! [to tesman.] are you on the move, too? tesman. yes, i must rush of to my aunts'. fancy--the invalid one is lying at death's door, poor creature. brack. dear me, is she indeed? then on no account let me detain you. at such a critical moment-tesman. yes, i must really rush-good-bye! good-bye! [he hastens out by the hall door. hedda. [approaching.] you seem to have made a particularly lively night of it at your rooms, judge brack. brack. i assure you i have not had my clothes off, mrs. hedda. hedda. not you, either? brack. no, as you may see. but what has tesman been telling you of the night's adventures? hedda. oh, some tiresome story. only that they went and had coffee somewhere or other. brack. i have heard about that coffee-party already. eilert lovborg was not with them, i fancy? hedda. no, they had taken him home before that. brack. tesman too? hedda. no, but some of the others, he said. brack. [smiling.] george tesman is really an ingenuous creature, mrs. hedda. hedda. yes, heaven knows he is. then is there something behind all this? brack. yes, perhaps there may be. hedda. well then, sit down, my dear judge, and tell your story in comfort. [she seats herself to the left of the table. brack sits near her, at the long side of the table. hedda. now then? brack. i had special reasons for keeping track of my guests--last night. hedda. of eilert lovborg among the rest, perhaps? brack. frankly, yes. hedda. now you make me really curious-brack. do you know where he and one or two of the others finished the night, mrs. hedda? hedda. if it is not quite unmentionable, tell me. brack. oh no, it's not at all unmentionable. well, they put in an appearance at a particularly animated soiree. hedda. of the lively kind? brack. of the very liveliest-hedda. tell me more of this, judge brack-brack. lovborg, as well as the others, had been invited in advance. i knew all about it. but he had declined the invitation; for now, as you know, he has become a new man. hedda. up at the elvsteds', yes. but he went after all, then? brack. well, you see, mrs. hedda--unhappily the spirit moved him at my rooms last evening-hedda. yes, i hear he found inspiration. brack. pretty violent inspiration. well, i fancy that altered his purpose; for we menfolk are unfortunately not always so firm in our principles as we ought to be. hedda. oh, i am sure you are an exception, judge brack. but as to lovborg--? brack. to make a long story short--he landed at last in mademoiselle diana's rooms. hedda. mademoiselle diana's? brack. it was mademoiselle diana that was giving the soiree, to a select circle of her admirers and her lady friends. hedda. is she a red-haired woman? brack. precisely. hedda. a sort of a--singer? brack. oh yes--in her leisure moments. and moreover a mighty huntress--of men--mrs. hedda. you have no doubt heard of her. eilert lovborg was one of her most enthusiastic protectors--in the days of his glory. hedda. and how did all this end? brack. far from amicably, it appears. after a most tender meeting, they seem to have come to blows-hedda. lovborg and she? brack. yes. he accused her or her friends of having robbed him. he declared that his pocket-book had disappeared--and other things as well. in short, he seems to have made a furious disturbance. hedda. and what came of it all? brack. it came to a general scrimmage, in which the ladies as well as the gentlemen took part. fortunately the police at last appeared on the scene. hedda. the police too? brack. yes. i fancy it will prove a costly frolic for eilert lovborg, crazy being that he is. hedda. how so? brack. he seems to have made a violent resistance--to have hit one of the constables on the head and torn the coat off his back. so they had to march him off to the police-station with the rest. hedda. how have you learnt all this? brack. from the police themselves. hedda. [gazing straight before her.] so that is what happened. then he had no vine-leaves in his hair. brack. vine-leaves, mrs. hedda? hedda. [changing her tone.] but tell me now, judge--what is your real reason for tracking out eilert lovborg's movements so carefully? brack. in the first place, it could not be entirely indifferent to me if it should appear in the police-court that he came straight from my house. hedda. will the matter come into court then? brack. of course. however, i should scarcely have troubled so much about that. but i thought that, as a friend of the family, it was my duty to supply you and tesman with a full account of his nocturnal exploits. hedda. why so, judge brack? brack. why, because i have a shrewd suspicion that he intends to use you as a sort of blind. hedda. oh, how can you think such a thing! brack. good heavens, mrs. hedda--we have eyes in our head. mark my words! this mrs. elvsted will be in no hurry to leave town again. hedda. well, even if there should be anything between them, i suppose there are plenty of other places where they could meet. brack. not a single home. henceforth, as before, every respectable house will be closed against eilert lovborg. hedda. and so ought mine to be, you mean? brack. yes. i confess it would be more than painful to me if this personage were to be made free of your house. how superfluous, how intrusive, he would be, if he were to force his way into-hedda. --into the triangle? brack. precisely. it would simply mean that i should find myself homeless. hedda. [looks at him with a smile.] so you want to be the one cock in the basket(12)--that is your aim. brack. [nods slowly and lowers his voice.] yes, that is my aim. and for that i will fight--with every weapon i can command. hedda. [her smile vanishing.] i see you are a dangerous person--when it comes to the point. brack. do you think so? hedda. i am beginning to think so. and i am exceedingly glad to think--that you have no sort of hold over me. brack. [laughing equivocally.] well well, mrs. hedda--perhaps you are right there. if i had, who knows what i might be capable of? hedda. come come now, judge brack! that sounds almost like a threat. brack. [rising.] oh, not at all! the triangle, you know, ought, if possible, to be spontaneously constructed. hedda. there i agree with you. brack. well, now i have said all i had to say; and i had better be getting back to town. good-bye, mrs. hedda. [he goes towards the glass door. hedda. [rising.] are you going through the garden? brack. yes, it's a short cut for me. hedda. and then it is a back way, too. brack. quite so. i have no objection to back ways. they may be piquant enough at times. hedda. when there is ball practice going on, you mean? brack. [in the doorway, laughing to her.] oh, people don't shoot their tame poultry, i fancy. hedda. [also laughing.] oh no, when there is only one cock in the basket- [they exchange laughing nods of farewell. he goes. she closes the door behind him. [hedda, who has become quite serious, stands for a moment looking out. presently she goes and peeps through the curtain over the middle doorway. then she goes to the writing-table, takes lovborg's packet out of the bookcase, and is on the point of looking through its contents. berta is heard speaking loudly in the hall. hedda turns and listens. then she hastily locks up the packet in the drawer, and lays the key on the inkstand. eilert lovborg, with his greatcoat on and his hat in his hand, tears open the hall door. he looks somewhat confused and irritated. lovborg. [looking towards the hall.] and i tell you i must and will come in! there! [he closes the door, turns, sees hedda, at once regains his self control, and bows. hedda. [at the writing-table.] well, mr lovborg, this is rather a late hour to call for thea. lovborg. you mean rather an early hour to call on you. pray pardon me. hedda. how do you know that she is still here? lovborg. they told me at her lodgings that she had been out all night. hedda. [going to the oval table.] did you notice anything about the people of the house when they said that? lovborg. [looks inquiringly at her.] notice anything about them? hedda. i mean, did they seem to think it odd? lovborg. [suddenly understanding.] oh yes, of course! i am dragging her down with me! however, i didn't notice anything.--i suppose tesman is not up yet. hedda. no--i think not-lovborg. when did he come home? hedda. very late. lovborg. did he tell you anything? hedda. yes, i gathered that you had had an exceedingly jolly evening at judge brack's. lovborg. nothing more? hedda. i don't think so. however, i was so dreadfully sleepy- mrs. elvsted enters through the curtains of the middle doorway. mrs. elvsted. [going towards him.] ah, lovborg! at last--! lovborg. yes, at last. and too late! mrs. elvsted. [looks anxiously at him.] what is too late? lovborg. everything is too late now. it is all over with me. mrs. elvsted. oh no, no--don't say that! lovborg. you will say the same when you hear-mrs. elvsted. i won't hear anything! hedda. perhaps you would prefer to talk to her alone? if so, i will leave you. lovborg. no, stay--you too. i beg you to stay. mrs. elvsted. yes, but i won't hear anything, i tell you. lovborg. it is not last night's adventures that i want to talk about. mrs. elvsted. what is it then--? lovborg. i want to say that now our ways must part. mrs. elvsted. part! hedda. [involuntarily.] i knew it! lovborg. you can be of no more service to me, thea. mrs. elvsted. how can you stand there and say that! no more service to you! am i not to help you now, as before? are we not to go on working together? lovborg. henceforward i shall do no work. mrs. elvsted. [despairingly.] then what am i to do with my life? lovborg. you must try to live your life as if you had never know me. mrs. elvsted. but you know i cannot do that! lovborg. try if you cannot, thea. you must go home again-mrs. elvsted. [in vehement protest.] never in this world! where you are, there will i be also! i will not let myself be driven away like this! i will remain here! i will be with you when the book appears. hedda. [half aloud, in suspense.] ah yes--the book! lovborg. [looks at her.] my book and thea's; for that is what it is. mrs. elvsted. yes, i feel that it is. and that is why i have a right to be with you when it appears! i will see with my own eyes how respect and honour pour in upon you afresh. and the happiness--the happiness--oh, i must share it with you! lovborg. thea--our book will never appear. hedda. ah! mrs. elvsted. never appear! lovborg. can never appear. mrs. elvsted. [in agonised foreboding.] lovborg--what have you done with the manuscript? hedda. [looks anxiously at him.] yes, the manuscript--? mrs. elvsted. where is it? lovborg. the manuscript--. well then--i have torn the manuscript into a thousand pieces. mrs. elvsted. [shrieks.] oh no, no--! hedda. [involuntarily.] but that's not-lovborg. [looks at her.] not true, you think? hedda. [collecting herself.] oh well, of course--since you say so. but it sounded so improbable-lovborg. it is true, all the same. mrs. elvsted. [wringing her hands.] oh god--oh god, hedda--torn his own work to pieces! lovborg. i have torn my own life to pieces. so why should i not tear my life-work too--? mrs. elvsted. and you did this last night? lovborg. yes, i tell you! tore it into a thousand pieces--and scattered them on the fiord--far out. there there is cool sea-water at any rate--let them drift upon it--drift with the current and the wind. and then presently they will sink--deeper and deeper--as i shall, thea. mrs. elvsted. do you know, lovborg, that what you have done with the book--i shall think of it to my dying day as though you had killed a little child. lovborg. yes, you are right. it is a sort of child-murder. mrs. elvsted. how could you, then--! did not the child belong to me too? hedda. [almost inaudibly.] ah, the child-mrs. elvsted. [breathing heavily.] it is all over then. well well, now i will go, hedda. hedda. but you are not going away from town? mrs. elvsted. oh, i don't know what i shall do. i see nothing but darkness before me. [she goes out by the hall door. hedda. [stands waiting for a moment.] so you are not going to see her home, mr. lovborg? lovborg. i? through the streets? would you have people see her walking with me? hedda. of course i don't know what else may have happened last night. but is it so utterly irretrievable? lovborg. it will not end with last night--i know that perfectly well. and the thing is that now i have no taste for that sort of life either. i won't begin it anew. she has broken my courage and my power of braving life out. hedda. [looking straight before her.] so that pretty little fool has had her fingers in a man's destiny. [looks at him.] but all the same, how could you treat her so heartlessly. lovborg. oh, don't say that i was heartless! hedda. to go and destroy what has filled her whole soul for months and years! you do not call that heartless! lovborg. to you i can tell the truth, hedda. hedda. the truth? lovborg. first promise me--give me your word--that what i now confide in you thea shall never know. hedda. i give you my word. lovborg. good. then let me tell you that what i said just now was untrue. hedda. about the manuscript? lovborg. yes. i have not torn it to pieces--nor thrown it into the fiord. hedda. no, no--. but--where is it then? lovborg. i have destroyed it none the less--utterly destroyed it, hedda! hedda. i don't understand. lovborg. thea said that what i had done seemed to her like a child-murder. hedda. yes, so she said. lovborg. but to kill his child--that is not the worst thing a father can do to it. hedda. not the worst? lovborg. suppose now, hedda, that a man--in the small hours of the morning--came home to his child's mother after a night of riot and debauchery, and said: "listen--i have been here and there--in this place and in that. and i have taken our child with--to this place and to that. and i have lost the child--utterly lost it. the devil knows into what hands it may have fallen--who may have had their clutches on it." hedda. well--but when all is said and done, you know--this was only a book-lovborg. thea's pure soul was in that book. hedda. yes, so i understand. lovborg. and you can understand, too, that for her and me together no future is possible. hedda. what path do you mean to take then? lovborg. none. i will only try to make an end of it all--the sooner the better. hedda. [a step nearer him.] eilert lovborg--listen to me.--will you not try to--to do it beautifully? lovborg. beautifully? [smiling.] with vine-leaves in my hair, as you used to dream in the old days--? hedda. no, no. i have lost my faith in the vine-leaves. but beautifully nevertheless! for once in a way!--good-bye! you must go now--and do not come here any more. lovborg. good-bye, mrs. tesman. and give george tesman my love. [he is on the point of going. hedda. no, wait! i must give you a memento to take with you. [she goes to the writing-table and opens the drawer and the pistol-case; then returns to lovborg with one of the pistols. lovborg. [looks at her.] this? is this the memento? hedda. [nodding slowly.] do you recognise it? it was aimed at you once. lovborg. you should have used it then. hedda. take it--and do you use it now. lovborg. [puts the pistol in his breast pocket.] thanks! hedda. and beautifully, eilert lovborg. promise me that! lovborg. good-bye, hedda gabler. [he goes out by the hall door. [hedda listens for a moment at the door. then she goes up to the writing-table, takes out the packet of manuscript, peeps under the cover, draws a few of the sheets half out, and looks at them. next she goes over and seats herself in the arm-chair beside the stove, with the packet in her lap. presently she opens the stove door, and then the packet. hedda. [throws one of the quires into the fire and whispers to herself.] now i am burning your child, thea!--burning it, curly-locks! [throwing one or two more quires into the stove.] your child and eilert lovborg's. [throws the rest in.] i am burning--i am burning your child. act fourth. the same rooms at the tesmans'. it is evening. the drawing room is in darkness. the back room is light by the hanging lamp over the table. the curtains over the glass door are drawn close. hedda, dressed in black, walks to and fro in the dark room. then she goes into the back room and disappears for a moment to the left. she is heard to strike a few chords on the piano. presently she comes in sight again, and returns to the drawing-room. berta enters from the right, through the inner room, with a lighted lamp, which she places on the table in front of the corner settee in the drawing-room. her eyes are red with weeping, and she has black ribbons in her cap. she goes quietly and circumspectly out to the right. hedda goes up to the glass door, lifts the curtain a little aside, and looks out into the darkness. shortly afterwards, miss tesman, in mourning, with a bonnet and veil on, comes in from the hall. hedda goes towards her and holds out her hand. miss tesman. yes, hedda, here i am, in mourning and forlorn; for now my poor sister has at last found peace. hedda. i have heard the news already, as you see. tesman sent me a card. miss tesman. yes, he promised me he would. but nevertheless i thought that to hedda--here in the house of life--i ought myself to bring the tidings of death. hedda. that was very kind of you. miss tesman. ah, rina ought not to have left us just now. this is not the time for hedda's house to be a house of mourning. hedda. [changing the subject.] she died quite peacefully, did she not, miss tesman? miss tesman. oh, her end was so calm, so beautiful. and then she had the unspeakable happiness of seeing george once more--and bidding him good-bye.--has he not come home yet? hedda. no. he wrote that he might be detained. but won't you sit down? miss tesman. no thank you, my dear, dear hedda. i should like to, but i have so much to do. i must prepare my dear one for her rest as well as i can. she shall go to her grave looking her best. hedda. can i not help you in any way? miss tesman. oh, you must not think of it! hedda tesman must have no hand in such mournful work. nor let her thought dwell on it either--not at this time. hedda. one is not always mistress of one's thoughts-miss tesman. [continuing.] ah yes, it is the way of the world. at home we shall be sewing a shroud; and here there will soon be sewing too, i suppose--but of another sort, thank god! george tesman enters by the hall door. hedda. ah, you have come at last! tesman. you here, aunt julia? with hedda? fancy that! miss tesman. i was just going, my dear boy. well, have you done all you promised? tesman. no; i'm really afraid i have forgotten half of it. i must come to you again to-morrow. to-day my brain is all in a whirl. i can't keep my thoughts together. miss tesman. why, my dear george, you mustn't take it in this way. tesman. mustn't--? how do you mean? miss tesman. even in your sorrow you must rejoice, as i do--rejoice that she is at rest. tesman. oh yes, yes--you are thinking of aunt rina. hedda. you will feel lonely now, miss tesman. miss tesman. just at first, yes. but that will not last very long, i hope. i daresay i shall soon find an occupant for rina's little room. tesman. indeed? who do you think will take it? eh? miss tesman. oh, there's always some poor invalid or other in want of nursing, unfortunately. hedda. would you really take such a burden upon you again? miss tesman. a burden! heaven forgive you, child--it has been no burden to me. hedda. but suppose you had a total stranger on your hands-miss tesman. oh, one soon makes friends with sick folk; and it's such an absolute necessity for me to have some one to live for. well, heaven be praised, there may soon be something in this house, too, to keep an old aunt busy. hedda. oh, don't trouble about anything here. tesman. yes, just fancy what a nice time we three might have together, if--? hedda. if--? tesman. [uneasily.] oh nothing. it will all come right. let us hope so--eh? miss tesman. well well, i daresay you two want to talk to each other. [smiling.] and perhaps hedda may have something to tell you too, george. good-bye! i must go home to rina. [turning at the door.] how strange it is to think that now rina is with me and with my poor brother as well! tesman. yes, fancy that, aunt julia! eh? [miss tesman goes out by the hall door. hedda. [follows tesman coldly and searchingly with her eyes.] i almost believe your aunt rina's death affects you more than it does your aunt julia. tesman. oh, it's not that alone. it's eilert i am so terribly uneasy about. hedda. [quickly.] is there anything new about him? tesman. i looked in at his rooms this afternoon, intending to tell him the manuscript was in safe keeping. hedda. well, did you find him? tesman. no. he wasn't at home. but afterwards i met mrs. elvsted, and she told me that he had been here early this morning. hedda. yes, directly after you had gone. tesman. and he said that he had torn his manuscript to pieces--eh? hedda. yes, so he declared. tesman. why, good heavens, he must have been completely out of his mind! and i suppose you thought it best not to give it back to him, hedda? hedda. no, he did not get it. tesman. but of course you told him that we had it? hedda. no. [quickly.] did you tell mrs. elvsted? tesman. no; i thought i had better not. but you ought to have told him. fancy, if, in desperation, he should go and do himself some injury! let me have the manuscript, hedda! i will take it to him at once. where is it? hedda. [cold and immovable, leaning on the arm-chair.] i have not got it. tesman. have not got it? what in the world do you mean? hedda. i have burnt it--every line of it. tesman. [with a violent movement of terror.] burnt! burnt eilert's manuscript! hedda. don't scream so. the servant might hear you. tesman. burnt! why, good god--! no, no, no! it's impossible! hedda. it is so, nevertheless. tesman. do you know what you have done, hedda? it's unlawful appropriation of lost property. fancy that! just ask judge brack, and he'll tell you what it is. hedda. i advise you not to speak of it--either to judge brack or to anyone else. tesman. but how could you do anything so unheard-of? what put it into your head? what possessed you? answer me that--eh? hedda. [suppressing an almost imperceptible smile.] i did it for your sake, george. tesman. for my sake! hedda. this morning, when you told me about what he had read to you-tesman. yes yes--what then? hedda. you acknowledged that you envied him his work. tesman. oh, of course i didn't mean that literally. hedda. no matter--i could not bear the idea that any one should throw you into the shade. tesman. [in an outburst of mingled doubt and joy.] hedda! oh, is this true? but--but--i never knew you show your love like that before. fancy that! hedda. well, i may as well tell you that--just at this time-[impatiently breaking off.] no, no; you can ask aunt julia. she well tell you, fast enough. tesman. oh, i almost think i understand you, hedda! [clasps his hands together.] great heavens! do you really mean it! eh? hedda. don't shout so. the servant might hear. tesman. [laughing in irrepressible glee.] the servant! why, how absurd you are, hedda. it's only my old berta! why, i'll tell berta myself. hedda. [clenching her hands together in desperation.] oh, it is killing me, --it is killing me, all this! tesman. what is, hedda? eh? hedda. [coldly, controlling herself.] all this--absurdity--george. tesman. absurdity! do you see anything absurd in my being overjoyed at the news! but after all--perhaps i had better not say anything to berta. hedda. oh--why not that too? tesman. no, no, not yet! but i must certainly tell aunt julia. and then that you have begun to call me george too! fancy that! oh, aunt julia will be so happy--so happy! hedda. when she hears that i have burnt eilert lovborg's manuscript--for your sake? tesman. no, by-the-bye--that affair of the manuscript--of course nobody must know about that. but that you love me so much,(13) hedda--aunt julia must really share my joy in that! i wonder, now, whether this sort of thing is usual in young wives? eh? hedda. i think you had better ask aunt julia that question too. tesman. i will indeed, some time or other. [looks uneasy and downcast again.] and yet the manuscript--the manuscript! good god! it is terrible to think what will become of poor eilert now. mrs. elvsted, dressed as in the first act, with hat and cloak, enters by the hall door. mrs. elvsted. [greets them hurriedly, and says in evident agitation.] oh, dear hedda, forgive my coming again. hedda. what is the matter with you, thea? tesman. something about eilert lovborg again--eh? mrs. elvsted. yes! i am dreadfully afraid some misfortune has happened to him. hedda. [seized her arm.] ah,--do you think so? tesman. why, good lord--what makes you think that, mrs. elvsted? mrs. elvsted. i heard them talking of him at my boarding-house--just as i came in. oh, the most incredible rumours are afloat about him to-day. tesman. yes, fancy, so i heard too! and i can bear witness that he went straight home to bed last night. fancy that! hedda. well, what did they say at the boarding-house? mrs. elvsted. oh, i couldn't make out anything clearly. either they knew nothing definite, or else--. they stopped talking when the saw me; and i did not dare to ask. tesman. [moving about uneasily.] we must hope--we must hope that you misunderstood them, mrs. elvsted. mrs. elvsted. no, no; i am sure it was of him they were talking. and i heard something about the hospital or-tesman. the hospital? hedda. no--surely that cannot be! mrs. elvsted. oh, i was in such mortal terror! i went to his lodgings and asked for him there. hedda. you could make up your mind to that, thea! mrs. elvsted. what else could i do? i really could bear the suspense no longer. tesman. but you didn't find him either--eh? mrs. elvsted. no. and the people knew nothing about him. he hadn't been home since yesterday afternoon, they said. tesman. yesterday! fancy, how could they say that? mrs. elvsted. oh, i am sure something terrible must have happened to him. tesman. hedda dear--how would it be if i were to go and make inquiries--? hedda. no, no--don't you mix yourself up in this affair. judge brack, with his hat in his hand, enters by the hall door, which berta opens, and closes behind him. he looks grave and bows in silence. tesman. oh, is that you, my dear judge? eh? brack. yes. it was imperative i should see you this evening. tesman. i can see you have heard the news about aunt rina? brack. yes, that among other things. tesman. isn't it sad--eh? brack. well, my dear tesman, that depends on how you look at it. tesman. [looks doubtfully at him.] has anything else happened? brack. yes. hedda. [in suspense.] anything sad, judge brack? brack. that, too, depends on how you look at it, mrs. tesman. mrs. elvsted. [unable to restrain her anxiety.] oh! it is something about eilert lovborg! brack. [with a glance at her.] what makes you think that, madam? perhaps you have already heard something--? mrs. elvsted. [in confusion.] no, nothing at all, but-tesman. oh, for heaven's sake, tell us! brack. [shrugging his shoulders.] well, i regret to say eilert lovborg has been taken to the hospital. he is lying at the point of death. mrs. elvsted. [shrieks.] oh god! oh god--! tesman. to the hospital! and at the point of death! hedda. [involuntarily.] so soon then-mrs. elvsted. [wailing.] and we parted in anger, hedda! hedda. [whispers.] thea--thea--be careful! mrs. elvsted. [not heeding her.] i must go to him! i must see him alive! brack. it is useless, madam. no one will be admitted. mrs. elvsted. oh, at least tell me what has happened to him? what is it? tesman. you don't mean to say that he has himself-eh? hedda. yes, i am sure he has. brack. [keeping his eyes fixed upon her.] unfortunately you have guessed quite correctly, mrs. tesman. mrs. elvsted. oh, how horrible! tesman. himself, then! fancy that! hedda. shot himself! brack. rightly guessed again, mrs. tesman. mrs. elvsted. [with an effort at self-control.] when did it happen, mr. brack? brack. this afternoon--between three and four. tesman. but, good lord, where did he do it? eh? brack. [with some hesitation.] where? well--i suppose at his lodgings. mrs. elvsted. no, that cannot be; for i was there between six and seven. brack. well then, somewhere else. i don't know exactly. i only know that he was found--. he had shot himself--in the breast. mrs. elvsted. oh, how terrible! that he should die like that! hedda. [to brack.] was it in the breast? brack. yes--as i told you. hedda. not in the temple? brack. in the breast, mrs. tesman. hedda. well, well--the breast is a good place, too. brack. how do you mean, mrs. tesman? hedda. [evasively.] oh, nothing--nothing. tesman. and the wound is dangerous, you say--eh? brack. absolutely mortal. the end has probably come by this time. mrs. elvsted. yes, yes, i feel it. the end! the end! oh, hedda--! tesman. but tell me, how have you learnt all this? brack. [curtly.] through one of the police. a man i had some business with. hedda. [in a clear voice.] at last a deed worth doing! tesman. [terrified.] good heavens, hedda! what are you saying? hedda. i say there is beauty in this. brack. h'm, mrs. tesman-mrs. elvsted. oh, hedda, how can you talk of beauty in such an act! hedda. eilert lovborg has himself made up his account with life. he has had the courage to do--the one right thing. mrs. elvsted. no, you must never think that was how it happened! it must have been in delirium that he did it. tesman. in despair! hedda. that he did not. i am certain of that. mrs. elvsted. yes, yes! in delirium! just as when he tore up our manuscript. brack. [starting.] the manuscript? has he torn that up? mrs. elvsted. yes, last night. tesman. [whispers softly.] oh, hedda, we shall never get over this. brack. h'm, very extraordinary. tesman. [moving about the room.] to think of eilert going out of the world in this way! and not leaving behind him the book that would have immortalised his name-mrs. elvsted. oh, if only it could be put together again! tesman. yes, if it only could! i don't know what i would not give-mrs. elvsted. perhaps it can, mr. tesman. tesman. what do you mean? mrs. elvsted. [searches in the pocket of her dress.] look here. i have kept all the loose notes he used to dictate from. hedda. [a step forward.] ah--! tesman. you have kept them, mrs. elvsted! eh? mrs. elvsted. yes, i have them here. i put them in my pocket when i left home. here they still are-tesman. oh, do let me see them! mrs. elvsted. [hands him a bundle of papers.] but they are in such disorder--all mixed up. tesman. fancy, if we could make something out of them, after all! perhaps if we two put our heads together-mrs. elvsted. oh yes, at least let us try-tesman. we will manage it! we must! i will dedicate my life to this task. hedda. you, george? your life? tesman. yes, or rather all the time i can spare. my own collections must wait in the meantime. hedda--you understand, eh? i owe this to eilert's memory. hedda. perhaps. tesman. and so, my dear mrs. elvsted, we will give our whole minds to it. there is no use in brooding over what can't be undone--eh? we must try to control our grief as much as possible, and-mrs. elvsted. yes, yes, mr. tesman, i will do the best i can. tesman. well then, come here. i can't rest until we have looked through the notes. where shall we sit? here? no, in there, in the back room. excuse me, my dear judge. come with me, mrs. elvsted. mrs. elvsted. oh, if only it were possible! [tesman and mrs. elvsted go into the back room. she takes off her hat and cloak. they both sit at the table under the hanging lamp, and are soon deep in an eager examination of the papers. hedda crosses to the stove and sits in the arm chair. presently brack goes up to her. hedda. [in a low voice.] oh, what a sense of freedom it gives one, this act of eilert lovborg's. brack. freedom, mrs. hedda? well, of course, it is a release for him-hedda. i mean for me. it gives me a sense of freedom to know that a deed of deliberate courage is still possible in this world,--a deed of spontaneous beauty. brack. [smiling.] h'm--my dear mrs. hedda-hedda. oh, i know what you are going to say. for you are a kind of specialist too, like--you know! brack. [looking hard at her.] eilert lovborg was more to you than perhaps you are willing to admit to yourself. am i wrong? hedda. i don't answer such questions. i only know that eilert lovborg has had the courage to live his life after his own fashion. and then--the last great act, with its beauty! ah! that he should have the will and the strength to turn away from the banquet of life--so early. brack. i am sorry, mrs. hedda,--but i fear i must dispel an amiable illusion. hedda. illusion? brack. which could not have lasted long in any case. hedda. what do you mean? brack. eilert lovborg did not shoot himself--voluntarily. hedda. not voluntarily? brack. no. the thing did not happen exactly as i told it. hedda. [in suspense.] have you concealed something? what is it? brack. for poor mrs. elvsted's sake i idealised the facts a little. hedda. what are the facts? brack. first, that he is already dead. hedda. at the hospital? brack. yes--without regaining consciousness. hedda. what more have you concealed? brack. this--the event did not happen at his lodgings. hedda. oh, that can make no difference. brack. perhaps it may. for i must tell you--eilert lovborg was found shot in--in mademoiselle diana's boudoir. hedda. [makes a motion as if to rise, but sinks back again.] that is impossible, judge brack! he cannot have been there again to-day. brack. he was there this afternoon. he went there, he said, to demand the return of something which they had taken from him. talked wildly about a lost child-hedda. ah--so that is why-brack. i thought probably he meant his manuscript; but now i hear he destroyed that himself. so i suppose it must have been his pocket-book. hedda. yes, no doubt. and there--there he was found? brack. yes, there. with a pistol in his breast-pocket, discharged. the ball had lodged in a vital part. hedda. in the breast--yes? brack. no--in the bowels. hedda. [looks up at him with an expression of loathing.] that too! oh, what curse is it that makes everything i touch turn ludicrous and mean? brack. there is one point more, mrs. hedda--another disagreeable feature in the affair. hedda. and what is that? brack. the pistol he carried-hedda. [breathless.] well? what of it? brack. he must have stolen it. hedda. [leaps up.] stolen it! that is not true! he did not steal it! brack. no other explanation is possible. he must have stolen it--. hush! tesman and mrs. elvsted have risen from the table in the back room, and come into the drawing-room. tesman. [with the papers in both his hands.] hedda, dear, it is almost impossible to see under that lamp. think of that! hedda. yes, i am thinking. tesman. would you mind our sitting at you writing-table--eh? hedda. if you like. [quickly.] no, wait! let me clear it first! tesman. oh, you needn't trouble, hedda. there is plenty of room. hedda. no no, let me clear it, i say! i will take these things in and put them on the piano. there! [she has drawn out an object, covered with sheet music, from under the bookcase, places several other pieces of music upon it, and carries the whole into the inner room, to the left. tesman lays the scraps of paper on the writing-table, and moves the lamp there from the corner table. he and mrs. elvsted sit down and proceed with their work. hedda returns. hedda. [behind mrs. elvsted's chair, gently ruffling her hair.] well, my sweet thea,--how goes it with eilert lovborg's monument? mrs. elvsted. [looks dispiritedly up at her.] oh, it will be terribly hard to put in order. tesman. we must manage it. i am determined. and arranging other people's papers is just the work for me. [hedda goes over to the stove, and seats herself on one of the footstools. brack stands over her, leaning on the arm-chair. hedda. [whispers.] what did you say about the pistol? brack. [softly.] that he must have stolen it. hedda. why stolen it? brack. because every other explanation ought to be impossible, mrs. hedda. hedda. indeed? brack. [glances at her.] of course eilert lovborg was here this morning. was he not? hedda. yes. brack. were you alone with him? hedda. part of the time. brack. did you not leave the room whilst he was here? hedda. no. brack. try to recollect. were you not out of the room a moment? hedda. yes, perhaps just a moment--out in the hall. brack. and where was you pistol-case during that time? hedda. i had it locked up in-brack. well, mrs. hedda? hedda. the case stood there on the writing-table. brack. have you looked since, to see whether both the pistols are there? hedda. no. brack. well, you need not. i saw the pistol found in lovborg's pocket, and i knew it at once as the one i had seen yesterday--and before, too. hedda. have you it with you? brack. no; the police have it. hedda. what will the police do with it? brack. search till they find the owner. hedda. do you think they will succeed? brack. [bends over her and whispers.] no, hedda gabler--not so long as i say nothing. hedda. [looks frightened at him.] and if you do not say nothing,--what then? brack. [shrugs his shoulders.] there is always the possibility that the pistol was stolen. hedda. [firmly.] death rather than that. brack. [smiling.] people say such things--but they don't do them. hedda. [without replying.] and supposing the pistol was not stolen, and the owner is discovered? what then? brack. well, hedda--then comes the scandal! hedda. the scandal! brack. yes, the scandal--of which you are so mortally afraid. you will, of course, be brought before the court--both you and mademoiselle diana. she will have to explain how the thing happened--whether it was an accidental shot or murder. did the pistol go off as he was trying to take it out of his pocket, to threaten her with? or did she tear the pistol out of his hand, shoot him, and push it back into his pocket? that would be quite like her; for she is an able-bodied young person, this same mademoiselle diana. hedda. but _i_ have nothing to do with all this repulsive business. brack. no. but you will have to answer the question: why did you give eilert the pistol? and what conclusions will people draw from the fact that you did give it to him? hedda. [lets her head sink.] that is true. i did not think of that. brack. well, fortunately, there is no danger, so long as i say nothing. hedda. [looks up at him.] so i am in your power, judge brack. you have me at your beck and call, from this time forward. brack. [whispers softly.] dearest hedda--believe me--i shall not abuse my advantage. hedda. i am in your power none the less. subject to your will and your demands. a slave, a slave then! [rises impetuously.] no, i cannot endure the thought of that! never! brack. [looks half-mockingly at her.] people generally get used to the inevitable. hedda. [returns his look.] yes, perhaps. [she crosses to the writing-table. suppressing an involuntary smile, she imitates tesman's intonations.] well? are you getting on, george? eh? tesman. heaven knows, dear. in any case it will be the work of months. hedda. [as before.] fancy that! [passes her hands softly through mrs. elvsted's hair.] doesn't it seem strange to you, thea? here are you sitting with tesman--just as you used to sit with eilert lovborg? mrs. elvsted. ah, if i could only inspire your husband in the same way! hedda. oh, that will come too--in time. tesman. yes, do you know, hedda--i really think i begin to feel something of the sort. but won't you go and sit with brack again? hedda. is there nothing i can do to help you two? tesman. no, nothing in the world. [turning his head.] i trust to you to keep hedda company, my dear brack. brack. [with a glance at hedda.] with the very greatest of pleasure. hedda. thanks. but i am tired this evening. i will go in and lie down a little on the sofa. tesman. yes, do dear--eh? [hedda goes into the back room and draws the curtains. a short pause. suddenly she is heard playing a wild dance on the piano. mrs. elvsted. [starts from her chair.] oh--what is that? tesman. [runs to the doorway.] why, my dearest hedda--don't play dance-music to-night! just think of aunt rina! and of eilert too! hedda. [puts her head out between the curtains.] and of aunt julia. and of all the rest of them.--after this, i will be quiet. [closes the curtains again.] tesman. [at the writing-table.] it's not good for her to see us at this distressing work. i'll tell you what, mrs. elvsted,--you shall take the empty room at aunt julia's, and then i will come over in the evenings, and we can sit and work there--eh? hedda. [in the inner room.] i hear what you are saying, tesman. but how am _i_ to get through the evenings out here? tesman. [turning over the papers.] oh, i daresay judge brack will be so kind as to look in now and then, even though i am out. brack. [in the arm-chair, calls out gaily.] every blessed evening, with all the pleasure in life, mrs. tesman! we shall get on capitally together, we two! hedda. [speaking loud and clear.] yes, don't you flatter yourself we will, judge brack? now that you are the one cock in the basket- [a shot is heard within. tesman, mrs. elvsted, and brack leap to their feet. tesman. oh, now she is playing with those pistols again. [he throws back the curtains and runs in, followed by mrs. elvsted. hedda lies stretched on the sofa, lifeless. confusion and cries. berta enters in alarm from the right. tesman. [shrieks to brack.] shot herself! shot herself in the temple! fancy that! brack. [half-fainting in the arm-chair.] good god!--people don't do such things. the end footnotes. (1)pronounce _reena_. (2)in the original "statsradinde falks villa"--showing that it had belonged to the widow of a cabinet minister. (3)_du_ equals thou: tesman means, "if you could persuade yourself to _tutoyer_ her." (4)see previous note. (5)pronounce _tora_ and _taya_. (6)mrs. elvsted here uses the formal pronoun _de_, whereupon hedda rebukes her. in her next speech mrs. elvsted says _du_. (7)"bagveje" means both "back ways" and "underhand courses." (8)as this form of address is contrary to english usage, and as the note of familiarity would be lacking in "mrs. tesman," brack may, in stage representation, say "miss hedda," thus ignoring her marriage and reverting to the form of address no doubt customary between them of old. (9)he uses the familiar _du_. (10)from this point onward lovborg use the formal _de_. (11)in this speech he once more says _du_. hedda addresses him throughout as _de_. (12)"enest hane i kurven"--a proverbial saying. (13)literally, "that you burn for me." transcriber's note: text enclosed by underscores is in italics (_italics_). the heroine by eaton stannard barrett with an introduction by walter raleigh london henry frowde 1909 oxford: horace hart printer to the university introduction 'in glamorganshire, of a rapid decline, occasioned by the bursting of a blood-vessel, eaton stannard barrett, esq., a native of ireland, and a student of the middle temple. he published "all the talents", a poem, 8vo. 1817.--"the comet", a mock newspaper, 8vo. 1803.--a very pleasing poem intituled "woman", 8vo. 1810.--"the heroine, or adventures of cherubina", 3 vols. 12mo, 2d. edit. 1814. this volume is said to abound in wit and humour.' very little can now be added to this obituary notice, which appeared in the __ for april, 1820. the young irishman whose death it records was born at cork in 1786, received his education chiefly in london, addicted himself to the law, and was early diverted into the profession of letters, which he practised with great energy and versatility. besides the works mentioned above, he wrote a serio-comic romance called _the rising sun_, and a farcical comedy, full of noise and bustle, called _my wife, what wife?_ the choice of this last phrase (sacred, if any words in poetry are sacred) for the title of a rollicking farce indicates a certain bluntness of sensibility in the author. he was young, and fell head over ears in love with cleverness; he was a law-student, and took to political satire as a duck takes to the rain; he was an irishman, and found himself the master of a happy irish wit, clean, quick, and dainty, but no ways searching or profound. at the back of all his satire there lies a simple social creed, which he accepts from the middle-class code of his own time, and does not question. the two of his works which achieved something like fame, _woman, a poem_, and _the heroine_, here reprinted, set forth that creed, describing the ideal heroine in verse, and warning her, in prose, against the extravagances that so easily beset her. the mode in female character has somewhat changed since george was king, and the pensive coyness set up as a model in the poem seems to a modern reader almost as affected as the vagaries described in the novel. yet the poem has all the interest and brilliancy of an old fashion-plate. here is woman as she wished to be in the days of the regency, or perhaps as man wished her to be, for it is impossible to say which began it. both gloried in the contrast of their habits. if man, in that age of the prize-ring and the press-gang, was pre-eminently a drinking, swearing, fighting animal, his indelicacy was redeemed by the shrinking graces of his mate. for woman is not undevelopt man, but diverse: as the poet of the later nineteenth century sings. but tennyson was anticipated in this discovery by mr. barrett: yes, heaven a contrast not unmeet, designed between the bearded and the blushing kind. those who often see the bearded kind clad in overcoats, carrying umbrellas, and timorous of social greetings, may have some difficulty in recognizing the essential truth of the following lines, which describe man in his grandeur, as his blushing consort loves to think of him: man, from those moments, when his infant age cried for the moon, ambitious aims engage, one world subdued, more worlds he wishes given, he piles his impious tower to clamber heaven; scoops cities under earth; erects his home on mountains of wild surges, vales of foam; soars air, and high above the thunder runs, now flaked with sleet, now reddened under suns. even in his pastime man his soul reveals; raised with carousing shout, his goblet reels. now from his chase imperial lions fly, and now he stakes a princedom on a die. what would he more? the consecrated game of murder must transmit his epic name, some empire tempts him; at his stern command, an armed cloud hails iron o'er the land. earth thunders underneath the pondrous tread, son slaughters sire, the dying stab the dead. the vallies roar, that loved a warbling mood, their mutilated lilies float on blood; and corpses sicken streams, and towns expire, and colour the nocturnal clouds with fire. last, vultures pounce upon the finished strife, and dabble in the plash of human life. such is man, all magnificence and terror. and now a softly trilling note ushers in the partner of his cares: but the meek female far from war removes, girt with the graces and endearing loves. to rear the life we destine to destroy, to bind the wound we plant, is her employ. her rapine is to press from healing bud, or healthful herb, the vegetable blood; her answer, at the martial blast abhorred, harmonic noise along the warbling chord. to her belong light roundelay and reel, to her the crackling hearth and humming wheel; (sounds of content!) to her the milky kine, and peace, o woman, gentle peace is thine. their studies are as dissimilar as their tastes. nothing less than a comet will excite the curiosity of man; for woman the flower-garden is science enough: prone o'er abstruse research, let man expound dark causes; what abyss our planet drowned; and where the fiery star its hundred years of absence travels, ere it re-appears. to woman, whose best books are human hearts, wise heaven a genius less profound imparts. his awful, her's is lovely; his should tell how thunderbolts, and her's how roses fell. here is the genesis of the early victorian ideal of female beauty. the author describes, with heart-felt sentiment, its graces and charms, the beautiful rebuke that looks surprise, the gentle vengeance of averted eyes; --which last line so pleased him that it occurs again in _the farewell_ (letter xxv of _the heroine_). the shorter poem, like the longer, has the indescribable old-world charm of a pressed rose-leaf, an elegant tarnished mirror, a faded silken fan, a vanished mode. the secret of this sentimental type of beauty perhaps lies here, that the simplicity and shyness and ardour of youth are reduced, not by a conscious science, but by the timid rules of propriety and modesty, to the service of an all-prevailing coquetry. ovid, as expounded by mrs. chapone or miss hannah more, gains something in the delicacy of his methods, and loses nothing of his empire: ut quondam iuvenes, ita nunc, mea turba, puellae inscribant spoliis: naso magister erat. it must be said, however, that the author of _woman, a poem_ does not confine himself to the alluring graces. his best known and most quoted lines are written in praise of courage and fidelity: not she denied her god with recreant tongue, not she with traitrous kisses round him clung; she, while apostles shrank, could danger brave, last at his cross and earliest at his grave. if he were to survive in a single quotation, it is probably by these lines that the author, who spent much labour on the revision and polishing of his poem, would wish to be remembered. it may seem strange that the author of this romantic poem on woman should have been so ready to parody the new school of prose romance. miss cherry wilkinson, when she took the name of cherubina, and commenced heroine, might certainly have found some useful hints for her behaviour in this earlier treatise. but the fact is that no parodist is successful who has not at some time fallen deeply under the spell of the literature that he parodies. parody is, for the most part, a weak and clinging kind of tribute to the force of its original. very perfect parodies, which catch the soul, as well as the form, of the models that they imitate, almost lose their identity and become a part of that which they were meant to ridicule. feeble parodies, where poor matter, not strong enough to speak for itself, claims notice by the aid of a notorious tune, are even more conspicuously dependent on the vogue of their original. the art of a tailor is seen in the cut of a coat; to make a mechanical copy of it, substituting tartan or fustian for velvet, is what any chinese slave can do. it is form in literature which is difficult to invent. when a poem or a story, by the individuality and novelty of its form, has caught the public taste, there are always some among its victims who are nothing if not critical. they cannot forget it, yet it does not content them. they think it narrow and partial in its conception; it does not mirror nature exactly as they see her; in short, they have ideas of their own. these ideas perhaps have not vitality enough to create their own definite form, so when a form is presented to them they seize on it for their purpose. hence every new and original kind in literature produces a tribe of imitators, some of them contented imitators, who undersell the first author with colourable copies; others discontented imitators, or parodists, who offer their own substitute for the author's wares, yet stamp it with his brand. the compliment is the same in either case; and the effect is not much different, for nothing so quickly exhausts the popularity of a work of art as its power of multiplying its kind. some congenital weakness, it is fair to say, there must have been in the original, when the form designed for a single purpose serves so many others. the weakness is not always easy to detect; but it is always there. it may be the weakness of excess; an ample and loose-folded robe like walt whitman's is characteristic of its wearer, but can soon be adapted to a borrower. or it may be the weakness of defect; the music and solemnity of the _psalm of life_ are a world too wide for the shrunken body of the thought that they conceal. a perfect conception expressing itself inevitably in the form that has grown with its growth defies imitators. the great things of virgil and of dante suffer no parody. and this is what is meant by a classic. yet lesser books have their day; and young authors, or old authors trying a new kind of work, often begin by imitation. they discover their genius by their failure. the famous parodies (so to call them) are not parodies at all; their freedom from the servility of parody is what has given them their place in literature. cervantes may have thought that he could criticize and banter the romances of chivalry by telling the adventures of a poor and high-minded gentleman travelling on the roads of spain; but once the new situation was created it called for a new treatment. fielding doubtless intended to parody richardson by a tale of the chastity of a serving-man; and it is easy to see how a mere wit would have carried out the design. but fielding, like cervantes, was too rich in ideas, and too brave in purpose, to be another man's mocking servitor. first mrs. slipslop incommodes the framework by her intrusion, and then parson adams enters to complete the disaster. the breakdown of these pretended parodies is always due to the same cause--the appearance on an artificially designed scene of real character. character, where it is fully conceived, will not take its orders from the scene-shifter; it reacts in surprising ways to slight accidental provocations; it will not play the part or speak the words assigned to it; it is consistent with nothing but itself; from self-revelation it soon passes to self-assertion, and subdues the world to its will, disordering all the puppet-show. it cannot be claimed for eaton stannard barrett that he proved superior to the task which he undertook. there is little or no real character in _the heroine_. perhaps jerry sullivan, the faithful irish servitor, with his ready speech and bold resourcefulness, comes nearest to the life, but even he is drawn, like lever's comic irishmen, not intimately. a few touches of verisimilitude are sufficient to portray a servant, whose business is to come when he is called and to help others in their necessities. the heroine herself has no breath in her; she is inconceivably credulous, impossibly ignorant, and even while she talks the author often forgets her very existence and speaks in her stead, so that she seems to be quizzing her own fatuity. perhaps this incompetent portraiture was to be expected from the author of _woman, a poem_, but it takes some of the edge off the fun of the book. cherubina is not a girl, with silly, flighty notions in her head, such as romance engenders, but a pedantic female lawyer, determined to order her life, down to the smallest detail, on precedents borrowed from her favourite reading. miss austen's girls, in _northanger abbey_, talk like girls; cherubina talks like a book. nevertheless, miss austen herself read _the heroine_, and confessed to the pleasure she had from it. it enjoyed a high and brief reputation. the first edition appeared in 1813; the second followed it in the space of a year; and in 1816 the author, before he was thirty years old, may have read a notice of himself in the _biographical dictionary of the living authors of great britain and ireland_ concluding with the following eulogy: 'this work (_the heroine_) has been pronounced not inferior in wit and humour to tristram shandy, and in point of plot and interest infinitely beyond don quixote.' let us save what remnants we can of this monstrous pronouncement. of character, as has been said, there is next to none in _the heroine_; so that only those who can read _don quixote_ and _tristram shandy_, careless of the characters portrayed, might possibly be able to return a verdict on the comparison. there are many readers of books who grudge labour spent on character-drawing; the long colloquies between don quixote and sancho or between my uncle toby and corporal trim they would be glad to see abbreviated, so they might get back to the confusion and bustle of life. why all this dissection of the heart, while there are crowns to be broke? what the soldier said is not evidence; it is what he did that they desire to hear. for readers of this temper there is abundance of entertainment in _the heroine_, if once they can bring themselves to accept the perilously slender illusion. the scenes described are as full of movement as a harlequinade. no irish fair is richer in incident. and there is such a flow of high spirits; the author carries the whole business through with such unflagging zest, that the farce, though it hardly ever touches on the confines of comedy, is pleasant farce, instinct with good nature and good fellowship. those who like a book that saves them from the more exacting companionship of their own thoughts might do worse than read _the heroine_. this is lukewarm praise; but the book has a stronger claim than this on the interest of the reader; it marks a crisis in literary history. the author was a well-read man, and all the fashionable literature of his day is reflected in his pages. he was familiar with the essayists and moralists of the eighteenth century; indeed, he often falls into their attitude in his opposition to the extravagances of the romantic movement. his parody of johnson's later style is one of the very best of the multitude of johnsonian imitations. boswell, writing before 1791, was able to enumerate a distinguished array of disciples and copyists, among them hugh blair, professor of rhetoric at edinburgh, george colman the elder, robertson the historian, gibbon, miss burney, mrs. barbauld, henry mackenzie, vicesimus knox, and last, john young, professor of greek at glasgow, whose _criticism on the elegy written in a country church-yard, being a continuation of dr. johnson's criticism on the poems of gray_ (1783) is rightly praised by boswell as the most perfect of all professed imitations of johnson's style. it is only half a parody; johnson's method in criticism has been so thoroughly assimilated by the author, that some of johnson's strong sense filters in here and there as if by oversight. horace walpole said of it, acutely enough, that the author seemed to wish to be taken by gray's admirers for a ridiculer of johnson, and by johnson's admirers for a censurer of gray. but if this is the best imitation of johnson's critical manner, his biographical style and his light occasional verse have never been so happily mimicked as in the _memoirs of james higginson, by himself_, which occur in letter x of _the heroine_. johnson continued to be the most influential teacher of english prose until macaulay, by introducing a more glittering kind of antithesis and a freer use of the weapons of offence in criticism, usurped his supremacy. a more voluminous and easier literature had enthralled the popular taste for some thirty or forty years before the author of _the heroine_ delivered his attack. only a few are now remembered even by name of that horde of romances which issued from the cheap presses, in the train of mrs. radcliffe. it is reasonable to suppose that many of them, which had not the help of that great preservative of a bad book, good binding, have perished from off the face of the earth. they are not yet old enough to be precious, as elizabethan trash is precious, and doubtless the surviving copies of some of them are even now being cast out from lumber-rooms and remote country libraries, to suffer their fate by fire. their names are scattered plentifully up and down the _bibliotheca britannica_ and other monumental compilations, where books that go under in their fight against time have christian burial and a little headstone reserved for them. in _the heroine_ only the chief of them are referred to by name. the romances of mrs. radcliffe--_the mysteries of udolpho_, _the italian_, and _the bravo of venice_--are praised as being 'often captivating and seldom detrimental'. the rivals of mrs. radcliffe who wrote those enormously popular works, _the children of the abbey_ and _caroline of lichtfield_, receive a less respectful treatment. at the close of his book the author of _the heroine_ summarizes his indictment against these and their kind: 'they present us with incidents and characters which we can never meet in the world; and act upon the mind like intoxicating stimulants; first elevate, and then enervate it. they teach us to revel in ideal scenes of transport and distraction; and harden our hearts against living misery, by making us so refined as to feel disgust at its unpoetical accompaniments.' throughout the book he keeps up a running fire of criticism. when cherubina visits westminster abbey, 'it is the first,' she says, 'that i have ever seen, though i had read of thousands.' she apologizes for using the vulgar word 'home'--'you know that a mere home is my horror'. she confesses that she is very inadequately armed with religion--'i knew nothing of religion except from novels; and in these, though the devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a degree, it never influences their acts, or appears connected with their moral duties. it is so speculative and generalized, that it would answer the greek or the persian church, as well as the christian; and none but the picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as kissing a cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a well-worded prayer.' the notable thing is that this attack on the novels of the day was not an isolated protest; it expressed the general mind and echoed the current opinion. miss austen, with more suavity and art, had long before said the same thing. the romance was declining; it had become a cheap mechanical thing; and the mind of the nation was turning away from it to reinstate those teachers of moral prudence whose influence had been impaired by the flood, but not destroyed. if any one had been rash enough, in the year 1814, to prophesy the future of literature, he would have been justified in saying that, to all appearances, the prose romance was dead. it had fallen into its dotage, and the hand of eaton stannard barrett had killed it. _the heroine_ seemed to mark the end of an age of romance, and the beginning of a new era of sententious prose. such a prophet would have been approved by _the edinburgh review_ and all the best judges of the time. he would have been wrong, for he could not foresee the accident of genius. walter scott, like cherubina (whose adventures he read and applauded), had fallen a victim to the fascinations of the writers of romance, yet, unlike her, had not allowed them to deprive him of all acquaintance with 'a more useful class of composition' and the toils of active life. romance was what he cared for, and he brought the sobriety and learning of a judge to the task of vindicating his affection. he proved that the old romantic stories are convincing enough if only the blood of life flows through them. his great panoramas of history are exhibited in the frame-work of a love-plot. in place of the feeble comic interest of the earlier romances he supplied a rich and various tissue of national character and manners. ancient legend and song, fable and superstition, live again in his work. and, as if cherubina's unhappy experiences had all been in vain, there is always a heroine. the readers who had been laughed into scepticism by the wit of the enemy were within a few years won back to poetry and romance; cherubina was deposed, and in her place there reigned the bride of lammermoor. walter raleigh. oxford, _christmas, 1908._ the heroine, or adventures of a fair romance reader, by eaton stannard barrett, esq. * * * * * "l'histoire d'une femme est toujours un roman." * * * * * _in three volumes._ vol. i. * * * * * london: printed for henry colburn, public library, conduit-street, hanover-square; and sold by george goldie, edinburgh, and john cumming, dublin. 1813. to the right honorable george canning &c. &c. &c. sir, it was the happiness of sterne to have dedicated his volumes to a pitt. it is my ambition to inscribe this work to you. my wishes would be complete, could i resemble the writer as you do the statesman. i have the honor to be, sir, your most sincere, and most humble servant, e. s. barrett. the heroine to the reader attend, gentle and intelligent reader; for i am not the fictitious personage whose memoirs you will peruse in 'the heroine;' but i am a corporeal being, and an inhabitant of another world. know, that the moment a mortal manuscript is written out in a legible hand, and the word end or finis annexed thereto, whatever characters happen to be sketched in it (whether imaginary, biographical, or historical), acquire the quality of creating and effusing a sentient soul or spirit, which instantly takes flight, and ascends through the regions of air, till it arrives at the moon; where it is then embodied, and becomes a living creature; the precise counterpart, in mind and person, of its literary prototype. know farther, that all the towns, villages, rivers, hills, and vallies of the moon, owe their origin, in a similar manner, to the descriptions given by writers of those on earth; and that all the lunar trades and manufactures, fleets and coins, stays for men, and boots for ladies, receive form and substance here, from terrestrial books on war and commerce, pamphlets on bullion, and fashionable magazines. works consisting of abstract argument, ethics, metaphysics, polemics, &c. which, from their very nature, cannot become tangible essences, send up their ideas, in whispers, to the moon; where the tribe of talking birds receive, and repeat them for the lunarians. so that it is not unusual to hear a mitred parrot screaming a political sermon, or a fashionable jay twittering unfigurative canzonets. these birds then are our philosophers; and so great is their value, that they sell for as much as your patriots. the moment, however, that a book becomes obsolete on earth, the personages, countries, manners, and things recorded in it, lose, by the law of sympathy, their existence in the moon. this, most grave reader, is but a short and imperfect sketch of the way we moonites live and die. i shall now give you some account of what has happened to me since my coming hither. it is something more than three lunar hours; or, in other words, about three terrestrial days ago, that, owing to the kindness of some human gentleman or other (to whom i take this opportunity of returning my grateful thanks), i became conscious of existence. like the miltonic eve, almost the first thing i did was to peep into the water, and admire my face;--a very pretty one, i assure you, dear reader. i then perceived advancing a lank and grimly figure in armour, who introduced himself as don quixote; and we soon found each other kindred souls. we walked, hand in hand, through a beautiful tract of country called terra fertilitatis; for your selenographers, langrenus, florentius, grimaldus, ricciolus, and hevelius of dantzic, have given proper names to the various portions of our hemisphere. as i proceeded, i met the radcliffian, rochian, and other heroines; but they tossed their heads, and told me pertly that i was a slur on the sisterhood; while some went so far as to say i had a design upon their lives. they likewise shunned the edgeworthian heroines, whom they thought too comic, moral, and natural. i met the lady of the lake, and shook hands with her; but her hand felt rather hard from the frequent use of the oar; and i spoke to the widow dido, but she had her old trick of turning on her heel, without answering a civil question. i found the homeric achilles broiling his own beefsteaks, as usual; the homeric princesses drawing water, and washing linen; the virgilian trojans eating their tables, and the livian hannibal melting mountains with the patent vinegar of an advertisement. the little boy in the ã�neid had introduced the amusement of whipping tops; and musidora had turned bathing-woman at a halfpenny a dip. a cã¦sar, an alexander, and an alfred, were talking politics, and quaffing the horatian falernian, at the garter inn of shakespeare. a catiline was holding forth on reform, and a hanno was advising the recall of a victorious army. as i walked along, a parcel of moonites, fresh from your newspapers, just popped up their heads, nodded, and died. about twenty statesmen come to us in this way almost every day; and though some of them are of the same name, and drawn from the same original, they are often as unlike each other as so many clouds. the buonapartes, thus sent, are, in general, hideous fellows. however, your parliamentary reports sometimes agreeably surprise us with most respectable characters of that name. on my way, i could observe numbers of patients dying, according as the books that had created them were sinking into oblivion. the foxian james was paraded about in a sedan chair, and considered just gone; and a set of politicians, entitled all the talents, who had once made a terrible noise among us, lay sprawling in their last agonies. but the most extensive mortality ever known here was caused by the burning of the alexandrian library. this forms quite an ã¦ra in the lunar annals; and it is called the great conflagration. i had attempted to pluck an apple from a tree that grew near the road; but, to my surprise, grasped a vacuum; and while don quixote was explaining to me that this phã¦nomenon arose from the berkeleian system of immaterialism; and that this apple was only a globular idea, i heard a squeaking voice just beside me cry: 'i must remark, madam, that the writer who sent you among us had far too much to say, and too little to do.' i looked round, but saw nobody. ''tis junius,' observed don quixote. 'he was invisible on earth, and therefore must be so here. do not mind his bitter sayings.' 'an author,' continued the satirist, 'who has judgment enough to write wit, should have judgment enough to prevent him from writing it.' 'sir,' said don quixote, 'if, by his works of wit, he can attain popularity, he will ensure a future attention to his works of judgment. so here is at thee, caitiff!' and closing his visor, he ran atilt at pure space. 'nay,' cried junius, 'let us not quarrel, though we differ. mind unopposed by mind, fashions false opinions of its own, and degenerates from its original rectitude. the stagnant pool resolves into putridity. it is the conflict of the waters which keeps them pure.' 'except in dropsical cases, i presume,' said tristram shandy, who just then came up, with his uncle toby. 'how goes it, heroine? how goes it?--by the man in the moon, the moment i heard of your arrival here, i gave three exulting flourishes of my hand, thus 1 2 3 then applying my middle finger to my thumb, and compressing them, by means of the flexory muscles, i shot them asunder transversely; so that the finger coming plump upon the aponeurosis- * * * * * in short,--for i don't much like the manner in which i am getting on with the description--i snapped my fingers. 'now, madam, i will bet the whole of kristmanus's, capuanus's, schihardus's, phocylides's, and hanzelius's estates,--which are the best on our disk,--to as much landed property as could be shovelled into your shoe--that you will get miserably mauled by their reverences, the scotch reviewers. my life for it, these lads will say that your character is a mere daub drawn in distemper--the colouring too rich--the hair too golden--an eyelash too much--then, that the book itself has too little of the rational and argumentative;--that the fellow merely wrote it to make the world laugh,--which, an' please your reverences, is the gravest occupation an author can chuse;--that some of its incidents are plastered as thick as butter on the bread of mamma's darling; others so diluted, that they wash down the bread and butter most unpalatably, and the rest unconducive to the plot, moral, and peripeteia. in short, madam, it will appear that the work has every fault which must convict it aristotellically and edinburgo--reviewically, in the eyes of ninety-nine barbati; but which will leave it not the ninety-ninth part of a gry the worse in the eyes of fifteen millions of honest englishmen; besides several very respectable ladies and gentlemen yet unborn, and nations yet undiscovered, who will read translations of it in languages yet unspoken. bless me, what hacking they will have at you! small sword and broad sword--staff and stiletto--flankonnade and cannonade--hurry-scurry--right wing and left wing----' but tristram paused short in consternation; for his animated description of a fight had roused the military spirits of don quixote and captain shandy, who were already at hard knocks; the one with his spear, and the other with his crutch. i therefore took this occasion of escaping. and now day begins to decline; and your globe, which never sets to us, will soon shed her pale earthshine over the landscape. o how serene, how lovely these regions! here are no hurricanes, or clouds, or vapours. here heroines cannot sigh; for here there is no air to sigh withal. here, in our great pits, poetically called vallies, we retire from all moonly cares; or range through the meads of cysatus or gruemberget, and luxuriate in the coolness of the conical penumbra. i trust you will feel, dear reader, that you now owe more to my discoveries than to those of endymion, copernicus, tycho brahe, galileus, and newton. i pray you, therefore, to reward my services with a long and happy life; though much i fear i shall not obtain it. for, i am told, that two little shining specks, called england and ireland (which we can just see with our glasses on your globe), are the places that i must depend upon for my health and prosperity. now, if they fall, i must fall with them; and i fancy they have seen the best of their days already. a parrot informs me, that they are at daggers drawn with a prodigious blotch just beside them; and that their most approved patriots daily indite pamphlets to shew how they cannot hold out ten years longer. the sternian starling assured me just now that these patriots write the triumphs of their country in the most commiserating language; and portray her distresses with exultation. of course, therefore, they conceive that her glories would undo her, and that nothing can save her but her calamities. so, since she is conquering away at a great rate, i may fairly infer that she is on her last legs. before i conclude, i must inform you of how i shall have this letter conveyed to your world. laplace, and other philosophers, have already proved, that a stone projected by a volcano, from the moon, and with the velocity of a mile and a half per second, would be thrown beyond the sphere of the moon's attraction, and enter into the confines of the earth's. now, hundreds have attested on oath, that they have seen luminous meteors moving through the sky; and that these have fallen on the earth, in stony or semi-metallic masses. therefore, say the philosophers, these masses came all the way from the moon. and they say perfectly right. believe it piously, dear reader, and quote me as your authority. it is by means of one of these stones that i shall contrive to send you this letter. i have written it on asbestus, in liquid gold (as both these substances are inconsumable by fire); and i will fasten it to the top of a volcanic mountain, which is expected to explode in another hour. alas, alas, short-sighted mortals! how little ye foresee the havoc that will happen hereafter, from the pelting of these pitiless stones. for, about the time of the millenium, the doctrine of projectiles will be so prodigiously improved, that while there is universal peace upon earth, the planets will go to war with each other. then shall we lunarians, like true satellites, turn upon our benefactors, and instead of merely trying our small shot (as at present), we will fire off whole mountains; while you, from your superior attraction, will find it difficult to hit us at all. the consequence must be, our losing so much weight, that we shall approach, by degrees, nearer and nearer to you; 'till at last, both globes will come slap together, flatten each other out, like the pancakes of glasse's cookery, and rush headlong into primeval chaos. such will be the consummation of all things. adieu. the heroine letter i my venerable governess, guardian of my youth, must i then behold you no more? no more, at breakfast, find your melancholy features shrouded in an umbrageous cap, a novel in one hand, a cup in the other, and tears springing from your eyes, at the tale too tender, or at the tea too hot? must i no longer wander with you through painted meadows, and by purling rivulets? motherless, am i to be bereft of my more than mother, at the sensitive age of fifteen? what though papa caught the butler kissing you in the pantry? what though he turned you by the shoulder out of his house? i am persuaded that the kiss was maternal, not amorous, and that the interesting butler is your son. perhaps you married early in life, and without the knowledge of your parents. a gipsy stole the pretty pledge of your love; and at length, you have recognized him by the scar on his cheek. happy, happy mother! happy too, perhaps, in being cast upon the world, unprotected and defamed; while i am doomed to endure the security of a home, and the dullness of an unimpeached reputation. for me, there is no hope whatever of being reduced to despair. i am condemned to waste my health, bloom, and youth, in a series of uninterrupted prosperity. it is not, my friend, that i wish for ultimate unhappiness, but that i am anxious to suffer present sorrow, in order to secure future felicity: an improvement, you will own, on the system of other girls, who, to enjoy the passing moment, run the risk of being wretched for ever after. have not all persons their favorite pursuits in life, and do not all brave fatigue, vexation, and calumny, for the purpose of accomplishing them? one woman aspires to be a beauty, another a title, a third a belle esprit; and to effect these objects, health is sacrificed, reputation tainted, and peace of mind destroyed. now my ambition is to be a heroine, and how can i hope to succeed in my vocation, unless i, too, suffer privations and inconveniences? besides, have i not far greater merit in getting a husband by sentiment, adventure, and melancholy, than by dressing, gadding, dancing, and singing? for heroines are just as much on the alert to get husbands, as other young ladies; and to say the truth, i would never voluntarily subject myself to misfortunes, were i not certain that matrimony would be the last of them. but even misery itself has its consolations and advantages. it makes one, at least, look interesting, and affords an opportunity for ornamental murmurs. besides, it is the mark of a refined mind. only fools, children, and savages, are happy. with these sentiments, no wonder i should feel discontented at my present mode of life. such an insipid routine, always, always, always the same. rising with no better prospect than to make breakfast for papa. then 'tis, 'good morrow, cherry,' or 'is the paper come, cherry?' or 'more cream, cherry,' or 'what shall we have to dinner, cherry?' at dinner, nobody but a farmer or the parson; and nothing talked but politics and turnips. after tea i am made sing some fal lal la of a ditty, and am sent to bed with a 'good night, pretty miss,' or 'sweet dear.' the clowns! now, instead of this, just conceive me a child of misery, in a castle, a convent, or a cottage; becoming acquainted with the hero by his saving my life--i in beautiful confusion--'good heaven, what an angel!' cries he--then sudden love on both sides--in two days he kisses my hand. embarrassments--my character suspected--a quarrel--a reconciliation--fresh embarrassments.--o biddy, what an irreparable loss to the public, that a victim of thrilling sensibility, like me, should be thus idling her precious time over the common occupations of life!--prepared as i am, too, by a five years' course of novels (and you can bear witness that i have read little else), to embody and ensoul those enchanting reveries, which i am accustomed to indulge in bed and bower, and which really constitute almost the whole happiness of my life. that i am not deficient in the qualities requisite for a heroine, is indisputable. all the world says i am handsome, and it would be melancholy were all the world in error. my form is tall and aã«rial, my face grecian, my tresses flaxen, my eyes blue and sleepy. but the great point is, that i have a remarkable mole just over my left temple. then, not only peaches, roses, and aurora, but snow, lilies, and alabaster, may, with perfect propriety, be adopted in a description of my skin. i confess i differ from other heroines in one point. they, you may remark, are always unconscious of their charms; whereas, i am, i fear, convinced of mine, beyond all hope of retraction. there is but one serious flaw in my title to heroine--the mediocrity of my lineage. my father is descended from nothing better than a decent and respectable family. he began life with a thousand pounds, purchased a farm, and by his honest and disgusting industry, has realized fifty thousand. were even my legitimacy suspected, it would be some comfort; since, in that case, i should assuredly start forth, at one time or other, the daughter of some plaintive nobleman, who lives retired, and slaps his forehead. one more subject perplexes me. it is my name; and what a name--cherry! it reminds one so much of plumpness and ruddy health. cherry--better be called pine-apple at once. there is a green and yellow melancholy in pine-apple, that is infinitely preferable. i wonder whether cherry could possibly be an abbreviation of cherubina. 'tis only changing y into ubina, and the name becomes quite classic. celestina, angelina, seraphina, are all of the same family. but cherubina sounds so empyrean, so something or other beyond mortality; and besides i have just a face for it. yes, cherubina i am resolved to be called, now and for ever. but you must naturally wish to learn what has happened here, since your departure. i was in my boudoir, reading the delicate distress, when i heard a sudden bustle below, and 'out of the house, this moment,' vociferated by my father. the next minute he was in my room with a face like fire. 'there!' cried he, 'i knew what your famous romances would do for us at last.' 'pray, sir, what?' asked i, with the calm dignity of injured innocence. 'only a kissing match between the governess and the butler,' answered he. 'i caught them at the sport in the pantry.' i was petrified. 'dear sir,' said i, 'you must surely mistake.' 'no such thing,' cried he. 'the kiss was too much of a smacker for that:--it rang through the pantry. but please the fates, she shall never darken my doors again. i have just discharged both herself and her swain; and what is better, i have ordered all the novels in the house to be burnt, by way of purification. as they love to talk of flames, i suppose they will like to feel them.' he spoke, and ran raging out of the room. adieu, then, ye dear romances, adieu for ever. no more shall i sympathize with your heroines, while they faint, and blush, and weep, through four half-bound octavos. adieu ye edwins, edgars, and edmunds; ye selinas, evelinas, malvinas; ye inas all adieu! the flames will consume you all. the melody of emily, the prattle of annette, and the hoarseness of ugo, all will be confounded in one indiscriminate crackle. the casa and castello will blaze with equal fury; nor will the virtue of pamela aught avail to save; nor wolmar delighting to see his wife in a swoon; nor werter shelling peas and reading homer, nor charlotte cutting bread and butter for the children. you, too, my loved governess, i regret extremely. adieu. cherubina. letter ii it was not till this morning, that a thought of the most interesting nature flashed across my mind. pondering on the cruel conduct of my reputed father, in having burnt my novels, and discharged you, without even allowing us to take a hysterical farewell, i was struck with the sudden notion that the man is not my father at all. in short, i began with wishing this the case, and have ended with believing it. my reasons are irresistible, and deduced from strong and stubborn facts. for, first, there is no likeness between this wilkinson and me. 'tis true, he has blue eyes, like myself, but has he my pouting lip and dimple? he has the flaxen hair, but can he execute the rosy smile? next, is it possible, that i, who was born a heroine, and who must therefore have sprung from an idle and illustrious family, should be the daughter of a farmer, a thrifty, substantial, honest farmer? the thing is absurd on the face of it, and never will i tamely submit to such an indignity. full of this idea, i dressed myself in haste, resolving to question wilkinson, to pierce into his inmost soul, to speak daggers to him; and if he should not unfold the mystery of my birth, to fly from his house for ever. with a palpitating heart, i descended the stairs, rushed into the breakfast-room, and in a moment was at the feet of my persecutor. my hands were folded across my bosom, and my blue eyes raised to his face. 'heyday, cherry,' said he, laughing, 'this is a new flourish. there, child, now fancy yourself stabbed, and come to breakfast.' 'hear me,' cried i. 'why,' said he, 'you keep your countenance as stiff and steady as the face on our rapper.' 'a countenance,' cried i, 'is worth keeping, when the features are a proof of the descent, and vindicate the noble birth from the baseness of the adoption.' 'come, come,' said he, 'your cup is full all this time.' 'and so is my heart,' cried i, pressing it expressively. 'what is the meaning of this mummery?' said he. 'hear me, wilkinson,' cried i, rising with dignified tranquillity. 'candor is at once the most amiable and the most difficult of virtues; and there is more magnanimity in confessing an error, than in never committing one.' 'confound your written sentences,' cried he, 'can't you come to the point?' 'then, sir,' said i, 'to be plain and explicit, learn, that i have discovered a mystery in my birth, and that you--you, wilkinson, are not--my real father!' i pronounced these words with a measured emphasis, and one of my ineffable looks. wilkinson coloured like scarlet and stared steadily in my face. 'would you scandalize the mother that bore you?' cried he, fiercely. 'no, wilkinson,' answered i, 'but you would, by calling yourself my father.' 'and if i am not,' said he, 'what the mischief must _you_ be?' 'an illustrious heiress,' cried i, 'snatched from my parents in her infancy;--snatched by thee, vile agent of the diabolical conspiracy!' he looked aghast. 'tell me then,' continued i, 'miserable man, tell me where my dear, my distracted father lingers out the remnant of his wretched days? my mother too--or say, am i indeed an orphan?' still he remained mute, and gazed on me with a searching intensity. i raised my voice: 'expiate thy dire offences, restore an outcast to her birthright, make atonement, or _tremble at retribution_!' i thought the farmer would have sunk into the ground. 'nay,' continued i, lowering my voice, 'think not i thirst for vengeance. i myself will intercede for thee, and stay the sword of justice. poor wretch! i want not thy blood.' the culprit had now reached the climax of agony, and writhed through every limb and feature. 'what!' cried i, 'can nothing move thee to confess thy crimes? then hear me. ere aurora with rosy fingers shall unbar the eastern gate----' 'my child, my child, my dear darling daughter!' exclaimed this accomplished crocodile, bursting into tears, and snatching me to his bosom, 'what have they done to you? what phantom, what horrid disorder is distracting my treasure?' 'unhand me, guileful adulator,' cried i, 'and try thy powers of tragedy elsewhere, for--_i know thee!_' i spoke, and extricated myself from his embrace. 'dreadful, dreadful!' muttered he. 'her sweet senses are lost.' then turning to me: 'my love, my life, do not speak thus to your poor old father.' 'father!' exclaimed i, accomplishing with much accuracy that hysterical laugh, which (gratefully let me own) i owe to your instruction; 'father!' the fat farmer covered his face with his hands, and rushed out of the room. i relate the several conversations, in a dramatic manner, and word for word, as well as i can recollect them, since i remark that all heroines do the same. indeed i cannot enough admire the fortitude of these charming creatures, who, while they are in momentary expectation of losing their lives, or their honours, or both, sit down with the utmost unconcern, and indite the wittiest letters in the world. they have even sufficient presence of mind to copy the vulgar dialect, uncooth phraseology, and bad grammar, of the villains whom they dread; and all this in the neatest and liveliest style imaginable. adieu. letter iii soon after my last letter, i was summoned to dinner. what heroine in distress but loaths her food? so i sent a message that i was unwell, and then solaced myself with a volume of the mysteries of udolpho, which had escaped the conflagration. at ten, i flung myself on my bed, in hopes to have dreams portentous of my future fate; for heroines are remarkably subject to a certain prophetic sort of night-mare. you remember the story that ludovico read, of a spectre who beckons a baron from his castle in the dead of night, and leading him into a forest, points to his own corpse, and bids him bury it. well, owing, i suppose, to my having just read this episode, and to my having fasted so long, i had the following dreams. methought a delicious odour of viands attracted me to the kitchen, where i found an iron pot upon the fire simmering in unison with my sighs. as i looked at it with a longing eye, the lid began to rise, and i beheld a half-boiled turkey stalk majestically forth. it beckoned me with its claw. i followed. it led me into the yard, and pointed to its own head and feathers, which were lying in a corner. i felt infinitely affected. straight the scene changed. i found myself seated at a dinner-table; and while i was expecting the repast, lo, the genius of dinner appeared. he had a mantle laced with silver eels, and his locks were dropping with costly soups. a crown of golden fishes was on his head, and pheasants' wings at his shoulders. a flight of little tartlets fluttered around him, and the sky rained down hock, comfits, and tokay. as i gazed on him, he vanished, in a sigh, that was strongly impregnated with the fumes of brandy. what vulgar, what disgusting visions, when i ought to have dreamt of nothing but coffins and ladies in black. at breakfast, this morning, wilkinson affected the most tender solicitude for my health; and as i now watched his words, i could discover in almost all that he said, something to confirm my surmise of his not being my father. after breakfast a letter was handed to him, which he read, and then gave to me. it was as follows: london. in accepting your invitation to sylvan lodge, my respected friend, i am sure i shall confer a far greater favor on myself, than, as you kindly tell me, i shall on you. after an absence of seven years, spent in the seclusion of a college, and the fatigues of a military life, how delightful to revisit the scene of my childhood, and those who contribute to render its memory so dear! i left you while you were my guardian; i return to you with the assurances of finding you a friend. let me but find you what i left you, and you shall take what title you please. yet, much as i flatter myself with your retaining all your former feelings towards me, i must expect a serious alteration in those of my friend cherry. will she again make me her playmate? again climb my shoulders, and gallop me round the lawn? are we to renew all our little quarrels, then kiss and be friends? shall we even recognize each other's features, through their change from childhood to maturity? there is, at least, one feature of our early days, that, i trust, has undergone no alteration--our mutual affection and friendship. i fear i cannot manage matters so as to be with you before ten to-morrow night: remember i bespeak my old room. ever affectionately your's, robert stuart. to gregory wilkinson, esq. 'there,' cries the farmer, 'if i have deprived you of an old woman, i have got you a young man. large estates, you know;--handsome, fashionable;--come, pluck up a heart, my girl; ay, egad, and steal one too.' i rose, gave him one of my ineffable looks, and retired to my chamber. 'so,' said i, locking my door, and flinging myself on the bed, 'this is something like misery. here is a precious project against my peace. i am to be forced into marriage, am i? and with whom? a man whose legitimacy is unimpeached, and whose friends would certainly consent. his name robert too:--master bobby, as the servants used to call him. a fellow that mewed like a cat, when he was whipt. o my bob! what a pretty monosyllable for a girl like me to pronounce. now, indeed, my wretchedness is complete; the cup is full, even to overflowing. an orphan, or at least an outcast; immured in the prison of a proud oppressor--threatened with a husband of decent birth, parentage and education--my governess gone, my novels burnt, what is left to me but flight? yes, i will roam through the wide world in search of my parents; i will ransack all the sliding pannels and tapestries in italy; i will explore il castello di udolpho, and will then enter the convent of ursulines, or carmelites, or santa della pieta, or the abbey of la trappe. here i meet with nothing better than smiling faces and honest hearts; or at best, with but sneaking villains. no precious scoundrels are here, no horrors, or atrocities, worth mentioning. but abroad i shall encounter banditti, monks, daggers, racks--o ye celebrated terrors, when shall i taste of you?' i then lay planning an elopement, till i was called to dinner. adieu. letter iv o my friend, such a discovery!--a parchment and a picture. but you shall hear. after dinner i stole into wilkinson's study, in hopes of finding, before my flight, some record or relic, that might aid me in unravelling the mystery of my birth. as heroines are privileged to ransack private drawers, and read whatever they find there, i opened wilkinson's scrutoire, without ceremony. but what were my sensations, when i discovered in a corner of it, an antique piece of tattered parchment, scrawled all over, in uncouth characters, with this frightful fragment. _this indenture_ for and in consideration of doth grant, bargain, release possession, and to his heirs and assigns lands of sylvan lodge, in the trees, stones, quarries. reasonable amends and satisfaction this demise molestation of him the said gregory wilkinson the natural life of cherry wilkinson only daughter of de willoughby eldest son of thomas lady gwyn of gwyn castle. o biddy, does not your blood run cold at this horrible scrawl? for already you must have decyphered its terrific import. the part lost may be guessed from the part left. in short, it is a written covenant between this gregory wilkinson, and the miscreant (whom my being an heiress had prevented from enjoying the title and estate that would devolve to him at my death), stipulating to give wilkinson 'sylvan lodge,' together with 'trees, stones, quarries, &c.' as 'reasonable amends and satisfaction,' for being the instrument of my 'demise;' and declaring that there shall be 'no molestation of him the said gregory wilkinson,' for taking away 'the natural life of cherry wilkinson'--'only daughter of----' something--'de willoughby, eldest son of thomas'--what an unfortunate chasm! then follows, 'lady gwyn of gwyn castle.' so that it is evident i am at least a de willoughby, and if not noble myself, related to nobility. for what confirms me in this supposition of my relationship to lady gwyn, is an old portrait which i found a few minutes after, in one of wilkinson's drawers, representing a young and beautiful female dressed in a superb style, and underneath it, in large letters, the name of, 'nell gwyn.' distraction! what shall i do? whither turn? to sleep another night under the same roof with a wretch, who has bound himself to assassinate me, would be little short of madness. my plan, therefore, is already arranged for flight, and this very evening i mean to begin my pilgrimage. the picture and parchment i will hide in my bosom during my journey; and i will also carry with me a small bandbox, containing my satin slip, a pair of silk stockings, my spangled muslin, and all my jewels. for as some benevolent duchess may possibly take me into her family, and her son persecute me, i might just as well look decent, you know. on mature deliberation, i have resolved to take but five guineas with me, since more would make me too comfortable, and tempt me, in some critical moment, to extricate myself from distress. i shall leave the following billet on my toilet. to gregory wilkinson, farmer. sir, when this letter meets your eye, the wretched writer will be far removed from your machinations. she will be wandering the convex earth in pursuit of those parents, from whose dear embraces you have torn her. she will be flying from a stuart, for whose detestable embraces you have designed her. your motive for this hopeful match i can guess. as you obtained one property by undertaking my death, you are probably promised another for effecting my marriage. learn that the latter fate has more terrors for me than the former. but i have escaped both. as for the ten thousand pounds willed to me by your deceased wife, i suppose it will revert to you, as soon as i prove that i am not your daughter. silly man! you might at this moment obtain that legacy, by restoring me to my real parents. alas! sir, you are indeed very wicked. yet remember, that repentance is never too late, and that virtue alone is true nobility. the much injured cherubina. all is prepared, and in ten minutes i commence my interesting expedition. london being the grand emporium of adventure, and the most likely place for obtaining information on the subject of my birth, i mean to bend my steps thither; and as stuart is to be here at ten to-night, and as he must come the london road, i shall probably meet him. should i recognize him, what a scene we shall have! but he cannot possibly recognize me, since i was only eight years old when we last parted. adieu. letter v the rain rattled and the wind whistled, as i tied on my bonnet for my journey. with the bandbox in my hand, i descended the stairs, and paused in the hall to listen. i heard a distant door shut, and steps advancing. not a moment was to be lost, so i sprang forward, opened the hall door, and ran down the shrubbery. 'o peaceful shades!' exclaimed i, 'why must i leave you? in your retreats i should still find "pleasure and repose!"' i then hastened into the london road, and pressed forward with a hurried step, while a violent tempest beat full against my face. being in such distress, i thought it incumbent on me to compose a sonnet; which i copy for you. sonnet bereft by wretches of endearing home, and all the joys of parent and of friend, unsheltered midst the shattering storm i roam, on mangled feet, and soon my life must end. so the young lark, whom sire and mother tend, some fowler robs of sire and mother dear. all day dejected in its nest it lies; no food, no song, no sheltering pinion near. night comes instead, and tempests round it rise, at morn, with gasping beak, and upward breast: it dies. four long and toilsome miles had i now walked with a dignified air; till, finding myself fatigued, and despairing of an interview with stuart, i resolved to rest awhile, in the lone and uninhabited house which lies, you may recollect, on the grey common, about a hundred paces from the road. besides, i was in duty bound to explore it, as a ruined pile. i approached it. the wind moaned through the broken windows, and the rank grass rustled in the court. i entered. all was dark within; the boards creaked as i trod, the shutters flapped, and an ominous owl was hooting in the chimney. i groped my way along the hall, thence into a parlour--up stairs and down--not a horror to be found. no dead hand met my left hand, firmly grasping it, and drawing me forcibly forward; no huge eye-ball glared at me through a crevice. how disheartening! the cold was now creeping through me; my teeth chattered, and my whole frame shook. i had seated myself on the stairs, and was weeping piteously, wishing myself safe at home, and in bed; and deploring the dire necessity which had compelled me to this frightful undertaking, when on a sudden i heard the sound of approaching steps. i sprang upon my feet with renovated spirits. presently several persons entered the hall, and a vulgar accent cried: 'jem, run down to the cellar and strike a light.' 'what can you want of me, now that you have robbed me?' said the voice of a gentleman. 'why, young man,' answered a ruffian, 'we want you to write home for a hundred pounds, or some such trifle, which we will have the honour of spending for you. you must manufacture some confounded good lie about where you are, and why you send for the money; and one of us will carry the letter.' 'i assure you,' said the youth, 'i shall forge no such falsehood.' 'as you please, master,' replied the ruffian, 'but, the money or your life we must have, and that soon.' 'will you trust my solemn promise to send you a hundred pounds?' said the other. 'my name is stuart: i am on my way to mr. wilkinson, of sylvan lodge, so you may depend upon my sending you, by his assistance, the sum that you require, and i will promise not to betray you.' 'no, curse me if i trust,' cried the robber. 'then curse me if i write,' said stuart. 'look you, squire,' cried the robber. 'we cannot stand parlying with you now; we have other matters on hands. but we will lock you safe in the cellar, with pen, ink, and paper, and a lantern; and if you have not a fine bouncing lie of a letter, ready written when we come back, you are a dead man--that is all.' 'i am almost a dead man already,' said stuart, 'for the cut you gave me is bleeding torrents.' they now carried him down to the cellar, and remained there a few minutes, then returned, and locked the door outside. 'leave the key in it,' says one, 'for we do not know which of us may come back first.' they then went away. now was the fate of my bitter enemy, the wily, the wicked stuart, in my power; i could either liberate him, or leave him to perish. it struck me, that to miss such a promising interview, would be stupid in the extreme; and i felt a sort of glow at the idea of saying to him, live! besides, the fellow had answered the robbers with some spirit, so i descended the steps, unlocked the door, and bursting into the cellar, stood in an unparalleled attitude before him. he was sitting on the ground, and fastening a handkerchief about his wounded leg, but at my entrance, he sprang upon his feet. 'away, save thyself!' cried i. 'she who restores thee to freedom flies herself from captivity. look on these features--thou wouldest have wrung them with despair. look on this form--thou wouldest have prest it in depravity. hence, unhappy sinner, and learn, that innocence is ever victorious and ever merciful.' 'i am all amazement!' exclaimed he. 'who are you? whence come you? why speak so angrily, yet act so kindly?' i smiled disdain, and turned to depart. 'one moment more,' cried he. 'here is some mistake; for i never even saw you before.' 'often!' exclaimed i, and was again going. 'so you will leave me, my sweet girl,' said he, smiling. 'now you have all this time prevented me from binding my wound, and you owe me some compensation for loss of blood.' i paused. 'i would ask you to assist me,' continued he, 'but in binding one wound, i fear you would inflict another.' mere curiosity made me return two steps. 'i think, however, there would be healing in the touch of so fair a hand,' and he took mine as he spoke. at this moment, my humanity conquered my reserve, and kneeling down, i began to fasten the bandage; but resolved on not uttering another word. 'what kindness!' cried he. 'and pray to whom am i indebted for it?' no reply. 'at least, may i learn whether i can, in any manner, repay it?' no reply. 'you said, i think, that you had just escaped from confinement?' no reply. 'you will stain your beautiful locks,' said he: 'my blood should flow to defend, but shall not flow to disfigure them. permit me to collect those charming tresses.' 'oh! dear, thank you, sir!' stammered i. 'and thank you, ten thousand times,' said he, as i finished my disagreeable task; 'and now never will i quit you till i see you safe to your friends.' 'you!' exclaimed i. 'ah, traitor!' he gazed at me with a look of pity. 'farewell then, my kind preserver,' said he; ''tis a long way to the next habitation, and should my wound open afresh and should i faint from loss of blood----' 'dear me,' said i, 'let me assist you.' he smiled. 'we will assist each other,' answered he; 'and now let us not lose a moment, for the robbers may return.' he took the lantern to search the cellar for his watch and money. however, we saw nothing there but a couple of portmanteaus, some rusty pistols, and a small barrel, half full of gunpowder. we then left the house; but had hardly proceeded twenty yards, when he began to totter. 'i can go no farther,' said he, sinking down. 'i have lost so much blood, that my strength is entirely exhausted.' 'pray sir,' said i, 'exert yourself, and lean on me.' 'impossible,' answered he; 'but fly and save your own life.' 'i will run for assistance,' said i, and flew towards the road, where i had just heard the sound of an approaching carriage. but on a sudden it stopped, voices began disputing, and soon after a pistol was fired. i paused in great terror, for i judged that these were the robbers again. what was i to do? when a heroine is reduced to extremities, she always does one of two things, either faints on the spot, or exhibits energies almost superhuman. faint i could not, so nothing remained for me, but energies almost superhuman. i pondered a moment, and a grand thought struck me. recollecting the gunpowder in the cellar, i flew for it back to the ruin, carried it up to the hall, threw most of it on the floor, and with the remainder, strewed a train, as i walked towards stuart. when i was within a few paces of him, i heard quick steps; and a hoarse voice vociferating, 'who goes yonder with the light?' for i had brought the lantern with me. 'fly!' cried stuart, 'or you are lost.' i snatched the candle from the lantern, applied it to the train, and the next moment dropped to the ground at the shock of the tremendous explosion that followed. a noise of falling timbers resounded through the ruin, and the robbers were heard scampering off in all directions. 'there!' whispered i, after a pause; 'there is an original horror for you; and all of my own contrivance. the villains have fled, the neighbours will flock to the spot, and you will obtain assistance.' by this time we heard the people of the carriage running towards us. 'stuart!' cried i, in an awful voice. 'my name indeed!' said he. 'this is completely inexplicable.' 'stuart,' cried i, 'hear my parting words. _never again_', (quoting his own letter,) '_will i make you my playmate; never again climb your shoulders, and gallop you round the lawn!_ ten o'clock is past. go not to sylvan lodge to-night. she departed two hours ago. look to your steps.' i spoke this portentous warning, and fled across the common. miss wilkinson! miss wilkinson! sounded on the blast; but the wretch had discovered me too late. i ran about half a mile, and then looking behind me, beheld the ruin in a blaze. renovated by the sight of this horror, i walked another hour, without once stopping; till, to my surprise and dismay, i found myself utterly unable to proceed a step farther. this was the more provoking, because heroines often perform journies on foot that would founder fifty horses. i now knocked at a farm-house, on the side of the road; but the people would not admit me. soon after, i perceived a boy watching sheep in a field, and begged earnestly that he would direct me to some romantic cottage, shaded with vines and acacias, and inhabited by a lovely little arcadian family. 'there is no family of that name in these here parts,' said he. '_these here!_' cried i, 'ah, my friend, that is not pastoral language. i see you will never pipe madrigals to a chloris or a daphne.' 'and what sort of nasty language is that?' cried he. 'get along with you, do: i warrant you are a bad one.' and he began pelting me with tufts of grass. at last, i contrived to shelter myself under a haycock, where i remained till day began to dawn. then, stiff and chilled, i proceeded on my journey; and in a short time, met a little girl with a pail of milk, who consented to let me change my dress at her cottage, and conducted me thither. it was a family of frights, flat noses and thick lips without mercy. no annettes and lubins, or amorets and phyllidas, or florimels and florellas; no little cherubin and seraphim amongst them. however, i slipped on (for _slipping on_ is the heroic mode of dressing) my spangled muslin, and joined their uglinesses at breakfast, resolving to bear patiently with their features. they tell me that a public coach to london will shortly pass this way, so i shall take a place in it. on the whole, i see much reason to be pleased with what has happened hitherto. how fortunate that i went to the house on the common! i see plainly, that if adventure does not come to me, i must go to adventure. and indeed, i am authorized in doing so by the example of my sister heroines; who, with a noble disinterestedness, are ever the chief artificers of their own misfortunes; for, in nine cases out of ten, were they to manage matters like mere common mortals, they would avoid all those charming mischiefs which adorn their memoirs. as for this stuart, i know not what to think of him. i will, however, do him the justice to say, that he has a pleasing countenance; and although he neither kissed my hand, nor knelt to me, yet he had the decency to talk of 'wounds,' and my 'charming tresses.' perhaps, if he had saved my life, instead of my having saved his; and if his name had consisted of three syllables ending in i or o; and, in fine, were he not an unprincipled profligate, the man might have made a tolerable hero. at all events, i heartily hate him; and his smooth words went for nothing. the coach is in sight. adieu. letter vi 'i shall find in the coach,' said i, approaching it, 'some emaciated adelaide, or sister olivia. we will interchange congenial looks--she will sigh, so will i--and we shall commence a vigorous friendship on the spot.' yes, i did sigh; but it was at the huge and hideous adelaide that presented herself, as i got into the coach. in describing her, our wittiest novelists would say, that her nose lay modestly retired between her cheeks; that her eyes, which pointed inwards, seemed looking for it, and that her teeth were 'like angels' visits; short and far between.' she first eyed me with a supercilious sneer, and then addressed a diminutive old gentleman opposite, in whose face time had ploughed furrows, and luxury sown pimples. 'and so, sir, as i was telling you, when my poor man died, i so bemoaned myself, that between swoons and hysterics, i got nervous all over, and was obliged to go through a regiment.' i stared in astonishment. 'what!' thought i, 'a woman of her magnitude and vulgarity, faint, and have nerves? impossible!' 'howsomdever,' continued she, 'my bible and my daughter moll are great consolations to me. moll is the dearest little thing in the world; as straight as a popular; then such dimples; and her eyes are the very squintessence of perfection. she has all her catechism by heart, and moreover, her mind is uncontaminated by romances and novels, and such abominations.' 'pray, ma'am,' said i, civilly, 'may i presume to ask how romances and novels contaminate the mind?' 'why, mem,' answered she tartly, and after another survey: 'by teaching little misses to go gadding, mem, and to be fond of the men, mem, and of spangled muslin, mem.' 'ma'am,' said i, reddening, 'i wear spangled muslin because i have no other dress: and you should be ashamed of yourself for saying that i am fond of the men.' 'the cap fits you then,' cried she. 'were it a fool's cap,' said i, 'perhaps i might return the compliment.' i thought it expedient, at my first outset in life, to practise apt repartee, and emulate the infatuating sauciness, and elegant vituperation of amanda, the beggar girl, and other heroines; who, when irritated, disdain to speak below an epigram. 'pray, sir,' said she, to our fellow traveller, 'what is your opinion of novels? ant they all love and nonsense, and the most unpossible lies possible?' 'they are fictions, certainly,' said he. 'surely, sir,' exclaimed i, 'you do not mean to call them fictions.' 'why no,' replied he, 'not absolute fictions.' 'but,' cried the big lady, 'you don't pretend to call them true.' 'why no,' said he, 'not absolutely true.' 'then,' cried i, 'you are on both sides of the question at once.' he trod on my foot. 'ay, that you are,' said the big lady. he trod on her foot. 'i am too much of a courtier,' said he, 'to differ from the ladies,' and he trod on both our feet. 'a courtier!' cried i: 'i should rather have imagined you a musician.' 'pray why?' said he. 'because,' answered i, 'you are playing the pedal harp on this lady's foot and mine.' 'i wished to produce harmony,' said he, with a submitting bow. 'at least,' said i, 'novels must be much more true than histories, because historians often contradict each other, but novelists never do.' 'yet do not novelists contradict themselves?' said he. 'certainly,' replied i, 'and there lies the surest proof of their veracity. for as human actions are always contradicting themselves, so those books which faithfully relate them, must do the same.' 'admirable!' exclaimed he. 'and yet what proof have we that such personages as schedoni, vivaldi, camilla, or cecilia ever existed?' 'and what proof have we,' cried i, 'that such personages as alfred the great, henry the fifth, elfrida, or mary queen of scots, ever existed? i wonder at a man of sense like you. why, sir, at this rate you might just as well question the truth of guy faux's attempt to blow up the parliament-house, or of my having blown up a house last night.' 'you blow up a house!' exclaimed the big lady with amazement. 'madam,' said i, modestly, 'i scorn ostentation, but on my word and honour, 'tis fact.' 'of course you did it accidentally,' said the gentleman. 'you wrong me, sir,' replied i; 'i did it by design.' 'you will swing for it, however,' cried the big lady. 'swing for it!' said i; 'a heroine swing? excellent! i presume, madam, you are unacquainted with the common law of romance.' 'just,' said she, 'as you seem to be with the common law of england.' 'i despise the common law of england,' cried i. 'then i fancy,' said she, 'it would not be much amiss if you were hanged.' 'and i fancy,' retorted i, nodding at her big figure, 'it would not be much amiss if you were quartered.' instantly she took out a prayer-book, and began muttering over it with the most violent piety and indignation. meantime the gentleman coincided in every syllable that i said, praised my parts and knowledge, and discovered evident symptoms of a discriminating mind, and an amiable heart. that i am right in my good opinion of him is most certain; for he himself assured me that it would be quite impossible to deceive me, i am so penetrating. in short, i have set him down as the benevolent guardian, whom my memoirs will hereafter celebrate, for having saved me from destruction. indeed he has already done so. for, when our journey was almost over, he told me, that my having set fire to the ruin might prove a most fatal affair; and whispered that the big lady would probably inform against me. on my pleading the prescriptive immunities of heroines, and asserting that the law could never lay its fangs on so ethereal a name as cherubina, he solemnly swore to me, that he once knew a golden-haired, azure-eyed heroine, called angelica angela angelina, who was hanged at the old bailey for stealing a broken lute out of a haunted chamber; and while my blood was running cold at the recital, he pressed me so cordially to take refuge in his house, that at length, i threw myself on the protection of the best of men. i now write from his mansion in grosvenor square, where we have just dined. his name is betterton; he has no family, and is possessed of a splendid independence. multitudes of liveried menials watch his nod; and he does me the honour to call me cousin. my chamber too is charming. the curtains hang quite in a new style, but i do not like the pattern of the drapery. to-morrow i mean to go shopping; and i may, at the same time, pick up some adventures on my way; for business must be minded. adieu. letter vii soon after my last letter, i was summoned to supper. betterton appeared much interested in my destiny, and i took good care to inspire him with a due sense of my forlorn and unprotected state. i told him that i had not a friend in the wide world, related to him my lamentable tale, and as a proof of my veracity shewed him the parchment, the picture, and the mole. to my great surprise, he said that he considered my high birth improbable; and then began advising me to descend from my romantic flights, as he called them, and to seek after happiness instead of misery. 'in this town,' continued he, after a long preamble, 'your charms would be despotic, if unchained by legal constraints. but for ever distant from you be that cold and languid tie which erroneous policy invented. for you be the sacred community of souls, the mystic union, whose tie of bondage is the sway of passion, the wish, the licence, and impulse the law.' 'pretty expressions enough,' said i, 'only i cannot comprehend them.' 'charming girl!' cried he, while he conjured up a fiend of a smile, and drew a brilliant from his finger, 'accept this ring, and the signature of the hand that has worn it, securing to you five hundred a-year, while you remain under my protection.' 'ha, monster!' exclaimed i, 'and is this thy vile design?' so saying, i flung the ruffian from me, then rushed down stairs, opened the door, and quick as lightning darted along the streets. at last, panting for breath, i paused underneath a portico. it was now midnight. not a wheel, not a hoof fatigued the pavement, or disturbed the slumbering mud of the metropolis. but soon steps and soft voices broke the silence, and a youth, encircling a maiden's waist with his arm, and modulating the most mellifluent phraseology, passed by me. another couple succeeded, and another, and another. the town seemed swarming with heroes and heroines. 'fortunate pairs!' ejaculated i, 'at length ye enjoy the reward of your incomparable constancy and virtue. here, after a long separation, meeting by chance, and in extreme distress, ye pour forth the pure effusions of your souls. o blissful termination of unexampled miseries!' i now perceived, on the steps of a house, a fair and slender form, robed in white. she was sitting with her elbow in her lap, and her head leaning on one side, within her hand. 'she seems a sister in misfortune,' said i; 'so, should she but have a madona face, and a name ending in a, we will live, we will die together.' i then approached, and discovered a countenance so pale, so pensive, so roman, that i could almost have knelt and worshipped it. 'fair unfortunate,' said i, taking her hand and pressing it; 'interesting unknown, say by what name am i to address so gentle a sister in misery.' 'eh? what?' cried she, in a tone somewhat coarser than i was prepared to expect. 'may i presume on my sudden predilection,' said i, 'and inquire your name?' 'maria,' replied she, rising from her seat; 'and now i must be gone.' 'and where are you going, maria?' said i. 'to the devil,' said she. 'alas! my love,' whispered i, 'sorrow hath bewildered thee. impart to me the cause of thy distress, and perhaps i can alleviate, if not relieve it. i am myself a miserable orphan; but happy, thrice happy, could i clasp a sympathetic bosom, in this frightful wilderness of houses and faces, where, alas! i know not a human being.' 'then you are a stranger here?' said she quickly. 'i have been here but a few hours,' answered i. 'have you money?' she demanded. 'only four guineas and a half,' replied i, taking out my purse. 'perhaps you are in distress--perhaps--forgive this officiousness--not for worlds would i wound your delicacy, but if you want assistance----' 'i have only this old sixpence upon earth,' interrupted she, 'and there 'tis for you, miss.' so saying, she put sixpence into my purse, which i had opened while i was speaking. 'generous angel!' cried i. 'now we are in partnership, a'nt we?' said she. 'yes, sweet innocent,' answered i, 'we are partners in grief.' 'and as grief is dry,' cried she, 'we will go moisten it.' 'and where shall we moisten it, maria?' said i. 'in a pothouse,' cried she. 'it will do us good.' 'o my maria!' said i, 'never, never!' 'why then give me back my sixpence,' cried she, snatching at my purse; but i held it fast, and, springing from her, ran away. 'stop thief, stop thief!' vociferated she. in an instant, i heard a sort of rattling noise from several quarters, and an old fellow, called a watchman, came running out of a wooden box, and seized me by the shoulder. 'she has robbed me of my purse,' exclaimed the wily wanton. ''tis a green one, and has four guineas and a half in it, besides a curious old sixpence.' the watchman took it from me, and examined it. ''tis my purse,' cried i, 'and i can swear it.' 'you lie!' said the little wretch; 'you know well that you snatched it out of my hand, when i was going to give you sixpence, out of charity.' horror and astonishment struck me dumb; and when i told my tale, the watchman declared that both of us must remain in custody, till next morning; and then be carried before the magistrate. accordingly, he escorted us to the watchhouse, a room filled with smoke and culprits; where we stayed all night, in the midst of swearing, snoring, laughing and crying. in the morning we were carried before a magistrate; and with step superb, arms folded, and neck erect, i entered the room. 'pert enough,' said the magistrate; and turning from me, continued his examination of two men who stood near him. it appeared that one of them (whose name was jerry sullivan) had assaulted the other, on the following occasion. a joint sum of money had been deposited in sullivan's hands, by this other, and a third man, his partner, which sum sullivan had consented to keep for them, and had bound himself to return, whenever both should go together to him, and demand it. sometime afterwards, one of them went to him, and told him that the other being ill, and therefore unable to come for the money, had empowered him to get it. sullivan, believing him, gave the money, and when he next met the other, mentioned the circumstance. the other denied having authorized what had been done, and demanded his own share of the deposit from sullivan, who refused it. words ensued, and sullivan having knocked him down, was brought before the magistrate, to be committed for an assault. 'have you any defence?' said the magistrate to him. 'none that i know of,' answered he, 'only i would knock him down again, if he touched my honour again.' 'and is this your defence?' said the magistrate. 'it is so,' replied sullivan, 'and i hope your worship likes it, as well as i like your worship.' 'so well,' said the magistrate, 'that i now mean to do you a signal service.' 'why then,' cried sullivan, 'may the heavens smile on you.' 'and that service,' continued the magistrate, 'is to commit you immediately.' 'why then,' cried sullivan, 'may the devil inconvenience you!' 'by your insolence, you should be an irishman,' said the magistrate. 'i was an irishman forty years ago,' replied sullivan, 'and i don't suppose i am anything else now. though i have left my country, i scorn to change my birth-place.' 'commit him,' said the magistrate. just then, a device struck me, which i thought might extricate the poor fellow; so, having received permission, i went across, and whispered it to him. 'the heavens smile on you,' cried he, and then addressed his accuser: 'if i can prove to you that i have not broken our agreement about the money, will you promise not to prosecute me for this assault?' 'with all my heart,' answered he; 'for if you have not broken our agreement, you must have the money still, which is all i want.' 'and will your worship,' said sullivan, 'permit this compromise, and stand umpire between us?' 'i have not the least objection,' answered the magistrate; 'for i would rather be the means of your fulfilling an agreement, than of your suffering a punishment; and would rather recompense your accuser with money than with revenge.' 'well then,' said jerry to his accuser; 'was not our agreement, that i should return the money to yourself and your partner, whenever you came together to me, and asked for it?' 'certainly,' said the man. 'and did you both ever come together to me, and ask for it?' 'never,' said the man. 'then i have not broken our agreement,' cried sullivan. 'but you cannot keep it,' said the other; 'for you have given away the money.' 'no matter for that,' cried sullivan, 'provided i have it when both of you come to demand it. but i believe that will be never, for the fellow who ran off will not much like to shew his face again. so now will your worship please to decide.' the magistrate, after complimenting me upon my ingenuity, confessed, he said, with much unwillingness, that sullivan had made out his case clearly. the poor accuser was therefore obliged to abide by his promise, and sullivan was dismissed, snapping his fingers, and offering to treat the whole world with a tankard. my cause came after, and the treacherous maria was ordered to state her evidence. but what think you, biddy, of my keeping you in suspense, till my next letter? the practice of keeping in suspense is quite common among novelists. nay, there is a lady in the romance of the highlands, who terminates, not her letter, but her life, much in the same style. for when dying, she was about to disclose the circumstances of a horrid murder, and would have done so too, had she not unfortunately expended her last breath in a beautiful description of the verdant hills, rising sun, all nature smiling, and a few streaks of purple in the east. adieu. letter viii maria being ordered to state her evidence, 'that i will,' said she, 'only i am so ashamed of having been out late at night--but i must tell your worship how that happened.' 'you need not,' said the magistrate. 'well then,' she continued, 'i was walking innocently home, with my poor eyes fixed upon the ground, for fear of the fellors, when what should i see, but this girl, talking on some steps, with a pickpocket, i fancy, for he looked pretty decent. so i ran past them, for i was so ashamed you can't think; and this girl runs after me, and says, says she, "the fellor wouldn't give me a little shilling," says she, "so by jingo, you must," says she.' 'by jingo! i say by jingo?' cried i. 'st. catherine guard me! indeed, your excellenza, my only oath is santa maria.' 'she swore at me like a trooper,' continued the little imp, 'so i pulled out my purse in a fright, and she snatched it from me, and ran away, and i after her, calling stop thief; and this is the whole truth 'pon my honour and word, and as i hope to be married.' the watchman declared that he had caught me running away, that he had found the purse in my hand, and that maria had described it, and the money contained in it, accurately. 'and will your worship,' said maria, 'ask the girl to describe the sixpence that is in it?' the magistrate turned to me. 'really,' said i, 'as i never even saw it, i cannot possibly pretend to describe it.' 'then i can,' cried she. ''tis bent in two places, and stamped on one of its sides with a d and an h.' the sixpence was examined, and answered her description of it. 'the case is clear enough,' said the magistrate, 'and now, miss, try whether you can advocate your own cause as well as jerry sullivan's.' jerry, who still remained in the room, came behind me, and whispered, 'troth, miss, i have no brains, but i have a bit of an oath, if that is of any use to you. i would sell my soul out of gratitude, at any time.' 'alas! your excellenza,' said i to the magistrate, 'frail is the tenure of that character, which has innocence for its friend, and infamy for its foe. life is a chequered scene of light and shade; life is a jest, a stage----' 'talking of life is not the way to save it,' said the magistrate. 'less sentiment and more point, if you please.' i was silent, but looked anxiously towards the door. 'are you meditating an escape?' asked he. 'no,' said i, 'but just wait a little, and you shall see what an interesting turn affairs will take.' 'come,' cried he, 'proceed at once, or say you will not.' 'ah, now,' said i, 'can't you stop one moment, and not spoil everything by your impatience. i am only watching for the tall, elegant young stranger, with an oval face, who is to enter just at this crisis, and snatch me from perdition.' 'did he promise to come?' said the magistrate. 'not at all,' answered i, 'for i have never seen the man in my life. but whoever rescues me now, you know, is destined to marry me hereafter. that is the rule.' 'you are an impudent minx,' said the magistrate, 'and shall pay dear for your jocularity. have you parents?' 'i cannot tell.' 'friends?' 'none.' 'where do you live?' 'no where.' 'at least 'tis plain where you will die. what is your name?' 'cherubina.' 'cherubina what?' 'i know not.' 'not know? i protest this is the most hardened profligate i have ever met. commit her instantly.' i now saw that something must be done; so summoning all my most assuasive airs, i related the whole adventure, just as it had occurred. not a syllable obtained belief. the fatal sixpence carried all before it. i recollected the fate of angelica angela angelina, and shuddered. what should i do? one desperate experiment remained. 'there were four guineas and half a guinea in the purse,' said i to the girl. 'to be sure there were,' cried she. 'how cunning you are to tell me my own news.' 'now,' said i, 'answer me at once, and without hesitation, whether it is the half guinea or one of the guineas that is notched in three places, like the teeth of a saw?' she paused a little, and then said; 'i have a long story to tell about those same notches. i wanted a silk handkerchief yesterday, so i went into a shop to buy one, and an impudent ugly young fellor was behind the counter. well, he began ogling me so, i was quite ashamed; and says he to me, there is the change of your two pound note, says he, a guinea and a half in gold, says he, and you are vastly handsome, says he. and there are three notches in one of the coins, says he; guess which, says he, but it will pass all the same, says he, and you are prodigious pretty, says he. so indeed, i was so ashamed, that though i looked at the money, and saw the three notches, i have quite forgotten which they were in--guinea or half guinea; for my sight spread so, with shame at his compliments, that the half guinea looked as big as the guinea. well, out i ran, blushing like a poor, terrified little thing, and sure enough, a horrid accident was near happening me in my hurry. for i was just running under the wheel of a carriage, when a gentleman catches me in his arms, and says he, you are prodigious pretty, says he; and i frowned so, you can't think; and i am sure, i never remembered to look at the money since; and this is the whole truth, i pledge you my credit and honour, and _by the immaculate wenus_, as the gentlemen say.' the accusing witness who insulted the magistrate's bench with the oath, leered as she gave it in; and the recording clerk, as he wrote it down, drew a line under the words, and pointed them out for ever. 'then you saw the three notches?' said i. 'as plain as i see you now,' replied she, 'and a guilty poor thing you look.' 'and yet,' said i, 'if his excellenza examines, he will find that there is not a single notch in any one of the coins.' ''tis the case indeed,' said the magistrate, after looking at them. he then questioned both of us more minutely, and turning to me, said, 'your conduct, young woman, is unaccountable: but as your accuser has certainly belied herself, she has probably belied you. the money, by her own account, cannot be her's, but as it was found in your possession, it may be your's. i therefore feel fully justified in restoring it to you, and in acquitting you of the crime laid to your charge.' jerry sullivan uttered a shout of joy. i received the purse with silent dignity, gave maria back her sixpence, and hurried out of the room. jerry followed me. 'why then,' cried he, shaking me heartily by the hand, as we walked along, 'only tell me how i can serve you, and 'tis i am the man that will do it; though, to be sure, you must be the greatest little scapegrace (bless your heart!) in the three kingdoms.' 'alas!' said i, 'you mistake my character. i am heiress to an immense territory, and a heroine--the proudest title that can adorn a woman.' 'i never heard of that title before,' said jerry, 'but i warrant 'tis no better than it should be.' 'you shall judge for yourself,' said i. 'a heroine is a young lady, rather taller than usual, and often an orphan; at all events, possessed of the finest eyes in the world. though her frame is so fragile, that a breath of wind might scatter it like chaff, it is sometimes stouter than a statue of cast iron. she blushes to the tips of her fingers, and when other girls would laugh, she faints. besides, she has tears, sighs, and half sighs, at command; lives a month on a mouthful, and is addicted to the pale consumption.' 'why then, much good may it do her,' cried jerry; 'but in my mind, a phthisicky girl is no great treasure; and as for the fashion of living a month on a mouthful, let me have a potatoe and chop for my dinner, and a herring on saturday nights, and i would not give a farthing for all the starvation you could offer me. so when i finish my bit of herring, my wife says to me, winking, a fish loves water, says she, and immediately she fetches me a dram.' 'these are the delights of vulgar life,' said i. 'but to be thin, innocent, and lyrical; to bind and unbind her hair; in a word, to be the most miserable creature that ever augmented a brook with tears, these, my friend, are the glories of a heroine.' 'famous glories, by dad!' cried jerry; 'but as i am a poor man, and not particular, i can contrive to make shift with health and happiness, and to rub through life without binding my hair.--bind it? by the powers, 'tis seldom i even comb it.' as i was all this time without my bonnet (for in my hurry from betterton's i had left it behind me), i determined to purchase one. so i went into a shop, with jerry, and asked the woman of it for an interesting and melancholy turn of bonnet. she looked at me with some surprise, but produced several; and i fixed on one which resembled a bonnet that i had once seen in a picture of a wood nymph. so i put it on me, wished the woman good morning, and was walking away. 'you have forgotten to pay me, miss,' said she. 'true,' replied i, 'but 'tis no great matter. adieu.' 'you shall pay me, however,' cried she, ringing a bell, and a man entered instantly from an inner room. 'here is a hussey,' exclaimed she, 'who refuses to pay me for a bonnet.' 'my sweet friend,' said i to her, 'a distressed heroine, which i am, i assure you, runs in debt every where. besides, as i like your face, i mean to implicate you in my plot, and make you one of the _dramatis personã¦_ in the history of my life. probably you will turn out to be my mother's nurse's daughter. at all events, i give you my word, i will pay you at the _denouement_, when the other characters come to be provided for; and meantime, to secure your acquaintance, i must insist on owing you money.' 'by dad,' said jerry, 'that is the first of all ways to lose an acquaintance.' 'the bonnet or the money!' cried the man, stepping between me and the door. 'neither the one nor the other,' answered i. 'no, sir, to run in debt is part of my plan, and by what right dare you interfere to save me from ruin? pretty, indeed, that a girl at my time of life cannot select her own misfortunes! sir, your conduct astonishes, shocks, disgusts me.' to such a reasonable appeal the man could not reply, so he snatched at my bonnet. jerry jumped forward, and arrested his arm. 'hands off, bully!' cried the shopman. 'no, in troth,' said jerry; 'and the more you bid me, the more i won't let you go. if her ladyship has set her heart on a robbery, i am not the man to balk her fancy. sure, did not she save me from a gaol? and sure, would not i help her to a bonnet? a bonnet? 'pon my conscience, she shall have half a dozen. 'tis i that would not much mind being hanged for her!' so saying, he snatched a parcel of bonnets from the counter, and was instantly knocked down by the shopman. he rose, and both began a furious conflict. in the midst of it, i was attempting to rush from the shop, when i found my spangled muslin barbarously seized by the woman, who tore it to pieces in the struggle; and pulling off the bonnet, gave me a horrid slap in the face. i would have cuffed her nicely in return, only that she was more than my match; but i stamped at her with my feet. at first i was shocked at having made this unheroic gesture; till i luckily recollected, that amanda once stamped at an amorous footman. meantime jerry had stunned his adversary with a blow; so taking this opportunity of escape, he dragged me with him from the shop, and hurried me through several streets, without uttering a word. at length i was so much exhausted, that we stopped; and strange figures we were: jerry's face smeared with blood, nothing on my head, my long hair hanging loose about me, and my poor spangled muslin all in rags. 'here,' said jerry to an old woman who was selling apples at the corner of the street, 'take care of this young body, while i fetch her a coach.' and off he ran. the woman looked at me with a suspicious eye, so i resolved to gain her good opinion. it struck me that i might extract pathos from an apple, and taking one from her stall, 'an apple, my charming old friend,' said i, 'is the symbol of discord. eve lost paradise by tasting it, paris exasperated juno by throwing it.'--a loud burst of laughter made me turn round, and i perceived a crowd already at my elbow. 'who tore her gown?' said one. 'ask her spangles,' said another. 'or her hair,' cried a third. ''tis long enough to hang her,' cried a fourth. 'the king's hemp will do that job for her,' added a fifth. a pull at my muslin assailed me on the one side, and when i turned about, my hair was thrown over my face on the other. 'good people,' said i, 'you know not whom you thus insult. i am descended from illustrious, and perhaps italian parents----' a butcher's boy advanced, and putting half a hat under his arm; 'will your ladyship,' said he, 'permit me to hand you into that there shop?' i bowed assent, and he led me, nothing loath. peals of laughter followed us. 'now,' said i, as i stood at the door, 'i will reward your gallantry with half a guinea.' as i drew forth my money, i saw his face reddening, his cheeks swelling, and his mouth pursing up. 'what delicate sensibility!' said i, 'but positively you must not refuse this trifle.' he took it, and then, just think, the brute laughed in my face! 'i will give this guinea,' cried i, quite enraged, 'to the first who knocks that ungrateful down.' hardly had i spoken, when he was laid prostrate. he fell against the stall, upset it, and instantly the street was strewn with apples, nuts, and cakes. he rose. the battle raged. some sided with him, some against him. the furious stall-woman pelted both parties with her own apples; while the only discreet person there, was a ragged little girl, who stood laughing at a distance, and eating one of the cakes. in the midst of the fray, jerry returned with a coach. i sprang into it, and he after me. 'the guinea, the guinea!' cried twenty voices at once. at once twenty apples came rattling against the glasses. 'pay me for my apples!' cried the woman. 'pay me for my windows!' cried the coachman. 'drive like a devil,' cried jerry, 'and i will pay you like an emperor!' 'much the same sort of persons, now-a-days,' said the coachman, and away we flew. the guinea, the guinea! died along the sky. i thought i should have dropt with laughter. my dear friend, do you not sympathize with my sorrows? desolate, destitute, and dependent on strangers, what is to become of me? i declare i am extremely unhappy. i write from jerry's house, where i have taken refuge for the present; and as soon as i am settled elsewhere, you shall hear from me again. adieu. letter ix jerry sullivan is a petty woollendraper in st. giles's, and occupies the ground-floor of a small house. at first his wife and daughter eyed me with some suspicion; but when he told them how i had saved him from ruin, and that i was somehow or other a great lady in disguise, they became very civil, and gave me a tolerable breakfast. then fatigued and sleepy, i threw myself on a bed, and slept till two. i woke with pains in all my limbs; but anxious to forward the adventures of my life, i rose, and called mother and daughter to a consultation on my dress. they furnished me with their best habiliments, for which i agreed to give them two guineas; and i then began equipping myself. while thus employed, i heard the voices of husband and wife in the next room, rising gradually to the matrimonial key. at last the wife exclaims, 'a heroine? i will take my corporal oath, there is no such title in all england; and if she has the four guineas, she never came honestly by them; so the sooner she parts with them the better; and not a step shall she stir in our cloathes till she launches forth three of them. so that's that, and mine's my own, and how do you like my manners, ignoramus?' 'how dare you call me ignoramus?' cried jerry. 'blackguard if you like, but no ignoramus, i believe. i know what i could call you, though.' 'well,' cried she, 'saving a drunkard and a scold, what else can you call me?' 'i won't speak another word to you,' said jerry; 'i would not speak to you, if you were lying dead in the kennel.' 'then you're an ugly unnatural beast, so you are,' cried she, 'and your miss is no better than a bad one; and i warrant you understand one another well.' this last insinuation was sufficient for me. what! remain in a house where suspicion attached to my character? what! act so diametrically, so outrageously contrary to the principle of aspersed heroines, who are sure on such occasions to pin up a bundle, and set off? i spurned the mean idea, and resolved to decamp instantly. so having hastened my toilette, i threw three guineas on the table, and then looked for a pen and ink, to write a sonnet on gratitude. i could find nothing, however, but a small bit of chalk, and with this substitute, i scratched the following lines on the wall. sonnet on gratitude _addressed to jerry sullivan_ as some deputed angel, from the spheres of empyrean day, with nectar dewed, through firmamental wildernesses steers, to starless tracts of black infinitude-here the chalk failed me, and just at the critical moment for my simile had also failed me, nor could i have ever gotten beyond infinitude. i got to the street door, however, and without fear of being overheard; to such an altitude of tone had words arisen between husband and wife, who were now contesting a most delicate point--which of them had beaten the other last. 'i know,' cried jerry, 'that i gave the last blow.' 'then take the first now,' cried his wife, as i shut the door. anticipating the probability that i should have occasion for jerry's services again, i marked the number of the house, and then hastened along the street. it was swarming and humming like a hive of bees, and i felt as if i could never escape alive out of it. here a carriage almost ran over me; there a waggoner's whip almost blinded me. now a sweep brushed against me. 'beauty!' cried a man like a monkey, and chucked my chin, while a fellow with a trunk shoved me aside. i now turned into a street called bond street, where a long procession of carriages was passing. i remarked that the coachmen (they could not be gentlemen, i am sure) appeared to stand in great estimation; for the ladies of one carriage used to nod most familiarly to the driver of another. indeed, i had often heard it said, that ladies and coachmen are sometimes particularly intimate; but till now i could never believe it. the shops next attracted my attention, and i stopped to look at some of them. you cannot conceive any thing more charming: turkish turbans, indian shawls, pearls, diamonds, fans, feathers, laces; all shewn for nothing at the windows. i had but one guinea remaining! at length feeling tired and hungry, and my feet being quite foundered, i determined to lose no farther time in taking lodgings. perceiving 'apartments to let,' written on a door, i rapped, and a servant girl opened it. 'pray,' said i to her, 'are your northern apartments uninhabited?' she replied that there were two rooms on the second floor disengaged, and comfortably furnished. 'i do not want them comfortable,' said i; 'but are they furnished with tapestry and old pictures? that is the point.' 'there is only master's face over the chimney,' said she. 'do the doors creek on their hinges?' asked i. 'that they don't,' said she, 'for i oiled 'em all only yesterday.' 'then you shewed a depraved taste,' cried i. 'at least, are the apartments haunted?' 'lauk, no!' said she, half shutting the door. 'well then, my good girl, tell me candidly whether your mistress is like the landladies one reads of. is she a fat, bustling little woman, who would treat me to tea, cakes, and plenty of gossip, and at the end of a week, say to me, "out, hussy, tramp this moment;" or is she a pale, placid matron, worn to a thread-paper, and whose story is interwoven with mine?' 'deuce take your impudence!' cried she, slapping the door in my face. i tried other houses with no better success; and even when i merely asked for common lodgings, without stipulating for spectres or tapestry, the people would not accommodate me, unless i could procure some recommendation besides my own. as i had no friend to give me a character, it became necessary to make a friend; so i began to look about for a fit subject. passing a shop where eggs and butter were sold, and lodgings to be let, i perceived a pretty woman sitting behind the counter, and a fine infant playing upon it. i thought that all this bore an auspicious appearance; so i tottered into the shop, and placing myself opposite to the woman, i gazed at her with an engaging and gentle intelligence. she demanded my business. 'interesting creature!' whispered i, pressing her hand as it rested on the counter. 'o may that little rosy fatling----' unfortunately there was an egg in the hand that i took, which i crushed by the compression, and the yolk came oozing between her fingers. 'reptile!' cried she, as she threw the fragments in my face. 'savage!' cried i, as i ran out of the shop, and wiped off the eggy dishonours. at length i reached an immense edifice, which appeared to me the castle of some brow-knitting baron. ponderous columns supported it, and statues stood in the niches. the portal lay open. i glided into the hall. as i looked anxiously around, i beheld a cavalier descending a flight of steps. he paused, muttered some words, laid his hand upon his heart, dropped it, shook his head, and proceeded. i felt instantly interested in his fate; and as he came nearer, perceived, that surely never lighted on this orb, which he hardly seemed to touch, a more delightful vision. his form was tall, his face oval, and his nose aquiline. seducing sweetness dwelled in his smile, and as he pleased, his expressive eyes could sparkle with rapture, or beam with sensibility. once more he paused, frowned, and waving his arm, exclaimed, with an elegant energy of enunciation! 'to watch the minutes of this night, that if again this apparition come, he may approve our eyes, and speak to it!' that moment a pang, poignant, but delicious, transfixed my bosom. too well i felt and confessed it the dart of love. in sooth, too well i knew that my heart was lost to me for ever. silly maiden! but fate had decreed it. i rushed forward, and sank at the feet of the stranger. 'pity and protect a destitute orphan!' cried i. 'here, in this hospitable castle, i may hope for repose and protection. oh, signor, conduct me to your respected mother, the baroness, and let me pour into her ear my simple and pathetic tale.' 'o ho! simple and pathetic!' cried he. 'come, my dear, let me hear it.' i seated myself on the steps, and told him my whole story. during the recital, the noble youth betrayed extreme sensibility. sometimes he turned his head aside to conceal his emotion; and sometimes stifled a hysterical laugh of agony. when i had ended, he begged to know whether i was quite certain that i had ten thousand pounds in my power. i replied, that as wilkinson's daughter, i certainly had; but that the property must devolve to some one else, as soon as i should be proved a nobleman's daughter. he then made still more accurate inquiries about it; and after having satisfied himself: 'beshrew my heart!' exclaimed he; 'but i will avenge your injuries; and ere long you shall be proclaimed and acknowledged the lady cherubina de willoughby. meantime, as it will be prudent for you to lie concealed from the search of your enemies, hear the project which i have formed. i lodge at present in drury-lane, an obscure street; and as one apartment in the house is unoccupied, you can hire it, and remain there, a beautiful recluse, till fortune and my poor efforts shall rescue from oppression the most enchanting of her sex.' he spoke, and seizing my hand, carried it to his lips. 'what!' cried i, 'do you not live in this castle, and are you not its noble heir?' 'this is no castle,' said he, 'but covent garden theatre.' 'and you?' asked i with anxiety. 'am an actor,' answered he. 'and your name?' 'is abraham grundy.' 'then, mr. abraham grundy,' said i, 'allow me to have the satisfaction of wishing you a very good evening.' 'stay!' cried he, detaining me, 'and you shall know the whole truth. my birth is illustrious, and my real name lord altamont mortimer montmorenci. but like you, i am enveloped in a cloud of mysteries, and compelled to the temporary resource of acting. hereafter i will acquaint you with the most secret particulars of my life; but at present, you must trust to my good faith, and accept of my protection.' 'generous montmorenci!' exclaimed i, giving him my hand, which he pressed upon his heart. 'now,' said he, 'you must pass at these lodgings as my near relation, or they will not admit you.' at first, i hesitated at deviating from veracity; but soon consented, on recollecting, that though heroines begin with praising truth, necessity makes them end with being the greatest story-tellers in the world. nay, clarissa harlowe, when she had a choice, often preferred falsehood to fact. during our walk to the lodgings, montmorenci instructed me how to play my part, and on our arrival, introduced me to the landlady, who was about fifty, and who looked as if the goddess of fasting had bespoken her for a hand-maid. with an amiable effrontery, and a fine easy flow of falsehood, he told her, as we had concerted, that i was his second cousin, and an orphan; my name miss donald (amanda's assumed name), and that i had come to town for the purpose of procuring by his interest, an appointment at the theatre. the landlady said she would move heaven and earth, and her own bed, for so good a gentleman; and then consented to give me her sleeping-room on the ground-floor, at some trifle or other,--i forget what. i have also the use of a parlour adjoining it. there is, however, nothing mysterious in these chambers, but a dark closet belonging to the parlour, whither i may fly for refuge, when pursued by my persecutors. thus, my friend, the plot of my history begins to take a more interesting shape, and a fairer order of misfortune smiles upon me. trust me, there is a taste in distress as well as in millinery. far be from me the loss of eyes or limbs, such publicity as the pillory affords, or the grossness of a jail-fever. i would be sacrificed to the lawless, not to the laws, dungeoned in the holy inquisition, not clapped into bridewell, recorded in a novel, not in the newgate calender. were i inelegantly unhappy, i should be wretched indeed. yes, my biddy, sensations hitherto unknown now heave my white bosom, vary the carnation of my cheeks, and irradiate my azure eyes. i sigh, gaze on vacancy, start from a reverie; now bite, now moisten my coral lip, and pace my chamber with unequal steps. too sure i am deeply, distractedly in love, and altamont mortimer montmorenci is the first of men. adieu. letter x the landlady, his lordship, and another lodger, are accustomed to dine in common; and his lordship easily persuaded me to join the party. accordingly, just as i had finished my last letter, dinner was announced, so having braided my tresses, i tripped up stairs, and glided into the room. you must know i have practised tripping, gliding, flitting, and tottering, with great success. of these, tottering ranks first, as it is the approved movement of heroic distress. 'i wonder where our mad poet can be?' said the hostess; and as she spoke, an uncouth figure entered, muttering in emphatic accents, 'the hounds around bound on the sounding ground.' he started on seeing me, and when introduced by his lordship, as mr. higginson, his fellow lodger, and a celebrated poet, he made an unfathomable bow, rubbed his hands, and reddened to the roots of his hair. this personage is tall, gaunt, and muscular; with a cadaverous countenance, and black hair in strings on his forehead. i find him one of those men who spend their lives in learning how the greeks and romans lived; how they spoke, dressed, ate; what were their coins and houses, &c.; but neglect acquainting themselves with the manners and customs of their own times. montmorenci tells me that his brain is affected by excessive study; but that his manners are harmless. at dinner, montmorenci looked all, said all, did all, which conscious nobility, united with ardent attachment, could inspire in a form unrivalled, and a face unexcelled. i perceived that the landlady regarded him with eyes of tender attention, and languishing allurement, but in vain. i was his magnet and his cynosure. as to higginson, he did not utter a word during dinner, except asking for a bit of _lambkin_; but he preserved a perpetuity of gravity in his face, and stared at me, the whole time, with a stupid and reverential fixedness. when i spoke, he stopped in whatever attitude he happened to be; whether with a glass at his mouth, or a fork half lifted to it. after dinner, i proposed that each of us should relate the history of our lives; an useful custom established by heroines, who seldom fail of finding their account in it; as they are almost always sure to discover, by such means, either a grandmother or a murder. thus too, the confession of a monk, the prattle of an old woman, a diamond cross on a child's neck, or a parchment, are the certain forerunners of virtue vindicated, vice punished, rights restored, and matrimony made easy. the landlady was asked to begin. 'i have nothing to tell of myself,' said she, 'but that my mother left me this house, and desired me to look out for a good husband, mr. grundy; and i am not as old as i look; for i have had my griefs, as well as other folks, and every tear adds a year, as they say; and 'pon my veracity, mr. grundy, i was but thirty-two last month. and my bitterest enemies never impeached my character, that is what they did'nt, nor could'nt; they dare'nt to my face. i am a perfect snowdrop for purity. who presumes to go for to say that a lord left me an annuity or the like? who, i ask? but i got a prize in the lottery. so this is all i can think to tell of myself; and, mr. grundy, your health, and a good wife to you, sir.' after this eloquent piece of biography, we requested of higginson to recount his adventures; and he read a short sketch, which was to have accompanied a volume of poems, had not the booksellers refused to publish them. i copy it for you. memoirs of james higginson by himself: 'of the lives of poets, collected from posthumous record, and oral tradition, as little is known with certainty, much must be left to conjecture. he therefore, who presents his own memoirs to the public, may surely merit the reasonable applause of all, whose minds are emancipated from the petulance of envy, the fastidiousness of hypercriticism, and the exacerbation of party. 'i was born in the year 1771, at 24, swallow street; and should the curious reader wish to examine the mansion, he has every thing to hope from the alert urbanity of its present landlord, and the civil obsequiousness of his notable lady. he who gives civility, gives what costs him little, while remuneration may be multiplied in an indefinite ratio. 'my parents were reputable tobacconists, and kept me behind the counter, to negociate the titillating dust, and the tranquillizing quid. of genius the first spark which i elicited, was reading a ballad in the shop, while the woman who sold it to me was stealing a canister of snuff. this specimen of mental abstraction (a quality which i still preserve), shewed that i would never make a good tradesman; but it also shewed, that i would make an excellent scholar. a tutor was accordingly appointed for me; and during a triennial course of study, i had passed from the insipidity of the incipient _hic_, _hã¦c_, _hoc_, to the music of a virgil, and the thunder of a demosthenes. 'debarred by my secluded life from copying the polished converse of high society, i have at least endeavoured to avoid the vulgar phraseology of low; and to discuss the very weather with a sententious association of polysyllabical ratiocination. 'with illustrations of my juvenile character, recollection but ill supplies me. that i have always disliked the diurnal ceremony of ablution, and a hasty succession of linen, is a truth which he who has a sensitive texture of skin will easily credit; which he who will not credit, may, if he pleases, deny; and may, if he can, controvert. but i assert the fact, and i expect to be believed, because i assert it. life, among its quiet blessings, can boast of few things more comfortable than indifference to dress. 'to honey with my bread, and to apple-sauce with my goose, i have ever felt a romantic attachment, resulting from the classical allusions which they inspire. that man is little to be envied, whose honey would not remind him of the hyblean honey, and whose apple-sauce would not suggest to him the golden apple. 'but notwithstanding my cupidity for such dainties, i have that happy adaptation of taste which can banquet, with delight, upon hesternal offals; can nibble ignominious radishes, or masticate superannuated mutton. 'my first series of teeth i cut at the customary time, and the second succeeded them with sufficient punctuality. this fact i had from my mother. 'my first poetical attempt was an epitaph on the death of my tutor, and it was produced at the precocious age of ten. epitaph here lies the body of john tomkins, who departed this life, aged fifty-two; after a long and painful illness, that he bore with christian fortitude, though fat. he died lamented deeply by this poem, and all who had the happiness to know him. 'this composition my father did not long survive; and my mother, to the management of the business feeling quite unequal, relinquished it altogether, and retired with the respectable accumulation of a thousand pounds. 'i still pursued my studies, and from time to time accommodated confectionaries and band-boxes with printed sheets, which the world might have read, had it pleased, and might have been pleased with, had it read. for some years past, however, the booksellers have declined to publish my productions at all. envious enemies poison their minds against me, and persuade them that my brain is disordered. for, like rousseau, i am the victim of implacable foes; but my genius, like an arch, becomes stronger the more it is opprest. 'on a pretty little maid of my mother's, i made my next poetical effort, which i present to the reader. to dorothy pulvertaft if black-sea, white-sea, red-sea ran one tide of ink to ispahan; if all the geese in lincoln fens, produc'd spontaneous, well-made pens; if holland old or holland new, one wond'rous sheet of paper grew; could i, by stenographic power, write twenty libraries an hour; and should i sing but half the grace of half a freckle on thy face; each syllable i wrote, should reach from inverness to bognor's beach; each hairstroke be a river rhine, each verse an equinoctial line. 'of the girl, an immediate dismission ensued; but for what reason, let the sedulous researches of future biographers decide. 'at length, having resolved on writing a volume of eclogues, i undertook an excursion into the country to learn pastoral manners, and write in comfort, far from my tailor. an amputated loaf, and a contracted theocritus, constituted my companions. not a cloud blotted the blue concave, not a breeze superinduced undulation over the verdant tresses of the trees. 'in vain i questioned the youths and maidens about their damons and delias; their dryads and hamadryads; their amaboean contentions and their amorous incantations. when i talked of pan, they asked me if it was a pan of milk; when i requested to see the pastoral pipe, they shewed me a pipe of tobacco; when i spoke of satyrs with horns, they bade me go to the husbands; and when i spoke of fawns with cloven heel, they bade me go to the devil. while charmed with a thatched and shaded cottage, its slimy pond or smoking dunghill disgusted me; and when i recumbed on a bank of cowslips and primroses, my features were transpierced by wasps and ants and nettles. i fell asleep under sunshine, and awoke under a torrent of rain. dripping and disconsolate, i returned to my mother, drank some whey; and since that misadventurous perambulation have never ruralized again. to him who subjects himself to a recurrence of disaster, the praise of boldness may possibly be accorded, but the praise of prudence must certainly be denied. 'a satirical eclogue, however, was the fruit of this expedition. it is called antique amours, and is designed to shew, that passions which are adapted to one time of life, appear ridiculous in another. the reader shall have it. antique amour an eclogue 'tis eve. the sun his ardent axle cools in ocean. dripping geese shake off the pools. an elm men's shadows measure; red and dun, the shattered leaves are rustling as they run; while an aged bachelor and ancient maid, sit amorous under an old oak decayed. he (for blue vapours damp the scanty grass) strews fodder underneath the hoary lass; then thus,--o matchless piece of season'd clay, 'tis autumn, all things shrivel and decay. yet as in withered autumn, charms we see, say, faded maiden, may we not in thee? what tho' thy cheek have furrows? ne'er deplore; for wrinkles are the dimples of threescore: tho' from those azure lips the crimson flies, it fondly circles round those roseate eyes; and while thy nostrils snuff the fingered grain, the tinct thy locks have lost, thy lips obtain. come then, age urges, hours have winged feet, ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet. to clasp that waist compact in stiffened fold, of woof purpureal, flowered with radiant gold; then, after stately kisses, to repair that architectural edifice of hair, these, these are blessings.--o my grey delight, o venerable nymph, o painted blight, give me to taste of these. by heaven above, i tremble less with palsy than with love; and tho' my husky murmurs creak uncouth, my words flow unobstructed by a tooth. come then, age urges, hours have winged feet, ah! press the wedding ere the winding sheet. come, thou wilt ne'er provoke crimconic law, nor lie, maternal, on the pale-eyed straw. come, and in formal frolic intertwine, the braided silver of thy hair with mine. then sing some bibulous and reeling glee, and drink crusht juices of the grape with me. sing, for the wine no water shall dilute; 'tis drinking water makes the fishes mute. come then, age urges, hours have winged feet; ah! press the wedding, ere the winding sheet. so spoke the slim and elderly remains of once a youth. a staff his frame sustains; and aids his aching limbs, from knee to heel, thin as the spectre of a famished eel. sharpening the blunted glances of her eyes, the virgin a decrepid simper tries, then stretches rigid smiles, which shew him plain, her passion, and the teeth that still remain. innocent pair! but now the rain begins, so both knot kerchiefs underneath their chins. and homeward haste. such loves the poet wrote, in the patch'd poverty of half a coat; then diadem'd with quills his brow sublime, magnanimously mad in mighty rhime. 'with my venerable parent, i now pass a harmless life. as we have no society, we have no scandal; ourselves, therefore, we make our favourite topic, and ourselves we are unwilling to dispraise. 'whether the public will admire my works, as well as my mother does, far be from me to determine. if they cannot boast of wit and judgment, to the praise of truth and modesty they may at least lay claim. to be unassuming in an age of impudence, and veracious in an age of mendacity, is to combat with a sword of glass against a sword of steel; the transparency of the one may be more beautiful than the opacity of the other; yet let it be recollected, that the transparency is accompanied with brittleness, and the opacity with consolidation.' * * * * * i listened with much compassion to this written evidence of a perverted intellect. o my friend, what a frightful disorder is madness! my turn came next, and i repeated the fictitious tale that montmorenci had taught me. he confirmed it; and on being asked to relate his own life, gave us, with great taste, such a natural narrative of a man living on his wits, that any one who knew not his noble origin must have believed it. soon afterwards, he retired to dress for the theatre; and when he returned, i beheld a perfect hero. he was habited in an italian costume; his hair hung in ringlets, and mustachios embellished his lip. he then departed in a coach, and as soon as he had left us: 'i declare,' said the landlady to me, 'i do not like your cousin's style of beauty at all; particularly his pencilled eyebrows and curled locks, they look so womanish.' 'what!' said i, 'not admire hesperian, hyacinthine, clustering curls? surely you would not have a hero with overhanging brows and lank hair? these are worn by none but the villains and assassins.' i perceived poor higginson colouring, and twisting his fingers; and i then recollected that his brows and hair have precisely the faults which i reprobated. 'dear, dear, dear!' muttered he, and made a precipitate retreat from the room. i retired soon after; and i now hasten to throw myself on my bed, dream of love and montmorenci, and wake unrefreshed, from short and distracted slumbers. adieu. letter xi this morning, soon after breakfast, i heard a gentle knocking at my door, and, to my great astonishment, a figure, cased in shining armour, entered. oh! ye conscious blushes, it was my montmorenci! a plume of white feathers nodded on his helmet, and neither spear nor shield were wanting. 'i come,' cried he, bending on one knee, and pressing my hand to his lips, 'i come in the ancient armour of my family, to perform my promise of recounting to you the melancholy memoirs of my life.' 'my lord,' said i, 'rise and be seated. cherubina knows how to appreciate the honour that montmorenci confers.' he bowed; and having laid by his spear, shield, and helmet, he placed himself beside me on the sofa, and began his heart-rending history. 'all was dark. the hurricane howled, the hail rattled, and the thunder rolled. nature was convulsed, and the traveller inconvenienced. 'in the province of languedoc stood the gothic castle of montmorenci. before it ran the garonne, and behind it rose the pyrenees, whose summits exhibiting awful forms, seen and lost again, as the partial vapours rolled along, were sometimes barren, and gleamed through the blue tinge of air, and sometimes frowned with forests of gloomy fir, that swept downward to their base. 'my lads, are your carbines charged, and your daggers sharpened?' whispered rinaldo, with his plume of black feathers, to the banditti, in their long cloaks. 'if they an't,' said bernardo, 'by st. jago, we might load our carbines with the hail, and sharpen our daggers against this confounded north-wind.' 'the wind is east-south-east,' said ugo. 'at this moment the bell of montmorenci castle tolled one. the sound vibrated through the long corridors, the spiral staircases, the suites of tapestried apartments, and the ears of the personage who has the honour to address you. much alarmed, i started from my couch, which was of exquisite workmanship; the coverlet of flowered gold, and the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies, by michael angelo. but conceive my horror when i beheld my chamber filled with banditti! 'snatching my sword, i flew to a corner, where my coat of mail lay heapt. the bravos rushed upon me; but i fought and dressed, and dressed and fought, till i had perfectly completed my unpleasing toilette. 'i then stood alone, firm, dignified, collected, and only fifteen years of age. alack! there lies more peril in thine eye, than twenty of their swords.-'to describe the horror of the contest that followed, were beyond the pen of an anacreon. in short, i fought till my silver skin was laced with my golden blood; while the bullets flew round me, thick as hail, and whistled as they went for want of thought. 'at length my sword broke, so i set sail for england. 'as i first touched foot on her chalky beach; hail! exclaimed i, happy land, thrice hail! take to thy fostering bosom the destitute montmorenci--montmorenci, once the first and richest of the gallic nobility--montmorenci, whom wretches drove from his hereditary territories, for loyalty to his monarch, and opposition to the atrocities of exterminators and revolutionists. 'nine days and nights i wandered through the country, the rivulet my beverage, and the berry my repast: the turf my couch, and the sky my canopy.' 'ah!' interrupted i, 'how much you must have missed the canopy of white velvet painted over with jonquils and butterflies!' 'extremely,' said he, 'for during sixteen long years, i had not a roof over my head.--i was an itinerant beggar! 'one summer's day, the cattle lay panting under the broad umbrage; the sun had burst into an immoderate fit of splendour, and the struggling brook chided the matted grass for obstructing it. i sat under a hedge, and began eating wild strawberries; when lo! a form, flexile as the flame ascending from a censer, and undulating with the sighs of a dying vestal, flitted inaudible by me, nor crushed the daisies as it trod. what a divinity! she was fresh as the anadyomene of apelles, and beautiful as the gnidus of praxitiles, or the helen of zeuxis. her eyes dipt in heaven's own hue.'---'sir,' said i, 'you need not mind her eyes: i dare say they were blue enough. but pray who was this immortal doll of your's?' 'who!' cried he. 'why who but--shall i speak it? who but--the lady cherubina de willoughby!!!' 'i!' 'you!' 'ah! montmorenci!' 'ah! cherubina! i followed you with cautious steps,' continued he, 'till i traced you into your--you had a garden, had you not?' 'yes.' 'into your garden. i thought ten thousand flowerets would have leapt from their beds to offer you a nosegay. but the age of gallantry is past, that of merchants, placemen, and fortune-hunters has succeeded, and the glory of cupid is extinguished for ever! 'you disappeared, i uttered incoherent sentences, and next morning resumed my station at a corner of the garden.' 'at which corner?' asked i. 'why really,' said he, 'i cannot explain; for the place was then new to me, and the ground was covered with snow.' 'with snow!' cried i. 'why i thought you were eating wild strawberries only the day before.' 'i!' said he. 'sure you mistake.' 'i declare most solemnly you told me so,' cried i. 'why then,' said he, 'curse me if i did.' 'sir,' said i. 'i must remark that your manners----' 'bless me!' cried he, 'yes, i did say so, sure enough, and i did eat wild strawberries too; but they were _preserved_ wild strawberries. i had got a small crock of them from an oyster woman, who was opening oysters in a meadow, for a hysterical butcher; and her knife having snapt in two, i lent her my sword; so, out of gratitude, she made me a present of the preserves. by the bye, they were mouldy. 'one morning, as i sat at the side of the road, asking alms, some provincial players passed by me. i accosted them, and offered my services. in short, they took me with them; i performed, was applauded; and at length my fame reached london, where i have now been acting some years, with much success; anxious as i am, to realize a little money, that i may return, in disguise, to my native country, and petition napoleon to restore my forfeited estates. 'such, fair lady, such is my round, unvarnished tale. 'but wherefore,' cried he, starting from his seat; 'wherefore talk of the past? oh! let me tell you of the present and of the future. oh! let me tell you, how dearly, how devotedly i love you!' 'love me!' cried i, giving such a start as the nature of the case required. 'my lord, this is so--really now so----' 'pardon this abrupt avowal of my unhappy passion,' said he, flinging himself at my feet. 'fain would i have let concealment, like a worm in the bud, feed on my damask cheek; but, oh! who could resist the maddening sight of so much beauty?' i remained silent, and with the elegant embarrassment of modesty, cast my blue eyes to the ground. i never looked so lovely. 'but i go!' cried he, springing on his feet. 'i fly from you for ever! no more shall cherubina be persecuted with my hopeless love. but cherubina, the hills and the vallies shall echo, and the songsters of the grove shall articulate cherubina. i will shake the leaves of the forest with my sighs, and make the stream so briny with my tears, that the turbot shall swim into it, and the sea-weed grow upon its banks!' 'ah, do not!' said i, with a look of unutterable anguish. 'i will!' exclaimed he, pacing the chamber with long strides, and slapping his heart, 'and i call all the stars of respectability to witness the vow. then, lady cherubina,' continued he, stopping short before me; 'then, when maddened and emaciated, i shall pillow my haggard head on a hard rock, and lulled by the hurricanes of heaven, shall sink into the sleep of the grave.'---'dear montmorenci!' said i, quite overcome, 'live for my sake--as you value my--friendship,--live.' 'friendship!' echoed he. 'oh! cherubina, oh! my soul's precious treasure, say not that icy word. say hatred, disgust, horror; any thing but friendship.' 'what shall i say?' cried i, ineffably affected, 'or what shall i do?' 'what you please,' muttered he, looking wild and pressing his forehead. 'my brain is on fire. hark! chains are clanking--the furies are whipping me with their serpents--what smiling cherub arrests yon bloody hand? ha! 'tis cherubina. and now she frowns at me--she darts at me--she pierces my heart with an arrow of ice!' he threw himself on the floor, groaned grievously, and tore his hair. i was horror-struck. 'i declare,' said i, 'i would say any thing on earth to relieve you;--only tell me what.' 'angel of light!' exclaimed he, springing upon his feet, and beaming on me a smile that might liquefy marble. 'have i then hope? dare i say it? dare i pronounce the divine words, she loves me?' 'i am thine and thou art mine!' murmured i, while the room swam before me. he took both my hands in his own, pressed them to his forehead and lips, and leaned his burning cheek upon them. 'my sight is confused,' said he, 'my breathing is opprest; i hear nothing, my veins swell, a palpitation seizes my heart, and i scarcely know where i am, or whether i exist!' then softly encircling my waist with his arm, he pressed me to his heart. with what modesty i tried to extricate myself from his embrace; yet with what willing weakness i trembled on his bosom. it was cherubina's hand that fell on his shoulder, it was cherubina's tress that played on his cheek, it was cherubina's sigh that breathed on his lip. 'moment of a pure and exquisite emotion!' cried he. 'in the life of man you are known but once; yet once known, can you ever be forgotten? now to die would be to die most blest!' suddenly he caught me under the chin, and kissed me. i struggled from him, and sprang to the other end of the room, while my neck and face were suffused with a glow of indignation. 'really,' said i, panting with passion, 'this is so unprovoked, so presuming.' he cast himself at my feet, execrated his folly, and swore that he had merely fulfilled an etiquette indispensible among lovers in his own country. ''tis not usual here, my lord,' said i; 'and i have no notion of submitting to any freedom that is not sanctioned by the precedent of those exalted models whom i have the honour to imitate. 'i fancy, my lord, you will find, that, as far as a kiss on the hand, or an arm round the waist, they have no particular objection. but a salute on the lip is considered inaccurate. my lord, on condition that you never repeat the liberty, here is my hand.' he snatched it with ardor, and strained it to his throbbing bosom. 'and now,' cried he, 'make my happiness complete, by making this hand mine for ever.' on a sudden an air of dignified grandeur involved my form. my mind, for the first time, was called upon to reveal its full force. it felt the solemnity of the appeal, and triumphed in its conscious ability. 'what!' cried i, 'knowest thou not the fatal, the inscrutable, the mysterious destiny, which must ever prevent our union?' 'speak, i conjure you,' cried he, 'or i expire on the spot.' 'alas!' exclaimed i, 'can'st thou suppose the poor orphan cherubina so destitute of principle and of pride, as to intrude herself unknown, unowned, unfriended; mysterious in her birth, and degraded in her situation, on the ancient and illustrious house of montmorenci? 'here then i most solemnly vow, never to wed, till the horrible mystery which hangs over my birth be developed.' you know, biddy, that a heroine ought always to snatch at an opportunity of making a fatal vow. when things are going on too smooth, and interest drooping, a fatal vow does wonders. i remember reading in some romance, of a lady, who having vowed never to divulge a certain secret, kept it twenty years; and with such inviolability, that she lived to see it the death of all her children, several of her friends, and a fine old aunt. as soon as i had made this fatal vow, his lordship fell into the most afflicting agonies and attitudes. 'oh!' cried he, 'to be by your side, to see you, touch you, talk to you, love you, adore you, and yet find you lost to me for ever. oh! 'tis too much, too much.' 'the milliner is here, miss,' said the maid, tapping at the door. 'bid her call again,' said i. 'beloved of my soul!' murmured his lordship. 'ma'am,' interrupted the maid, opening the door, 'she cannot call again, as she must go from this to kensington.' 'then let her come in,' said i, and she entered with a charming assortment of bonnets and dresses. 'we will finish the scene another time,' whispered i to his lordship. his lordship swore that he would drop dead that instant. the milliner declared that she had brought me the newest patterns. 'on my honour,' said i to his lordship, 'you shall finish this scene to-morrow morning, if you wish it.' 'you may go and be---heigho!' said he, suddenly checking himself. what he was about to say, i know not; something mysterious, i should think, by the knitting of his brows. however, he snatched his spear, shield, and helmet, made a low bow, laid his hand on his heart, and stalked out of the chamber. interesting youth! i then ran in debt for some millinery, drank hartshorn, and chafed my temples. i think i was right about the kiss. i confess i am not one of those girls who try to attract men through the medium of the touch; and who thus excite passion at the expence of respect. lips are better employed in sentiment, than in kissing. indeed, had i not been fortified by the precedent of other heroines, i should have felt, and i fear, did actually feel, even the classical embrace of montmorenci too great a freedom. but remember i am still in my noviciate. after a little practice, i shall probably think it rather a pleasure to be strained, and prest, and folded to the heart. yet of this i am certain, that i shall never attain sufficient hardihood to ravish a kiss from a man's mouth; as the divine heloise did; who once ran at st. preux, and astonished him with the most balmy and remarkable kiss upon record. poor fellow! he was never the same after it. i must say too, that montmorenci did not shew much judgment in urging me to marry him, before i had undergone adventures for four volumes. because, though the heroic etiquette allowed me to fall in love at first sight, and confess it at second sight, yet it would not authorize me to marry myself off quite so smoothly. a heroine is never to be got without agony and adventure. even the ground must be lacerated, before it will bring forth fruits, and often we cannot reach the lovely violet, till we have torn our hands with brambles. i did not see his lordship again until dinner time; and we had almost finished our repast, before the poet made his appearance and his bow. his bow was as usual, but his appearance was strangely changed. his hair stood in stiff ringlets on his forehead, and he had pruned his bushy eyebrows, till hardly one bristle remained; while a pair of white gloves, small enough for myself, were forced upon his hands. he glanced at us with a conscious eye, and hurried to his seat at table. 'ovid's metamorphoses, by jupiter!' exclaimed montmorenci. 'why, higginson, how shameful for the mice to have nibbled your eyebrows, while apollo belvidere was curling your hair!' the poet blushed, and ate with great assiduity. 'my dear fellow,' continued his lordship, 'we can dispense with those milk-white gloves during dinner. tell me, are they mamma's, dear mamma's?' 'i will tell my mother of you!' cried the poet, half rising from his chair. now his mother is an old bed-ridden lady in one of the garrets. i then interfered in his behalf, and peace was restored. after dinner, i took an opportunity, when the landlady had left the room, to request ten pounds from his lordship, for the purpose of paying the milliner. never was regret so finely pictured in a face as in his, while he swore that he had not a penny upon earth. indeed so graceful was his lamentation, so interesting his penury, that though the poet stole out of the room for ten pounds, which he slipped into my hand, i preferred the refusal of the one to the donation of the other. yes, this amiable young nobleman increases in my estimation every moment. never can you catch him out of a picturesque position. he would exhaust in an hour all the attitudes of all the statues; when he talks tenderness, his eyes glow with a moist fire, and he always brings in his heart with peculiar happiness. then too, his oaths are at once well conceived and elegantly expressed. thunderbolts and the fixed stars are ever at his elbow, and no man can sink himself to perdition with so fine a grace. but i could write of him, talk of him, think of him, hour after hour, minute after minute; even now, while the shadows of night are blackening the blushes of the rose, till dawn shall stain with her ruddy fire, the snows of the naked apennine; till the dusky streams shall be pierced with darts of light, and the sun shall quaff his dewy beverage from the cup of the tulip, and the chalice of the lily. that is pretty painting. adieu. letter xii 'it is my lady, o it is my love!' exclaimed lord altamont mortimer montmorenci, as he flew, like a winged mercury, into my apartment this morning. a loud rap at the door checked his eloquence, and spoiled a most promising posture. 'is miss wilkinson within?' said a voice in the hall. 'no such person lives here,' replied the maid, who was accustomed to hear me called miss donald. 'but there does, and on the ground-floor too, and i will find her out, i warrant,' cried the same voice. my door was then thrown open, and who should waddle into the room, but fat wilkinson! my first feeling (could you believe it) was of gladness at seeing him; nor had i presence of mind enough, either to repulse his embrace, or utter a piercing shriek. happily my recollection soon returned, and i flung him from me. 'cherry,' said he, 'dear cherry, what have i done to you, that you should use me thus? was there ever a wish of your heart that i left ungratified? and now to desert me in my old age! only come home with me, my child, only come home with me, and i will forgive you all.' 'wilkinson,' said i, 'this interview must be short, pointed, and decisive. as to calling yourself my father, that is a stale trick, and will not pass; and as to personating (what i perceive you aspire to) the grand villain of my plot, your corpulency, pardon me, puts that out of the question for ever. i should be just as happy to employ you as any other man i know, but excuse me if i say, that you rather overrate your talents and qualifications. have you the gaunt ferocity of famine in your countenance? can you darken the midnight of a scowl? have you the quivering lip and the schedoniac contour? and while the lower part of your face is hidden in black drapery, can your eyes glare from under the edge of a cowl? in a word, are you a picturesque villain, full of plot, and horror, and magnificent wickedness? ah, no, sir, you are only a sleek, good-humoured, chuckle-headed gentleman. continue then what nature made you; return to your plough, mow, reap, fatten your pigs and the parson; but never again attempt to get yourself thrust into the pages of a romance.' disappointment and dismay forced more meaning into his features than i thought them possessed of. the fact is, he had never imagined that my notions of what villains ought to be were so refined; and that i have formed my taste in these matters upon the purest models. as a last effort of despair, the silly man flung himself on his knees before me, and grasping my hands, looked up in my face, with such an imploring wretchedness of expression, while the tears rolled silently down his cheeks, that i confess i was a little moved; and for the moment fancied him sincere. 'now goodness bless thee,' said he, at length, 'goodness bless thee, for those sweet tears of thine, my daughter!' 'tears!' cried i, quite shocked. 'yes, darling,' said he, 'and now with this kiss of peace and love, we will blot out all the past.' i shrieked, started from my seat, and rushed into the expanding arms of montmorenci. 'and pray, sir,' cried wilkinson, advancing fiercely, 'who are you?' 'a lodger in this house, sir,' answered his lordship, 'and your best friend, as i trust you will acknowledge hereafter. i became acquainted with this lady at the table of our hostess, and learned from her, that she had left your house in disgust. yesterday morning, on entering her apartment, to make my respects, i found an old gentleman there, one doctor merrick, whom i recognized as a wretch of infamous character; tried twice for shoplifting, and once for having swindled the spanish ambassador out of a golden snuff-box. i, though an humble individual, yet being well acquainted with this young lady's high respectability, presumed to warn her against such a dangerous companion; when i found, to my great concern, that she had already promised him her hand in marriage.' wilkinson groaned: i stared. 'on being apprised of his character,' continued montmorenci, 'the young lady was willing enough to drop the connection, but unfortunately, the ruffian had previously procured a written promise of marriage from her, which he now refuses to surrender; and at the moment you came, i was consulting with your daughter what was best to be done.' 'lead me to him!' cried wilkinson, 'lead me to the villain this instant, and i will shew you what is best to be done!' 'i have appointed an interview with him, about this time,' said his lordship, 'and as your feelings might probably prompt you to too much warmth, perhaps you had better not accompany me; but should i fail in persuading him to deliver up the fatal paper, you shall then see him yourself.' 'you are a fine fellow!' cried the farmer, shaking his hand, 'and have bound me to you for ever.' 'i will hasten to him now,' said his lordship, and casting a significant glance at me, departed; leaving me quite astonished, both at his story, and his motive for fabricating it. it was, however, my business to support the deception. wilkinson then told me that he discovered my place of residence in london, from the discharged butler, who, it seems, is not your son, but your lover; and to whom you have shewn all my letters. he went to wilkinson, and made the disclosure for forty guineas. sordid wretch! and wilkinson says that he wants to marry you, merely for the sake of your annuity. biddy, biddy! had you known as much of the world as i do now, a fortune hunter would not have imposed upon you. as to your shewing him my letters, i cannot well blame you for a breach of trust, which has answered the purpose of involving my life in a more complicated labyrinth of entanglements. but to return. in the midst of our conversation, the maid brought me a note. it was from montmorenci, and as follows: 'will my soul's idol forgive the tale i told wilkinson, since it was devised in order to save her from his fangs? this doctor merrick, whom i mentioned to him, instead of being a swindler, is a mad-doctor; and keeps a private madhouse. i have just seen him, and have informed him that i am about to put a lunatic gentleman, my honoured uncle, under his care. i told him, that this dear uncle (who, you may well suppose is wilkinson) has lucid intervals; that his madness arose from grief at an unfortunate amour of his daughter's, and shews itself in his fancying that every man he sees wants to marry her, and has her written promise of marriage. 'i have already advanced the necessary fees, and now is your time to wheedle wilkinson out of money, by pretending that you will return home with him. a true heroine, my sweet friend, ever shines in deception. good now, play one scene of excellent dissembling.--shakespeare. 'ever, ever, ever, 'your faithful 'montmorenci. 'p.s. excuse tender language, as i am in haste.' this dear letter i placed in my bosom: and when i begged of the farmer to let me have a little money, he took out his pocket-book. 'here, my darling,' said he, 'here are notes to the tune of a hundred pounds, that you may pay all you owe, and purchase whatever baubles and finery you like. this is what you get for discarding that swindler, and promising to return home with old dad.' soon afterwards, our hero came back, and told us that his interview had proved unsuccessful. it was therefore determined that we should all repair to the doctor's (for wilkinson would not go without me), and off we set in a hired coach. on our arrival, we were shewn into a parlour, and after some minutes of anxious suspense, the doctor, a thin little figure, with a shrivelled face and bushy wig, came humming into the room. wilkinson being introduced, the doctor commenced operations, by trying the state of his brain. 'any news to-day, mr. wilkinson?' said he. 'very bad news for me, sir,' replied wilkinson, sullenly. 'i mean public news,' said the doctor. 'a private grievance ought to be considered of public moment,' said wilkinson. 'well remarked, sir,' cried the doctor, 'a clear-headed observation as possible. sir, i give you credit. there is a neatness in the turn of it that argues a collected intellect.' 'sir,' said wilkinson, 'i hope that some other observations which i am about to offer will please you as well.' 'i hope so for your own sake,' answered the doctor; 'i shall certainly listen to them with a favourable ear.' 'thank you, sir,' said the farmer: 'and such being the case, i make no doubt that all will go well; for men seldom disagree, when they wish to coincide.' 'good again,' cried the doctor. 'apt and good. sir, if you continue to talk so rationally, i promise you that you will not remain long in my house.' 'i am sorry,' replied wilkinson, 'that talking rationally is the way to get turned out of your house, because i have come for the purpose of talking rationally.' 'and while such is your resolution,' said the doctor, 'nothing shall be left undone to make my house agreeable. you have only to hint your wishes, and they shall be gratified.' 'sir, sir,' cried wilkinson, grasping his hand, 'your kindness is overpowering, because it is unexpected. however, i do not mean to trespass any farther on your kindness than just to request, that you will do me the favour of returning to my daughter the silly paper written by her, containing her promise to marry you; and if you could conveniently lay your hand on it now, you would add to the obligation, as i mean to leave town in an hour.' 'mr. wilkinson,' said the doctor, 'i shall deal candidly with you. probably you will not leave town these ten years. and pardon me, if i give you fair warning, that should you persist in asking for the paper, a severe horse-whipping will be the consequence.' 'a horse-whipping!' repeated wilkinson, as if he could not believe his ears. 'you shall be cut from shoulder to flank,' said the doctor. ''tis my usual way of beginning.' 'any thing more, my fine fellow?' cried the farmer. 'only that if you continue refractory,' said the doctor, 'you shall be lashed to the bed-post, and shall live on bread and water for a month.' 'here is a proper ruffian for you!' cried wilkinson. 'now, by the mother that bore me, i have a good mind to flay you within an inch of your life!' 'make haste then,' said the doctor, ringing the bell; 'for you will be handcuffed in half a minute.' 'why you little creature,' cried wilkinson, 'do you hope to frighten me? not ask for the paper, truly! ay, ten thousand times over and over. give me the paper, give me the paper; give me the paper, the paper, the paper! what say you to that, old hector?' 'the handcuffs!' cried the doctor to the servant. 'ay, first handcuff me, and then pick my pockets,' cried wilkinson. 'you see i have found you out, sirrah! yes i have discovered that you are a common shoplifter, tried five times for your life--and the very fellow that swindled the spanish ambassador out of a diamond snuff-box.' 'a good deal deranged, indeed,' whispered the doctor to his lordship. 'but how the deuce the girl could bring herself to fancy you,' cried wilkinson, 'that is what shocks me most. a fellow, by all that is horrid, as ugly as if he were bespoke--an old fellow, too, and twice as disgusting, and not half so interesting, as a monkey in a consumption.' 'perfectly distracted, 'pon my conscience!' muttered the doctor; 'the maddest scoundrel, confound him, that ever bellowed in bedlam!' two servants entered with handcuffs. 'look you,' cried wilkinson, shaking his cane; 'dare to bring your bullies here, and if i don't cudgel their carcases out of shape, and your's into shape, may i be shot.' 'secure his hands,' said the doctor. wilkinson instantly darted at the doctor, and knocked him down. the servants collared wilkinson, who called to montmorenci for assistance; but in vain; and after a furious scuffle, the farmer was handcuffed. 'dear uncle, calm these transports!' said his lordship. 'your dutiful and affectionate nephew beseeches you to compose yourself.' 'uncle!--nephew!' cried the farmer. 'what do you mean, fellow? who the devil is this villain?' 'are you so far gone, as not to know your own nephew?' said the doctor, grinning with anger. 'never set eyes on the poltron till an hour ago!' cried wilkinson. 'merciful powers!' exclaimed montmorenci. 'and when i was a baby, he dandled me; and when i was a child, he gave me whippings and sugar-plums; and when i came to man's estate, he cherished me in his bosom, and was unto me as a father!' here his lordship applied a handkerchief to his face. 'the man is crazed!' cried wilkinson. 'no, dear uncle,' said montmorenci, ''tis you who are crazed; and to be candid with you, this is a madhouse, and this gentleman is the mad-doctor, and with him you must now remain, till you recover from your complaint--the most afflicting instance of insanity, that, perhaps, was ever witnessed.' 'insanity!' faltered the farmer, turning deadly pale. 'mercy, mercy on my sinful soul, for i am a gone man!' 'nay,' said his lordship, 'do not despair. the doctor is the first in his profession, and will probably cure you in the course of a few years.' 'a few years? that bread and water business will dispatch me in a week! mad? i mad? i vow to my conscience, doctor, i was always reckoned the quietest, easiest, sweetest--sure every one knows honest gregory wilkinson. don't they, cherry? dear child, answer for your father. am i mad? am i, cherry?' 'as butter in may,' said montmorenci. 'you lie like a thief!' vociferated the farmer, struggling and kicking. 'you lie, you sneering, hook-nosed reprobate!' 'why, my dear uncle,' said montmorenci, 'do you not recollect the night you began jumping like a grasshopper, and scolding the full-moon in my deer-park?' 'your deer-park? i warrant you are not worth a cabbage-garden! but now i see through the whole plot. ay, i am to be kept a prisoner here, while my daughter marries that old knave before my face. it would kill me, cherry; i tell you i should die on the spot. oh, my unfortunate girl, are you too conspiring against me? are you, cherry? dear cherry, speak. only say you are not!' 'indeed, my friend,' said i, 'you shall be treated with mildness. doctor, i beg you will not act harshly towards him. with all his faults, the man is goodnatured and well tempered, and to do him justice, he has always used me kindly.' 'have i not?' cried he. 'sweet cherry, beautiful cherry, blessings on you for that!' 'come away,' said montmorenci hastily. 'you know 'tis near dinner time.' 'farewell, doctor,' said i. 'adieu, poor wilkinson.' 'what, leaving me?' cried he, 'leaving your old father a prisoner in this vile house? oh, cruel, cruel!' 'come,' said montmorenci, taking my hand: 'i have particular business elsewhere.' 'for pity's sake, stay five minutes!' cried wilkinson, struggling with the servants. 'come, my love!' said montmorenci. 'only one minute--one short minute!' cried the other. 'well,' said i, stopping, 'one minute then.' 'not one moment!' cried his lordship, and was hurrying me away. 'my child, my child!' cried wilkinson, with a tone of such indescribable agony, as made the blood curdle in my veins. 'dear sir,' said i, returning; 'indeed i am your friend. but you know, you know well, i am not your child.' 'you are!' cried he, 'by all that is just and good, you are my own child!' 'by all that is just and good,' exclaimed montmorenci, 'you shall come away this instant, or remain here for ever.' and he dragged me out of the room. 'now then,' said the poor prisoner, as the door was closing, 'now do what you please with me, for my heart is quite broken!' on our way home, his lordship enjoined the strictest secrecy with regard to this adventure. i shewed him the hundred pounds, and reimbursed him for what he had paid the doctor; and on our arrival, i discharged my debt to the poet. adieu. letter xiii soon after i had got into these lodgings, i sent the servant to grosvenor square, with a message for betterton, requesting him to let me have back the bandbox, which i left at his house the night i fled from him. in a short time she returned with it, and i found every article safe. to my amazement and dismay, who should enter my apartment this morning but betterton himself! i dropped my book. he bowed to the dust. 'your business, sir?' said i, rising with a dignity, which, from my being under the repeated necessity of assuming it, has now become natural to me. 'to make a personal apology,' replied he, 'for the disrespectful and inhospitable treatment which the loveliest of her sex experienced at my house.' 'an apology for one insult,' said i, 'must seem insincere, when the mode adopted for making it is another insult.' 'the retort is exquisitely elegant,' answered he, 'but i trust, not true. for, granting, my dear madam, that i offer a second insult by my intrusion, still i may lessen the first insult so much by my apology that the sum of both may be less than the first, as it originally stood.' 'really,' said i, 'you have blended politeness and arithmetic so happily together; you have clothed multiplication and subtraction in such polished phraseology----' 'good!' cried he, 'that is real wit.' 'you have added so much algebra to so much sentiment,' continued i. 'good, good!' interrupted he again. 'in short, you have apologized so gracefully by the rule of three, that i know not which has assisted you the most--chesterfield or cocker.' 'inimitable,' exclaimed he. 'really your retorting powers are superior to those of any heroine on record.' in short, my friend, i was so delighted with my repartee, that i could not, for my life, continue vexed with the object of it; and before he left me, i said the best things in nature, found him the most agreeable old man in the world, shook hands with him at parting, and gave him permission to visit me again. on calm consideration, i do not disapprove of my having allowed him this liberty. were he merely a good kind of good for nothing old gentleman, it would only be losing time to cultivate an acquaintance with him. but as the man is a reprobate, i may find account in enlisting him amongst the other characters; particularly, since i am at present miserably off for villains. indeed, i augur auspiciously of his powers, from the fact (which he confessed), of his having discovered my place of abode, by following the maid, when she was returning with my bandbox. but i have to inform you of another rencontre. last night, the landlady, higginson, and myself, went to see his lordship perform in the new spectacle. the first piece was called a melodrama; a compound of horror and drollery, where scenery, dresses, and decorations, prevailed over nature, genius, and moral. as to the plot, i could make nothing of it; only that the hero and heroine were in very great trouble about trifles, and quite at their ease in real distress. for instance, when the heroine had arrived at the height of her misery, she began to sing. then the hero, resolving to revenge her wrongs, falls upon one knee, turns up his eyes, and calls on the sacred majesty of god to assist him. this invocation to the divinity might, perhaps, prove the hero's piety, but i am afraid it shewed the poet's want of any. certainly, however, it produced a powerful effect on my feelings. i heard the glory of god made subservient to a theatrical clap-trap, and my blood ran cold. so, i fancy, did the blood of six or seven sweet little children behind the scenes, for they were presently sent upon the stage, to warm themselves with a dance. after dancing, came murder, and the hero gracefully advanced with a bullet in his head. he falls; and many well-meaning persons suppose that the curtain will fall with him. no such thing: hector had a funeral, and so must kemble. accordingly the corpse appears, handsomely dished up on an escutcheoned coffin; while certain virgins of the sun (who, i am told, support that character better than their own), chaunt a holy requiem round it. when horror was exhausted, the poet tried disgust. after this piece came another, full of bannered processions, gilded pillars, paper snows, and living horses, that were really far better actors than the men who rode them. it concluded with a grand battle, in which twenty men on horseback, and twenty on foot, beat each other indiscriminately, and with the utmost good humour. armour clashed, sabres struck fire, a castle was burnt to the ground, horses fell dead, the audience rose shouting and clapping, and a man just below me in the pit, cried out in an ecstasy, 'i made their saddles! i made their saddles!' as to montmorenci's performance, nothing could equal it; for though his character was the meanest in the piece, he contrived to make it the most prominent. he had an emphasis for every word, an attitude for every emphasis, and a look for every attitude. the people, indeed, hissed him repeatedly, because they knew not, as i did, that his acting a broken soldier in the style of a dethroned monarch, proceeded from his native nobility of soul, not his want of talent. after the performance, we were pressing through the crowd in the lobby, when i saw, as i thought, stuart (bob stuart!), at a short distance from me, looking anxiously about him. on nearer inspection, i found i was right, and it occurred to me, that i might extract a most interesting scene from him, besides laying a foundation for future incident. i therefore separated myself (like evelina at the opera) from my party, and contrived to cross his path. at first he did not recognize me, but i continued by his side till he did. 'miss wilkinson!' exclaimed he, 'how rejoiced i am to see you! where is your father?' 'let us leave this place,' said i, 'they are searching for me, i know they are.' 'who?' said he. 'hush!' whispered i. 'conduct me in silence from the theatre.' he put my hand under his arm, and hurried me away. when we had gained the street: 'you may perceive by my lameness,' said he, 'that i am not yet well of the wound i received the night i met you on the common. but i could not refrain from accompanying your father to town, in search of you; and as i heard nothing of him since he went to your lodgings yesterday, i called there myself this evening, and was told that you had gone to the theatre. they could give me no information about your father, but of course, you have seen him since he came to town.' 'i have not, i assure you,' said i, an evasive, yet conscientious answer, because wilkinson is not my real father. 'that is most extraordinary,' cried he, 'for he left the hotel yesterday, to call on you. but tell me candidly, miss wilkinson, what tempted you to leave home? how are you situated at present? with whom? and what is your object?' 'alas!' said i, 'a horrible mystery hangs over me, which i dare not now develop. it is enough, that in flying from one misfortune, i have plunged into a thousand others, that peace has fled from my heart, and that i am ruined.' 'ruined!' exclaimed he, with a look of horror. 'past redemption,' said i, hiding my face in my hands. 'this will be dreadful news for your poor father,' said he. 'but i beg of you to tell me the particulars.' 'then to be brief,' answered i, 'the first night i came to town, a gentleman decoyed me into his house, and treated me extremely ill.' 'the villain!' muttered stuart. 'afterwards i left him,' continued i, 'and walked the streets, till i was taken up for a robbery, and put into the watchhouse.' 'is this fact?' asked stuart, 'or are you merely sporting with my feelings?' ''tis fact, on my honour,' said i, 'and to conclude my short, but pathetic tale, a gentleman, a mysterious and amiable youth, met me by mere accident, after my release; and i am, at present, under his protection.' 'a shocking account indeed!' said he. 'but have you never considered the consequences of continuing this abandoned course of life?' 'now here is a pretty insinuation!' cried i; 'but such is always the fate of us poor heroines. no, never can we get through an innocent adventure in peace and quietness, without having our virtue called in question. 'tis always our virtue, our virtue. if we are caught coming out of a young man's bed-room,--'tis our virtue. if we remain a whole night in the streets,--'tis our virtue. if we make a nocturnal assignation,--oh! 'tis our virtue, our virtue. such a rout as they make.' 'i regret,' said stuart, 'to see you treat the subject so lightly, but i do beseech of you to recollect, that your wretched parent----' ''tis a fine night, sir.' 'that your wretched parent----' 'sir,' said i, 'when spleen takes the form of remonstrance, a lecture is only a scolding put into good language. this is my house, sir.' and i stopped at the door. 'at least,' said he, 'will you do me the favour of being at home for me to-morrow morning?' 'perhaps i may,' replied i. 'so good night, master bobby!' the poet and the landlady did not return for half an hour. they told me that their delay was occasioned by their search for me; but i refused all explanation as to what happened after i had lost them. adieu. letter xiv just as i had finished my last letter, his lordship entered my room, but saluted me coldly. 'i am informed,' said he, 'that you strayed from your party last night, and refused, afterwards, to give an account of yourself to the landlady. may i hope, that to me, who feel a personal interest in all your actions, you will be more communicative?' 'i regret,' said i, 'that circumstances put it out of my power to gratify your wishes. i foresee that you, like an orville, or a mortimer, will suspect and asperse your mistress. but the sun shall return, the mist disperse, and the landscape laugh again.' 'confound your metaphors! 'cried he, discarding attitude and elegance in an instant. 'do you hope to hide your cunning under mists and laughing landscapes? but i am not to be gulled; i am not to be done. no going it upon me, i say. tell me directly, madam, where you were, and with whom; or by the devil of devils, you shall repent it finely.' i was thunderstruck. 'sir,' said i, 'you have agitated the gentle air with the concussion of inelegant oaths and idioms, uttered in the most ungraceful manner. sir, your vulgarity is unpardonable, and we now part for ever.' 'for ever!' exclaimed he, reverting into attitude, and interlacing his knuckles in a clasp of agony. 'hear me, cherubina. by the shades of my ancestors, my vulgarity was assumed!' 'assumed, sir?' said i, 'and pray, for what possible purpose?' 'alas!' cried he, 'i must not, dare not tell. it is a sad story, and enveloped in a mysterious veil. oh! fatal vow! oh! cruel marchesa!' shocking were his contortions as he spoke. 'no!' cried i. 'no vow could ever have produced so dreadful an effect on your language.' 'well, 'said he, after a painful pause, 'sooner than incur the odium of falsehood, i must disclose to you the horrid secret. 'the young count di narcissini was my friend. educated together, we became competitors in our studies and accomplishments; and in none of them could either of us be said to excel the other; till, on our introduction at court, it was remarked by the queen, that i surpassed the count in shaking hands. 'narcissini,' said her majesty, 'has judgment enough in knowing when to present a single finger, or perhaps two; but, for the positive pressure, or the negligent hand with a drooping wrist; or the cordial, honest, dislocating shake, give me montmorenci. i cannot deny that the former has great taste in this accomplishment; but then the latter has more genius--more execution--more, as it were, of the _magnifique_ and _aimable_.' 'his mother the marchesa overheard this critique, turned as pale as ashes, and left the levee. 'that night, hardly had i fallen into one of those gentle slumbers, which ever attends the virtuous, when a sudden noise roused me; and on opening my eyes, i beheld the detested marchesa, with an italian assassin, standing over me.' 'montmorenci!' cried she, 'thou art the bane of my repose. thou hast surpassed my son in the graces. now listen. either pledge thyself, by an irrevocable vow, henceforth to sprinkle thy conversation with uncouth phrases, and colloquial barbarisms, or prepare to die!' 'terrible alternative! what could i do? the dagger gleamed before my face. i shuddered, and took the fatal vow of vulgarity. 'the marchesa then put into my hand the blackguard's dictionary, which i studied night and day with much success; and i have now the misfortune to state, that i can be, so far as language goes, the greatest blackguard in england.' 'unhappy youth!' cried i. 'this, indeed, accounts for what had often made me uneasy. but say, can nothing absolve you from this hateful vow?' 'there is one way,' he replied. 'the marchesa permitted me to resume my natural elegance, as soon as my marrying should put an end to competition between her son and me. oh! then, my cherubina, you, you alone can restore me to hope, to happiness, and to grammar!' 'ah! my lord,' cried i, 'recollect my own fatal vow. never, never can i be your's!' 'drive me not mad!' he cried. 'you are mine, you shall be mine. this, this is the bitterest moment of my life. you do not, cannot love me. no, cherubina, no, you cannot love me.' i fixed my eyes in a wild gaze, rose hastily from my chair, paced the room with quick steps; and often sighing deeply, clasped my hands and shuddered. he led me to the sofa, kissed the drapery of my cambric handkerchief, and concealed his face in its folds. then raising his head. 'do you love me?' said he, with a voice dropping manna. a smile, bashful in its archness, played round my rich and trembling lip; and with an air of bewitching insinuation, i placed my hand on his shoulder, shook my head, and looked up in his face, with an expression half reproachful, half tender. he snatched me in a transport to his heart; and that trembling pressure, which virtue consecrated, and love understood, conveyed to each of us an unspeakable sensation; as if a beam from heaven had passed through both our frames, and left some of its divine warmth behind it. what followed, angels might have attested. a ringlet had escaped from the bandage of my bodkin. he clipped it off with my scissors, and fixed it next his heart; while i prettily struggled to prevent him, with arch anger, and a pouting playfulness. a thousand saucy triumphs were basking in his eyes, when the door opened, and who should make his appearance, but--master bobby! i could have boxed him. 'i avail myself,' said he, 'of the permission you gave me last night, to call on you this morning.' montmorenci looked from the one to the other with amazement. 'and as i am anxious,' continued stuart, 'to speak with you in private----' 'sir,' said i, 'any thing which you have to communicate, this gentleman, my particular friend, may hear.' 'yes, sir,' cried his lordship, in a haughty tone, 'for i have the honour to boast myself the protector of this lady.' 'if you mean her protector from injury and insult,' said stuart, 'i hope, sir, you are not on this occasion, as on others, an actor?' 'you know me then?' said his lordship. 'i saw you perform last night,' answered stuart, 'but, to say the truth, i do not recollect your name.' 'my name is norval on the grampian hills,' cried his lordship. 'sir,' said stuart, 'though we sometimes laugh at you, even in your grave characters, the part you have now chosen seems much too serious for drollery. allow me to ask, sir, by what right you feel entitled to call yourself the protector of this lady?' 'first inform me,' said montmorenci, 'by what right you feel entitled to put that question?' 'by the right of friendship,' answered stuart. 'no, but enmity,' cried i, 'unprovoked, unprincipled, inexorable enmity. this is the stuart whom you have often heard me mention, as my persecutor; and i hope you will now make him repent of his temerity.' 'sir,' said his lordship, 'i desire you to leave the house.' 'not till you favour me with your company,' replied stuart; 'for i find i must have some serious conversation with you.' 'beshrew my heart!' cried lord altamont mortimer montmorenci, 'if you want satisfaction, follow me this moment. i am none of your slovenly, slobbering shots. damme, i scorn to pistol a gentleman about the ankles. i can teach the young idea how to shoot, damme.' he spoke, and strode out of the room. stuart smiled and followed him. you must know, i speculate upon a duel. in short, my plot is entangling itself admirably; and such characters as betterton and stuart will not fail to keep the wheels of it going. betterton is probably planning to carry me off by force; stuart and our hero are coming to a misunderstanding about me; the latter will, perhaps, return with his arm in an interesting sling, and another parting-forever interview cannot be far distant. such is the promising aspect of affairs. adieu. letter xv while i was sitting in the most painful suspense, a knock came to the door, and stuart entered. 'you terrify, shock, amaze me!' cried i. 'what dreadful blow awaits me? speak!' 'pray,' said he, laughing, 'what was your fancy for telling me that you were ruined?' 'and so i am,' answered i. 'at least, not in the way you wished me to suppose,' said he. 'i repeat, sir,' cried i, 'that i am ruined: no matter in what manner; but ruined i am.' 'your friend, the player, tells me that you are not,' said he. 'my friend, the player, is very meddling,' answered i. 'this is the way that whatever plot i lay down for my memoirs is always frustrated. sir, i say i am ruined.' 'well,' cried he, 'i will not dispute the point. i wish only to guard you against being ruined again. i mistrust this grundy much. from his conversation, after we left you, i can perceive that he has a matrimonial design upon you. pray beware of the fellow.' 'the fellow!' cried i. 'alas! you know him not. his large and piercing eye is but the index of a soul fraught with every human virtue.' 'ah! my friend,' said he, 'you stand on the very verge of a precipice, and i must endeavour, even at the risk of your displeasure, to snatch you from it.' he then began a long lecture on my conduct, and asserted that my romantic turn is a sort of infatuation, amounting to little less than madness, and likely to terminate in ruin. he painted, in language pretty enough, the distraction of wilkinson, after i had fled from his house; and, at last, contrived to extract from me (what, i remark, i can never obtain when i want them)--tears. seeing me thus affected, he turned the conversation to desultory topics. we talked of old times, of our juvenal sports and quarrels, when we were playfellows; what happened after our separation; his life at college and in the army; my studies and accomplishments. thence we made a natural transition to the fine arts. in short, it was the first time in my life that i had a rational conversation (as it is called) with a well-informed young man, and i confess i felt gratified. besides, even his serious remonstrances were so happily interspersed with humour and delicate irony, that i could not bring myself to be displeased with him. he remained more than two hours, and at parting took my hand. 'i have hitherto been scolding you,' said he, with a smile, 'and i must now praise you, that i may be better entitled to scold you again. you have the elements of every thing amiable and endearing in your mind, and an admirable understanding to direct them. but you want some one to direct that understanding. your father and i have already had a serious consultation on the subject; but till he comes, nothing can be done. indeed, i am much alarmed at his absence. meantime, will you permit me to legislate in his stead, and to begin by chusing more eligible lodgings for you. i confess i dread the machinations of that actor.' as he spoke, a rap came to the door. 'do me the favour to take tea with me this evening,' said i, 'and we will talk the matter over.' he promised, and took his leave. montmorenci then made his appearance, and in visible perturbation, at having found stuart here again. if i can constitute a jealousy between them it will add to the animation of several scenes. i therefore praised stuart to the skies, and mentioned my having asked him to tea. his lordship flew into a violent rage, and swore that the villain wanted to unheroinize me, in order to gain me himself. he then renewed his entreaties that i would consent to an immediate marriage; but now the benefits of my fatal vow shone forth in their full lustre, and its irrevocability gave rise to some of the finest agonies that his lordship ever exhibited. at length we separated to dress for dinner. at my toilette i recollected with exactness every particular of his late conversation; his sentiments so congenial with mine; his manners so engaging; his countenance so noble and ingenuous. 'i shall see him no more,' said i. a sigh that followed, told me more of my heart than i wished to know. no, my biddy, never, never can he be mine. i must banish his dear image from my mind; and to speak in the simple and unsophisticated language of the heroine in the forest of montalbo: '_indeed, surely, i think, we ought, under existing circumstances, dearest, dearest madam, to avoid, where we can, every allusion, to this, i fear, alas! our, indeed, hopeless attachment._' adieu. letter xvi when stuart came, he found his lordship, the landlady, the poet, and myself sitting round the tea-table. at first the conversation was general, and on the topics of the day. these stuart discussed with much animation and volubility, while his lordship sat silent and contemptuous. i fancy that his illustrious tongue disdained to trifle. meantime higginson, in a new coat and waistcoat, sat anglicising the latinity of his face, and copying the manners and attitudes of montmorenci, whom the poor man, i verily believe, is endeavouring to rival. at length the word poetry caught his ear; he gave the graces to the winds, and listened. 'therefore,' continued stuart to me, 'satirical poetry must be much more useful than encomiastic.' 'sir,' said higginson, drawing back his head and lowering his voice, as if he dreaded nothing so much as being heard, 'i must beg leave, in all humility, to coincide with your exprest proposition; but to suggest a doubt whether it be decorous to violate the repose of noble blood.' 'if the great deserve exposure as much as the mean,' said stuart, 'their rank is rather a reason why they should be censured sooner; because their bad example is more conspicuous, and, therefore, more detrimental.' 'but,' said i, 'though satirizing the vicious may be beneficial to the community, is it always advantageous to the satirist?' 'johnson observes,' answered stuart, 'that _it is no less a proof of eminence to have many enemies than many friends_; and, indeed, without the one we seldom have the other. on the whole, however, i would advise a writer not to drop the olive-branch in grasping at the rod; though those whom he finds privately endeavouring to vilify his own character, self-defence entitles him to expose without mercy.' 'that satire is salutary to society, i am convinced,' said i. 'it becomes mischievous only when it is aimed at the worthy heart.' 'and yet,' said stuart, 'those that are loudest in declaiming against the satirist, are often fondest of disseminating the satire. now he who slanders with his tongue, is just as culpable as he who defames with his pen; for, if the one weapon be not as extensive, in its effects, as the other, the motives of those who use it are equally vile. hume, in one of his essays, says, that _a whisper may fly as quick, and be as pernicious, as a pamphlet_.' 'and i think,' said i, 'that those who never allow people faults, are just as injurious to the community as those who never allow them virtues.' 'true,' said stuart; 'and a late publication (which equals in sentiment, diction, and pictures of character, any work of the kind in our language) thus concludes a description of them: _these, assuming the name of good-nature, say, that for their part, they wish to avoid making enemies, and when they cannot speak well of people, they make it a rule not to speak of them at all. now this is an admirable system, for thus, permitting vice, they sanction it, and by not opposing, assist its progress._' 'so you see,' said higginson, 'that next to laws and religion, which correct the serious derelictions, writing, which chastises the smaller foibles, is the most useful instrument in a state.' 'observe,' whispered i to stuart, 'how the ruling passion breaks forth.' 'and, therefore,' continued higginson, 'next to the legislator and divine, the poet is the most exalted member of the community.' 'pardon me there,' said i. 'the most exalted members are not legislators, or divines, or poets, who prescribe, but heroes and heroines, who perform.' 'if you mean the heroes and heroines of romance,' said stuart, 'their performances are useful in teaching us what we should shun, not what we should imitate. the heroine, in particular, quits a comfortable home, turns out to be the best pedestrian in the world; and, after weeping tears enough to float her work-basket, weds some captious, passionate, and kneeling hero.' 'better,' cried i, 'than to remain a domesticated rosy little miss, who romps with the squire, plays an old tune on an old piano, and reads prayers for the good family--servants and all. at last, marrying some honest gentleman, who lives on his saddle, she degenerates into a dangler of keys and whipper of children; trots up and down stairs, educates the poultry, and superintends the architecture of pies.' 'now for my part,' said stuart, 'i would have a young lady neither a mere homely drudge, nor a sky-rocket heroine, let off into the clouds. i would educate her heart and head, as well as her fingers and feet. she should be at once the ornament of the social group, and the delight of the domestic circle; abroad attractive, at home endearing; the enchantress to whom levity would apply for mirth, and wisdom for admonition; and her mirth should be graceful, and her admonition fascinating. if she happened to be solitary, she should have the power of contemplation, and if her needle broke, she should be capable of finding resource in a book. in a word, she should present a proof, that wit is not inconsistent with good-nature, nor liveliness with good-sense, and that to make the virtues attractive, they ought to be adorned with the graces.' 'and pray, to whom would you marry this charmer?' asked his lordship, winking at me. 'why,' replied he, 'when she wishes to settle in life, i would have her consult her parents, and make a prudent match.' 'a prudent match!' cried i. 'just conceive--a prudent match! oh, stuart, i declare i am quite ashamed of you.' ''pon honour,' said his lordship, 'you are too severe. i will bet five to four he means well.' 'no doubt,' said i. 'and to be candid, i think him a mighty good sort of a man.' 'a proper behaved young person,' said his lordship. 'an honest _bon diable_!' added i. 'a worthy soul!' said he. 'a respectable character!' cried i. 'a decent creature!' said he. 'a humane and pious christian,' cried i. this last hit was irresistible, and both of us burst out laughing, while stuart sat silent, and even affected to smile. 'now is your time,' whispered i, to his lordship. 'a few more sarcasms, and he crouches to you for ever.' 'i fancy, young gentleman,' said his lordship, turning full upon stuart, and laughing so long, that i thought he would never finish the sentence; 'i fancy, my tight fellow, you may now knock under.' 'i am not always inclined to do so,' replied stuart; 'neither am i easily provoked to knock down.' 'knock down whom?' demanded his lordship, with the most complete frown i had ever beheld. 'a puppy,' said stuart coolly. 'you lie!' vociferated our hero. 'leave the room, sir,' cried stuart, starting from his seat. montmorenci rose, retreated to the door;--stopped--went on--stopped again--moved--stopped-'vanish!' cried stuart, advancing. his lordship vanished. i ran, snatched a pen, and wrote on a scrap of paper 'vindicate your honour, or never appear in my presence!' i then rang the bell for the maid, and slipping some silver into her hand, begged that she would deliver the paper to his lordship. higginson then started from his chair. 'after a deliberate consideration of the subject,' said he, 'i am more and more convinced, that a poet is the first character in society.' during a whole hour, i remained in a state of the most distracting suspense, for he never returned! meantime, stuart was privately pressing me to leave my lodgings, and remain at his father's, till wilkinson should be found. indignant at the cowardly conduct of his lordship, i was almost consenting; when on a sudden, the door flew open, and with a slow step and dignified deportment, lord altamont mortimer montmorenci entered. all eyes were rivetted on him. he walked towards stuart, and fell upon one knee before him: 'i come, sir,' said he, 'to retract that abuse which i gave you just now. i submit to whatever punishment you please; nor shall i think my honour re-established till my fault is repaired. then grant me the pardon that i beg, on whatever conditions you think proper.' 'for shame!' exclaimed i, with an indignation that i could not suppress. 'you a hero?' his lordship instantly snatched a book from his pocket, and opening a passage, presented it to me. the book was _la nouvelle heloise_. 'you see there,' said he, 'how lord b., after having given st. preux the lie, begs forgiveness on his knees, and in the precise words which i have just used. will cherubina condemn the conduct that heloise applauded?' 'ever excellent, ever exalted mortal!' cried i. 'o thou art indeed all that is just, dignified, magnanimous.' i gave him my hand, and he bowed over it. supper was announced. mirth ruled the night. the landlady sat gazing on his lordship; his lordship on me. stuart uttered a thousand witticisms; and even the poet determined to be heard; for, in the midst of our merriment, i saw him, with his mouth open, and his neck stretched forward, watching for the first moment of silence. it came. 'this is the fun, equalled by none; so never, never, never have done!' cried the happy creature, and protruded such an exorbitant laugh as made ample amends for the gravity of his whole life. at length stuart took leave; and the rest of us separated to our several apartments. that coxcomb, i see, has no notion of sentiment, and no taste for admiring those who have. there he sits, calm, unconcerned, and never once fixes his eyes on me with a speaking gaze. oh, no; nothing but wit or wisdom for him. not only is the fellow far from a pathetic turn himself, but he has also an odd faculty of detaching even me from my miseries, and of reducing me to horrid hilarity. it would vex a saint to see how he makes me laugh, though i am predetermined not to give him a single smile. but montmorenci, the sentimental montmorenci, timely interposes the fine melancholy of his features;--he looks, he sighs, he speaks; and in a moment i am recalled to the soft emotions, and a due sense of my deplorable destiny. adieu. letter xvii clouds are impending, and i know not whether they will clash together, and elicit lightning, or mingle into one, and descend in refreshing showers. this morning, montmorenci, the hostess, and myself, breakfasted early, and then went shopping. i purchased a charming scarf, a bonnet, two dresses, a diamond cross, and a pair of pearl ear-rings. his lordship borrowed a guinea from me, and then bought a small casket, which he presented to me in the handsomest manner. we next visited westminster abbey; the first that i have ever seen, though i had read of thousands. to my great disappointment, i found in it no cowled monks with scapulars, and no veiled nuns with rosaries. nothing but statues of statesmen and warriors, in stone wigs and marble regimentals. soon after we had returned home, higginson entered my room, stealing, and with a look of terror. 'my mother presents her respectful compliments,' said he in a whisper, 'and begs you will honour her with your presence, that she may do herself the pleasure of saving you from destruction.' 'tell me,' said i, with a look that pierced into his soul, 'which character do _you_ mean to support on this occasion? that of my friend, or of an accomplice in the plot against me?' higginson looked aghast. 'as to your being a principal,' continued i, 'that is not likely; but i must ascertain if your object is to be--excuse me--an understrapping ruffian. never fear, speak your mind candidly.' 'and i was writing verses on you all the morning, and it was for you that i clipped my eyebrows, and it was for you that i--dear me, dear me!' cried the poor man, and began whimpering like a child. 'nay,' said i, 'if it is not your taste, that is another affair; but though i cannot countenance you as a villain, i will at least respect you as an honest man. i will, i assure you; so now lead me to your mother.' we proceeded up stairs, and entered a garret; where his mother, a corpulent old lady, was lying in a fit of the gout. higginson having introduced us: 'miss,' said she, 'i sent for you to tell you that i have just overheard your hostess, and an old gentleman (betterton, i think she called him), planning something against you. they were in the next room, and thought i could not hear; but this i know, that he offered her fifty pounds, if she would assist him in obtaining you. and so, miss, from all my son says of you, and sure enough he raves of you like mad, i thought you would wish to be saved from ruin.' 'certainly, madam,' answered i. 'at the same time, i must beg permission to remark, that you have destroyed half the interest of this intrigue against me, by forewarning me of it.' 'may be so, miss,' said she. 'i have done my duty as a christian, however.' 'nay,' said i, 'do not suppose i resent your conduct, old lady. i am sure you meant all for the best, and i sincerely wish you health and happiness. farewell.' on returning to my room, i found betterton there before me. he came to request that i would accept of a ticket for the masquerade, at the pantheon: and he gave another to the landlady; who, he said, must accompany me thither: so 'tis clear that he means to decoy me from it. unhappy girl! but how can i refuse going? a heroine, you know, never misses a masquerade: it is always the scene of her best adventure; and to say the truth, i cannot resist the temptation of so delightful an amusement. now to consult about my character. letter xviii at dinner, yesterday, i bespoke his lordship as an escort to the masquerade; and we then held a council of dress. it was resolved, that i should appear in the character of sterne's maria, and his lordship as corporal trim. this morning, just as i had finished reading the closet-scene, in the children of the abbey, betterton and the landlady came into my room; and in a short time, i perceived the purport of their visit; as they began requesting that i would not take either stuart or montmorenci with me to the masquerade. 'the fact is, miss,' said the landlady, 'that i have heard your real story. mr. grundy is not your cousin at all, and your name is wilkinson, not donald. howsomever, as i believe you meant no harm, in this deception, i am willing, at the solicitations of this excellent gentleman, to let you remain in my house, provided you promise not to receive any more visits from that stuart, who is the greatest villain unhanged; or from mr. grundy, who has certainly bad designs on you; though he made proposals of marriage to myself, no longer ago than yesterday.' a tapping at my door prevented me from expressing my total disbelief in her latter assertion. it struck me that should the person prove to be his lordship, i might make her look extremely foolish, by letting her overhear his declarations of attachment to me. 'conceal yourselves in this closet,' whispered i to my visitors. 'i have particular reasons.' they looked at each other, and hesitated. 'in, in!' said i; 'for i suspect that this visit is from a villain, and i wish you to hear what passes.' both then went into the closet. i opened the door of my chamber, and, to my great disappointment, the poet appeared at it, with his eyes rolling, and his mouth ajar. 'what is the matter?' asked i. he gaped still wider, but said nothing. 'ah,' cried i, 'that is an awkward attempt at expressing horror. if you have any hideous news to communicate, why do you not rush into the room, tossing your hands on high, and exclaiming, "fly, fair lady, all is lost!"' 'indeed, miss,' said he, 'i was never in the way of learning good breeding. but don't go to the masquerade, miss, oh, don't! my mother overheard old betterton just now planning with the landlady, to carry you from it by force. but, miss, i have a fine sword, above stairs, three feet and a half long, and i will rub off the rust, and----' a knock at the street-door interrupted him. i was in a hiding mood. already the scene promised wonders; and i resolved not to damp its rising spirit; so made the simple higginson get underneath the sofa. the next moment my door opened, and vixen, montmorenci's terrier, came bounding towards me. 'go, dear vixen,' cried i, snatching her to my bosom; 'carry back to your master all that nourishes his remembrance. go, dear vixen, guard him by night, and accompany him by day, serve him with zeal, and love him with fidelity!' i turned round, and perceived--montmorenci! the poor timid girl bent her eyes to the ground. 'yes, dear vixen,' said he, 'you have now indeed a claim to my regard; and with the fondest gratitude will i cherish you!' he then flew to me, and poured forth, at my feet, the most passionate acknowledgments, and tender protestations. i tried to break from him. 'no, loveliest cherubina!' said he, detaining me. 'not thus must we part.' 'we must part for ever!' exclaimed i. 'after that rash soliloquy which you have just heard, never can i bear you in my sight. besides, sir, you are betrothed, at this moment, to another.' 'i? ridiculous! but to whom?' 'our hostess--a most charming woman.' 'our hostess! yes, a charming woman indeed. she has roses in her cheek, and lilies in her skin; but they are white roses, and orange lilies. our hostess! beshrew my heart, i would let cobwebs grow on my lips before i would kiss her.' another knock came to the door. 'me miserable!' exclaimed i. 'if this be the person i suspect, we are both undone--separated for ever!' 'who? what? where shall i hide?' cried his lordship. 'yon dark closet,' said i, pointing. 'fly.' his lordship sprang into the closet, and closed the door. 'i can hear no tidings of your father,' said stuart, entering the room. 'i have searched every hotel in town, and i really fear that some accident----' 'mercy upon me! who's here?' cried his lordship from the closet. 'as i hope to be saved, the place is full of people. let me go; whoever the devil you are, let me go!' 'take that--and that--and that:--you poor, pitiful, fortune-hunting play-actor!' vociferated the landlady, buffetting him about. that unhappy young nobleman bolted from the closet, with his face running blood, and the landlady fast at his heels. 'yes, you dog!' exclaimed she; 'i have discovered your treacherousness at last. as for your love-letters and trinkets, to me, villain--i never valued 'em a pin's point; but that you should go for to try to ruin this sweet innocent young creature, that is what distresses me, so it is.' and she burst out crying. 'love-letters and trinkets to you!' exclaimed i. 'surely he was not so base, madam.' 'but he was so base, madam,' said she with a bitter look; 'and if you fancy that 'tis yourself he loves, why look there; read the letter he sent me yesterday, just after i had asked him to pay me for six months' diet and lodging.' i read: 'accept, my lovely hostess, the pair of bracelets which accompanies this note, and rest assured that i will discharge my bill, in the course of another month. 'my motive for having brought miss wilkinson into your house, as my cousin, was simply to restore her to her friends. your jealousy, though most unfounded, is most flattering. 'ah, how little do you know your grundy!--if i pay the silly girl a few slight attentions, it is only to cloak that tenderness for you, which preys upon my heart, and consumes my vitals;--that tenderness, which i yesterday so solemnly vowed to evince (as soon as my affairs are arranged) at the altar. 'your own, own, own, 'abraham grundy.' it was as much as my dignity could do to suppress my indignation at this letter; but the heroine prevailed, and i cast on his lordship my famous compound expression of pity, contempt, and surprise, which i tinged with just fascination enough to remind him of what a jewel he had lost. meantime he stood wiping his face, and did not utter a word. 'and now,' cried i, 'now for the grand developement. james higginson, come forth!' in a moment the poet was seen, creeping, like a huge tortoise, from under the sofa. 'mr. higginson,' said i, 'did not your mother tell you, that this lady here--this amiable lady,' (and i curtsied low to her, and she curtsied still lower to me), 'that this first and best of women,' (and again we exchanged rival curtsies), 'is plotting with a mr. betterton to betray me into his hands at the masquerade?' 'madam,' answered the poet, with a firm demeanour, 'i do solemnly certify and asseverate, that so my mother told me.' 'then your mother told a confounded falsehood!' cried betterton, popping out of the closet. higginson walked up to him, and knocked him down with the greatest gravity imaginable. the hostess ran at higginson, and fastened her fangs in his face. montmorenci laid hold of the hostess, and off came her cap. stuart dropped into a chair with laughter. i too forgot all my dignity, and clapped my hands, and danced with delight, while they kicked and scratched each other without mercy. at length stuart interfered, and separated the combatants. the landlady retired to repair her dismantled head; and his lordship and higginson to wash their wounds. betterton too was about to take his departure. 'sir,' said stuart, 'i must beg leave to detain you for a few moments.' betterton bowed and returned. 'your name is betterton, i believe.' 'it is, sir.' 'after mr. higginson's accusation of you,' said stuart, 'i feel myself called upon, as the friend of this lady's father, to insist on your apologizing for the designs which you have dared to harbour against her; and to demand an unequivocal renunciation of those views for the future.' 'you are an honest fellow,' said betterton, 'and i respect your spirit. most sincerely, most humbly, miss wilkinson, do i solicit your forgiveness; and i beg you will believe, that nothing but a misrepresentation of your real character and history tempted me to treat you with such undeserved insult. i now declare, that you have nothing further to fear from me.' 'but before i can feel perfectly satisfied,' said stuart, 'i must stipulate for the discontinuance of your visits to miss wilkinson, as a proof that you have relinquished all improper projects against her.' 'i had formed that resolution before you spoke,' answered betterton, 'though many a bitter pang it will cost me. now then we are all friends. i may have my faults, but upon my soul, i am a man of honour;--i am, upon my soul. as for you, mr. stuart, without flattery, you have evinced more discretion and coolness, throughout this affair, than i have ever seen in so young a man. sir, you are an honour to the human race, and i wish you would dine with me this evening at the crown and anchor. some friends of us meet there to discuss a radical reform. do, my dear fellow. we want nothing but men of respectability like you; for our sentiments "are the finest in the world."' 'you will excuse me,' said stuart, 'though i am told that your wines are as fine and as foreign as your sentiments.' 'well, adieu, good people,' said betterton. 'think of me with kindness. faults i may have, but my heart----' (tapping at it with his forefinger), 'all is right here.' after he had left us, i reprimanded stuart so severely, for his officiousness in having interfered about betterton, that he went away quite offended; and, i much fear, will never return. if he does not, he will use me basely, to leave me here in this unprotected state, after all his anxieties about me--anxieties too, which (i cannot tell why) have pleased me beyond expression. i confess, i feel a regard for the man, and should be sorry to have hurt his feelings seriously. would sir charles bingley have deserted me so, i ask? no. but stuart has no notion of being a plain, useful, unsuccessful lover, like him. well, i must say, i hate to see a man more ready to fall out with one, than to fall in love with one. but montmorenci--what shall i say of him? how can he possibly exculpate himself from his treacherous intrigue with the landlady? i confess i am predisposed to credit any feasible excuse which he can assign, rather than find myself deceived, outrivalled, and deprived of a lover, not alone dear to me, but indispensible to the progress of my memoirs. then, that closet-scene, from which i had a right to expect the true pathetic, what a bear-garden it became! in short, i feel at this moment disgusted with the world. i half wish i were at home again. now too, that stuart has reminded me of our early days, i cannot avoid sometimes picturing to myself the familiar fireside, the walks, frolics, occupations of our childhood; and well i remember how he used to humour my whims. oh, these times are past, and now he opposes me in every thing. but whither am i wandering? pardon these vulgar sentiments. they have escaped my pen. you know that a mere home is my horror. forgive them. adieu. letter xix determined to support my dignity, i dined alone in my room, after the closet-scene; and during this evening, letters of the most heart-rending nature passed between his lordship and me. to be brief, he has convinced me, that the letter written in his name, to the landlady, was a forgery of her own. the circumventing wretch! i am of opinion, that it ought to be made a hanging matter. the following is an extract from his and my correspondence. after a most satisfactory disquisition on the various circumstances tending to prove the forgery, he writes thus: * * * * * 'i have begun twenty letters to you, and have torn them all. i write to you on my knees, and the paper is blistered with my tears; but i have dried it with my sighs. 'sun, moon, and stars may rise and set as they will. i know not whether it be day, or whether it be night. 'when the girl came with your last note, the idea that your eyes had just been dwelling on her features, on her cap, ribbon, and apron, made her and them so interesting, so dear to me, that, though her features are snubbed, her cap tattered, her ribbon bottle-green (which i hate), and her apron dirty, i should certainly have taken her in my arms, if i had not been the most bashful of men. 'though that note stung me to the heart, the words were hosts of angels to me, and the small paper the interminable regions of bliss. any thing from you! 'how my heart beats, and my blood boils in my veins, when by chance our feet meet under the table. the diapason of my heart-strings vibrates to the touch. how often i call to mind the sweet reproof you once gave me at dinner, when i trod on your toe in a transport of passion. '"if you love me, tell me so," said you, smiling; "but do not hurt my foot." 'another little incident is always recurring to me. as we parted from each other, the night before last, you held out your hand and said, "good-night, my dear montmorenci." it was the first time you had ever called me _dear_. the sound sank deep into my heart. i have repeated it a hundred times since, and when i went to bed, i said, good night, my dear montmorenci. i recollected myself and laughed. the fatal kiss that i once dared to snatch from you has undone me for ever. the moisture on your lip was like a suppuration of rubies. o immortal remembrance of that illusive, frantic, and enchanting moment!' billet from cherubina. he who could be capable of the letter, could be capable of calling it a forgery. billet from montmorenci. misery with you, were better than happiness without you. billet from cherubina. hatred and certainty were better than love and suspicion. billet from montmorenci. love is heaven and heaven is love. billet from cherubina. if heaven be love, i fear that heaven is not eternal. billet from montmorenci. if my mind be kept in suspense, my body shall be suspended too. billet from cherubina. foolish youth! if my life be dear to thee, attempt not thine own. billet from montmorenci. it were easier to kill myself than to fly from cherubina. billet from cherubina. live. i restore you to favour. billet from montmorenci. angelic girl! but how can i live without the means? my landlady threatens me with an arrest. heloise lent money to st. preux. billet from cherubina. in enclosing to you half of all i have, i feel, alas! that i am but half as liberal of my purse as of my heart. billet from montmorenci. i promise to pay lady cherubina de willoughby, or order, on demand, the sum of twenty-five pounds sterling, value received. montmorenci. in a few minutes after i had received this last billet, his lordship came in person to perfect the reconciliation. never was so tender, so excruciating a scene. we then consulted about the masquerade; and he brought me down his dress for it. the montero cap and tarnished regimentals (which he procured at the theatre) are admirable. soon after his departure, a letter was brought to me by the maid; who said, that a tall man, wrapped in a dark cloak, put it into her hand, and then fled with great swiftness. conceive my sensations on reading this note, written in an antiquated hand. _to lady cherubina de willoughby. these, greeting. most fayre ladie an aunciente and loyall vassall that erewhyles appertained unto yre ryhgte noble auncestrie, in ye qualitie of seneschal, hath, by chaunce, discovred yer place of hiding, and doth crave ye boon that you will not fayle to goe unto ye masquerade at ye pantheon; where, anon he will joyn you, and unravell divers mysterys touching your pedigree. lette nonne disswaid you from to goe, and eke lette nonne, save a matron, goe with you; els i dare not holde parle with you. myne honoured ladie, if you heede not this counsell, you will work yourselfe woefull ruth._ judge if i can sleep a wink after such a mysterious communication. excellent old man! i mean to make him my steward. adieu. letter xx i believe i mentioned, in a former letter, that my bed-chamber was on the ground floor, and looking into the yard at the back of the house. soon after i went to bed, last night, i heard a whispering and rustling outside of the window, and while i was awaiting with anxiety the result, sleep surprised me. i awoke earlier, as i thought, than usual, this morning; for not a ray penetrated my curtainless window. i then tried to compose myself to sleep again, but in vain; so there i lay turning and tumbling about, for eight or nine hours, at the very least. at last i became alarmed. what can be the matter? thought i. is the sun quenched or eclipsed? or has the globe ceased rolling? or am i struck stone blind? in the midst of my conjectures, a sudden cry of fire! fire! reverberated through the house. i sprang out of bed, and huddled on me whatever cloaths came to hand. i then groped for my casket of jewels, and having secured it, rushed into the outer room, where my eyes were instantly dazzled by the sudden glare of light. however, i had presence of mind enough to snatch up corporal trim's coat, which still remained on a chair; and to slip it on me. for, in the first place, i had no gown underneath; and in the next, i recollected, that harriot byron, at a moment of distress, went wild about the country, in masquerade. hurrying into the hall, i saw the street door wide open, stuart and montmorenci struggling with each other near it, the landlady dragging a trunk down stairs, and looking like the ghost of a mad housemaid; and the poet just behind her, with his corpulent mother, bed and all, upon his back; while she kept exclaiming, that we should all be in heaven in five minutes, and he crying out, heaven forbid! heaven forbid! i darted past stuart, just as he had got montmorenci down; thence out of the house, and had fled twenty paces, before i discovered, that, so far from being night, it was broad, bright, incontrovertible day! i had no time to reflect on this mystery, as i heard steps pursuing me, and my name called. i fled the faster, for i dreaded i knew not what. the portentous darkness of my room, the false alarm of fire, all betokened some diabolical conspiracy against my life; so i rushed along the street, to the horror and astonishment of all who saw me. for conceive me drest in a long-skirted, red coat, stiff with tarnished lace; a satin petticoat, satin shoes, no stockings, and my flaxen hair streaming like a meteor behind me! stop her, stop her! was now shouted on all sides. hundreds seemed in pursuit. panting and almost exhausted, i still continued my flight. they gained on me. what should i do? i saw the door of a carriage just opened, and two ladies, dressed for dinner, stepping into it. i sprang in after them, crying, save me, save me! the footman endeavoured to drag me out; the mob gathered round shouting; the horses took fright, and set off in full gallop; i, meantime, on one knee, with my meek eyes raised, and my hands folded across my bosom, awaited my fate; while the ladies gazed on me in dismay, and supported one unbroken scream. at last, the carriage dashed against a post, and was upset. several persons ran forward, and, i being uppermost, took me out the first. again i began running, and again a mob was at my heels. i felt certain they would tear me in pieces. my head became bewildered; and all the horrid sights i had ever read of rose in array before me. bacchantes, animated with orphean fury, slinging their serpents in the air, and uttering dithyrambics, appeared to surround me on every side. on i flew. knock it down! cried several voices. a footman was just entering a house. i rushed past him, and into a parlour, where a large party were sitting at dinner. save me! exclaimed i, and sank on my knees before them. all arose:--some, in springing to seize me, fell; and others began dragging me away. i grasped the table-cloth, in my confusion, and the next instant, the whole dinner was strewn about the floor. those who had fallen down, rose in piteous plight; one bathed in soup, another crowned with vegetables, and the face of a third all over harico. they held me fast, and questioned me; then called me mad, and turned me into the street. the mob were still waiting for me there, and they cheered me as i came out; so seeing a shop at hand, i darted through it, and ran up stairs, into the drawing-room. there i found a mother in the cruel act of whipping her child. ever a victim to thrilling sensibility, i snatched the rod from her hand; she shrieked and alarmed the house; and again i was turned out of doors. again, my friend the mob received me with a shout; again i took to flight; rushed through another shop, was turned out--through another, was turned out. in short, i threaded a dozen different houses, and witnessed a dozen different domestic scenes. in this, they were singing, in that scolding:--here, i caught an old man kissing the maid, there, i found a young man reading the bible. entering another, i heard ladies laughing and dancing in the drawing-room. i hurried past them to the garrets, and saw their aged servant dying. shocked by the sight, i paused at his half-opened door. not a soul was in the room with him; and vials and basons strewed the table. 'is that my daughter?' said he feebly. 'will no one go for my daughter? to desert me thus, after first breaking my heart! well then, i will find her out myself.' he made a sudden effort to rise, but it was fatal. his head and arms dropped down motionless, and hung out of the bed. he gave a hollow sob, and expired. horrorstruck, i rushed into an adjoining garret, and burst into tears. i felt guilty of i knew not what; and the picture of wilkinson, dying in the madhouse, and calling on his daughter, shot across me for a moment. the noise of people searching the rooms below, and ascending the stairs, put an end to my disagreeable reflections; and i thought but of escape. running to the window of the garret, i found that it opened upon the roof of a neighbouring house; and recollecting that robbers often escape by similar means, i sprang out of the window, closed it after me, and ran along a whole row of roofs. at last i came to a house higher than the rest, with a small window, similar to that by which i had just got out, and happily lying open. on looking into the garret, i found that nobody was there, so i scrambled into it, and fastened the window after me. a servant's bed, a chair, a table, and an immense chest, constituted all the furniture. the chest had nothing but a little linen in it; and i determined to make it my place of refuge, in case of an alarm. having sat a few minutes, to compose my spirits, after the shock they had just experienced, i resolved on exploring the several apartments; for i felt a secret presentiment that this house was, some way or other, connected with my fate--a most natural idea. i first traversed the garrets, but found nothing in them worthy of horror; so i stole, with cautious steps, down the first flight of stairs, and found the door of the front room open. hearing no noise inside, i ventured to put in my head, and perceived a large table, with lighted candles on it, and covered over with half-finished dresses of various descriptions, besides bonnets, feathers, caps, and ribbons in profusion; whence i concluded that the people of the house were milliners. here i sat some time, admiring the dresses, and trying at a mirror how the caps became me, till i was interrupted by steps on the stairs. i ran behind a window-curtain; and immediately three young milliners came into the room. they sat down at the table, and began working. 'i wonder,' said one, 'whether our lodger has returned from dinner.' 'what a sly eye the fellow casts at me,' says another. 'and how he smiles at me,' says the first. 'and how he teases me about my being pretty,' says the second. 'and me too,' says the first; 'and he presses my hand into the bargain.' 'presses!' says the second; 'why, he _squeezes_ mine; and just think, he tries to kiss me too.' 'i know,' says the third, who was the only pretty girl of the three, 'that he never lays a finger on me, nor speaks a word to me, good or bad--never: and yesterday he lent me the mysteries of udolpho with a very bad grace; and when i told him that i wanted it to copy the description of the tuscan girl's dress, as a lady had ordered me to make up a dress like it, for the masquerade to-night, he handed me the book, and said, that if i went there myself, the people would take my face for a mask.' judge of my horror, when i recollected, that this was, indeed, the night of the masquerade; and that i was pent behind a curtain, without even a dress for it! that tuscan costume, thought i, would just answer. perhaps i could purchase it from the milliner. perhaps---but in the midst of my perhaps's, the first and second milliner set off with some indian robes, which they had finished for the masquerade, while the pretty one still remained to complete the tuscan dress. while i was just resolving to issue from my retreat, and persuade her to sell me the dress, i heard a step stealing up the stairs; and presently perceived a young gentleman peeping into the room. he nodded familiarly to the milliner; and said, in a whisper, that he had seen her companions depart, and was now come to know how soon she would go, that he might meet her at their old corner. she replied, that she would soon be ready; and he then stole back again. i had now no time to lose in accomplishing my plan, so i drew aside the curtain, and stood, in a commanding attitude before her. the poor girl looked up, started, made a miserable imitation of the heroic scream, and ran down stairs. i ran after her, as far as the landing-place; and on looking over the balusters, into the hall, i saw the young man who had just been with her, listening to her account of the transaction. 'i will call the watch,' said she, 'and do you keep guard at the door.' she then hastened into the street, and he stood in such a manner, that it was impossible for me to pass him. 'what is the matter?' cried the mistress of the house, coming out of the parlour. 'a mad woman that is above stairs,' answered the young man. 'miss jane has just seen her; dressed half like a man, half like a woman, and with hair down to the ground!' 'what is all this?' cried a maid, running out of the kitchen. 'oh! molly,' said the mistress, 'miss jane is just frightened to death by a monster above stairs, half man, half woman, and all over covered with hair!' another servant now made her appearance. 'oh! betty,' cried molly, 'miss jane is just killed by a huge monster above stairs, half man, half beast, all over covered with black hair, and i don't know what other devilments besides!' 'i will run and drive it down,' cried betty, and began ascending the stairs. whither could i hide? i luckily recollected the large chest; so i flew up to the garret. it was now quite dark; but i found the chest, sprang into it, and having closed the lid, flung some of the linen over me. i then heard the girl enter the next room, and in a few moments, she came into mine, with another person. 'here is the trunk, tom,' said she, 'and i must lock it on you till the search is over. you see, tom, what risks i am running on your account; for there is miss jane, killed by it, and lying in bits, all about the floor.' the man had now jumped into the chest; the girl locked it in an instant, took out the key, and ran down. almost prest to death, i made a sudden effort to get from under him. 'what's this! oh! mercy, what's this?' cried he, feeling about. i gathered myself up; but did not speak. 'help!' vociferated he. ''tis the monster--here is the hair! help, help!' 'hush!' said i, 'or you will betray both of us. i am no monster, but a woman.' 'wasn't? it you that murdered the milliner?' said he, still trembling. 'no, really,' replied i, 'but now not a word; for i hear people coming.' as i spoke, several persons entered the room. we lay still. they searched about; and one of them, approaching the chest, tried to lift the lid. 'that is locked this month past,' said the voice of the maid who had hidden the man in it, 'so you need not look there.' they then searched the remaining garrets; and i heard them say, as they were going down stairs, that i must have jumped out of a window. 'and now, madam,' said the man, 'will you have the goodness to tell me who you are?' 'a young and innocent maiden,' answered i, 'who, flying from my persecutors, took refuge here.' 'young and innocent!' cried he, 'good ingredients, faith. come then, my dear; i will protect you.' so saying, he caught me round the waist, and attempted to kiss me. i begged, reasoned, menaced--all would not do. i had read of a heroine, whose virtue was saved by a timely brain-fever; so, as i could not command one at that instant, i determined on affecting one. 'i murdered her famously!' exclaimed i; and then commenced singing and moaning by turns. he stopped, and lay quiet, as if uncertain what to make of me. i scratched the chest with my nails, and laughed, and shrieked. he began to mutter curses and prayers with great rapidity; till, as i was gabbling over the finest passage in ossian, 'oh! merciful!' ejaculated he, rolling himself into a ball; ''tis a bedlamite broke loose!' by this time, between my terror, and the heat of the chest, i was gasping for breath; and my companion appeared on the very point of suffocation; when, at this critical juncture, some one fortunately came into the room. the man called for help, the chest was unlocked, opened; and the maid with a candle appeared before us. the man darted out like an arrow; she remained motionless with astonishment at seeing me, while i lay there, almost exhausted; though, as usual, not worth a swoon. i do believe, that the five fingers i am writing with would leave me, sooner than my five senses. 'she has confessed to the murder!' cried the man; while the maid held by his arm, and shrunk back, as i rose from the chest with an air of dignity. 'be not frightened, my friends,' said i smiling, 'for i assure you that i am no murderess; and that the milliner is alive and well, at this moment. is she not, young woman?' 'yes, sure,' answered she, somewhat recovering from her terror. 'how i came into this extraordinary situation,' continued i, 'it were needless to relate; but i must have your assistance to get out of it. if you, my good girl, will supply me with a decent gown, bonnet, and pair of stockings, i will promise not to tell the family that you had a lover secreted in the house, and i will give you two guineas for your kindness.' so saying, i took the casket from the pocket of my regimental coat, and displayed the jewels and money that were in it. 'mercy me!' cried the maid; 'how could they dare for to say that so rich a lady murdered the girl?' 'ay, or so handsome a lady,' added the man, bowing. in a word, after some explanations and compliments, i gave the maid four guineas, and the man the regimental coat; and was supplied with a gown, bonnet, and pair of stockings. as soon as i had dressed myself, we determined that i should steal down stairs, and out of the house; and that, if discovered in my passage, i should not betray the maid. accordingly, with much trepidation, i began to descend the stairs. not a soul seemed stirring. but as i passed by the milliner's room, i perceived the door half open, and heard some one humming a tune inside. i peeped through the chink, and saw the pretty milliner again seated there, and still busied about the tuscan dress. i resolved to make another effort for it; and as i had gained my point with the maid, by having discovered her intrigue, it struck me that i might succeed with the milliner in a similar manner. i therefore glided into the room, and seated myself just opposite to her. 'your business, ma'am?' said she, looking surprised. 'to purchase that dress,' answered i. ''tis already purchased,' said she. 'do you remember the mad woman with the long hair?' said i, as i took off my bonnet, and let down my tresses, with all the grandeur of virtue victorious over vice. she started and turned pale. 'you are the very person, i believe,' faltered she. 'what upon earth shall i do?' 'do?' cried i. 'why, sell me the tuscan dress of course. the fact is--but let it go no farther--i am a heroine; i am, i give you my word and honour. so, you know, the lady being wronged of the dress, (inasmuch as she is but an individual), is as nothing compared with the wrong that the community will sustain, if they lose the pleasure of finding that i get it from you. sure the whole scene, since i came to this house, was contrived for the express purpose of my procuring that individual costume; and just conceive what pretty confusion must take place, if, after all, you prevent me! my dear girl, we must do poetical justice. we must not disappoint the reader. 'you will tell me, perhaps, that selling the dress is improper? granted. but, recollect, what improper things are constantly done, in novels, to bring about a pre-determined event. your amour with the gentleman, for instance; which i shall certainly tell your employer, if you refuse to sell me the dress. 'as you value your own peace of mind, therefore, and in the name of all that is just, generous, and honourable, i conjure you to reflect for a moment, and you must see the matter in its rational light. what can you answer to these arguments?' 'that the person who could use them,' said she, 'will never listen to reason. i see what is the matter with you, and that i have no resource but to humour you, or be ruined.' and she began crying. to conclude, after a little farther persuasion, i got the dress, gave her ten guineas, and, tripping down stairs, effected a safe escape out of the house. i then called a coach, and drove to jerry sullivan's; for i would not return to my lodgings, lest the conspirators there should prevent me from going to the masquerade. the poor fellow jumped with joy when he saw me; but i found him in great distress. his creditors had threatened his little shop with immediate ruin, unless he would discharge his debts. he had now provided the whole sum due, except forty pounds; but this he could not procure, and the creditors were expected every minute. 'i have only twelve guineas in the world,' said i, opening my casket, 'but they are at your service.' and i put them into his hand. 'dear lady!' cried the wife, 'what a mortal sight of jewels you have got! do you know, now, i could borrow thirty pounds at least on them, at the pawnbroker's; and that sum would just answer.' 'nay,' said i, 'i cannot consent to part with them; though, had i thirty pounds, i would sooner give it to you, than buy jewels with it.' 'sure then,' cried she, 'by the same rule, you would sooner sell your jewels, than let me want thirty pounds.' 'not at all,' answered i, 'for i am fond of my jewels, and i do not care about money. besides, have i not already given you twelve guineas?' 'you have,' answered she, 'and that is what vexes me. if you had given me nothing at all, i would not have minded, because you were a stranger. but first to make yourself our friend, by giving us twelve guineas, and then to refuse us the remainder--'tis so unnatural!' 'ungrateful woman!' cried i. 'had i ten thousand pounds, you should not touch a farthing of it.' the arrival of the creditors interrupted us, and a touching scene ensued. the wife and daughter flung themselves on their knees, and wrung their hands, and begged for mercy; but the wretches were inexorable. how could i remain unmoved? in short, i slipped the casket into the wife's hand; out she ran with it, and in a few minutes returned with forty pounds. the creditors received the money due, passed receipts, and departed, and jerry returned me the twelve guineas, saying: 'bless your sweet face, for 'tis that is the finger-post to heaven, though, to be sure, i can't look strait in it, after all you have done for me. och! 'tis a murder to be under an obligation: so if just a little bit of mischief would happen you, and i to relieve you, as you did me, why that would make me _aisy_.' i am writing to you, from his house, while his daughter is finishing the sleeve of my tuscan dress; and in a short time i shall be ready for the masquerade. i confess i am not at all reconciled to the means i used in obtaining that dress. i took advantage of the milliner's indiscretion in one instance, to make her do wrong in another. but doubtless my biographer will find excuses for me, which i cannot discover myself. besides, the code of moral law that heroines acknowledge is often quite opposite from those maxims which govern other conditions of life. and, indeed, if we view the various ranks and departments of society, we shall see, that what is considered vicious in some of them, is not esteemed so in others. thus: it is deemed dishonest in a servant to cheat his master of his wines, but it is thought perfectly fair for his master to defraud the king of the revenue from those wines. in the same way, what is called wantonness in a little minx with a flat face, is called only susceptibility in a heroine with an oval one. we weep at the letters of heloise; but were they written by an alderman's fat wife, we should laugh at them. the heroine may permit an amorous arm round her waist, fly in the face of her parents, and make assignations in dark groves, yet still be described as the most prudent of human creatures; but the mere miss has no business to attempt any mode of conduct beyond modesty, decorum, and filial obedience. in a word, as different classes have distinct privileges, it appears to me, from what i have read of the law national, and the law romantic, that the heroine's prerogative is similar to the king's, and that she, like him, can do no wrong. adieu. letter xxi o biddy, i have ascertained my genealogy. i am--but i must not anticipate. take the particulars. having secured a comfortable bed at jerry's, and eaten something (for i had fasted all day), i went with him in a coach to the pantheon, where he promised to remain, and escort me back. but i must first describe my tuscan dress. it was a short petticoat of pale green, with a bodice of white silk; the sleeves loose, and tied up at the shoulders with ribbons and bunches of flowers. my hair, which fell in ringlets on my neck, was also ornamented with flowers and a straw hat. i wore no mask, heroines so seldom do. palpitating with expectation, i entered the assembly. such a multitude of grotesque groups as presented themselves! clowns, harlequins, nuns, devils; all talking and none listening. the clowns happy to be called fools, the harlequins as awkward as clowns, the nuns impudent, and the devils well-conducted. but as there is a description of a masquerade in almost every novel, you will excuse me from entering into farther particulars. too much agitated to support my character with spirit, i retired to a recess, and there anxiously awaited the arrival of the ancient vassal. hardly had i been seated five minutes, when an infirm and reverend old man approached, and sat down beside me. his feeble form was propt upon a long staff, a palsy shook his white locks, and his garments had all the quaintness of antiquity. during some minutes, he gazed on me with earnestness, through a black mask; at length, heaving a heavy sigh, he thus broke forth in tremulous accents: 'well-a-day! how the scalding tears do run adown my furrowed cheeks; for well i wis, thou beest herself--the lady cherubina de willoughby, the long-lost daughter of mine honoured mistress!' 'speak, i beseech you!' cried i. 'are you, indeed, the ancient and loyal vassal?' 'now by my truly, 'tis even so,' said he. i could have hugged the dear old man to my heart. 'welcome, thrice welcome, much respected menial!' cried i, grasping his hand. 'but keep me not in suspense. unfold to me the heart-harrowing mysteries of my unhappy house!' 'now by my fay,' said he, 'i will say forth my say. my name is whylome eftsoones, and i was accounted comely when a younker. but what boots that now? beauty is like unto a flower of the field.--good my lady, pardon a garrulous old man. so as i was saying, the damozels were once wont to leer at me right waggishly; but time changeth all things, as the proverb saith; and time hath changed my face, from that of a blithesome ganymede to one of those heads which guido has often painted; mild, pale, penetrating. good my lady, i must tell thee a right pleasant and quaint saying of a certain nun, touching my face.' 'for pity's sake,' cried i, 'and as you value the preservation of my senses, continue your story without these digressions.' 'certes, my lady,' said he. 'well, i was first taken, as a bonny page, into the service of thy great great grandfader's fader's brother; and i was in at the death of these four generations, till at last, i became seneschal to thine honoured fader, lord de willoughby. his lordship married the lady hysterica belamour, and thou wast the sole offspring of that ill-fated union. 'soon after thy birth, thy noble father died of an apparition; or, as some will have it, of stewed lampreys. returning, impierced with mickle dolour, from his funeral, which took place at midnight, i was stopped on a common, by a tall figure, with a mirksome cloak, and a flapped hat. i shook grievously, ne in that ghastly dreriment wist how myself to bear.' 'i do not comprehend your expressions,' interrupted i. 'i mean,' said he, 'i was in such a fright i did not know what to do. anon, he threw aside his disguise, and i beheld--lord gwyn!' 'lord gwyn!' cried i. 'yea,' said he. 'lord gwyn, who was ywedded unto lord de willoughby's sister, the lady eleanor.' 'then lady eleanor gwyn is my aunt!' cried i. 'thou sayest truly,' replied he. '"my good eftsoones," whispered lord gwyn to me, "know you not that my wife, lady eleanor gwyn, will enjoy all the extensive estates of her brother, lord de willoughby, if that brother's infant, the little cherubina, were no more?" '"i trow, ween, and wote, 'tis as your lordship saith," answered i. 'his lordship then put into mine hand a stiletto. '"eftsoones," said he, with a hollow voice, "if this dagger be planted in a child's heart, it will grow, and bear a golden flower!" 'he spake, and incontinently took to striding away from me, in such wise, that maulgre and albe, i gan make effort after him, nathlesse and algates did child gwyn forthwith flee from mine eyne.' 'i protest most solemnly,' said i, 'i do not understand five words in the whole of that last sentence!' 'and yet, my lady,' replied he, ''tis the pure well of english undefiled, and such as was yspoken in mine youth.' 'but what can you mean by _child_ gwyn?' said i. 'surely his lordship was no suckling at this time.' 'child,' said eftsoones, 'signified a noble youth, some centuries ago; and it is coming into fashion again. for instance, there is childe harold.' 'then,' said i, 'there is "second childishness;" and i fancy there will be "mere oblivion" too. but if possible, finish your tale in the corrupt tongue.' 'i will endeavour,' said he. 'tempted by this implied promise of a reward, i took an opportunity of conveying you away from your mother, and of secreting you at the house of a peasant, whom i bribed to bring you up as his own daughter. i told lord gwyn that i had dispatched you, and he gave me three and fourpence halfpenny for my trouble. 'when the dear lady, your mother, missed you, she went through the most elegant extravagancies; till, having plucked the last hair from her head, she ran wild into the woods, and has never been heard of since.' 'dear sainted sufferer!' exclaimed i. 'a few days ago,' continued eftsoones, 'a messenger out of breath came to tell me, that the peasant to whom i had consigned you was dying, and wished to see me. i went. such a scene! he confessed to me that he had sold you, body and bones, as he inelegantly expressed it, to one farmer wilkinson, about thirteen years before; for that this farmer, having discovered your illustrious birth, speculated on a handsome consideration from lord gwyn, for keeping the secret. now i am told there is a certain parchment----' 'which i have!' cried i. 'and a certain portrait of nell gwyn----' 'which i have!' 'and a mole just above your left temple----' 'which i have!' exclaimed i, in an ecstasy. 'then your title is made out, as clear as the sun,' said he; 'and i bow, in contrition, before lady cherubina de willoughby, rightful heiress of all the territory now appertaining, or that may hereinafter appertain, to the house of de willoughby.' 'oh, dear, how delightful!' cried i. 'but my good friend, how am i to set about proving my title?' 'nothing easier,' answered he. 'lady gwyn (for his lordship is dead) resides at this moment on your estate, which lies about thirty miles from town; so to-morrow morning you shall set off to see her ladyship, and make your claims known to her. i will send a trusty servant with you, and will myself proceed before you, to prepare her for your arrival. you will therefore find me there.' while we were in the act of arranging affairs more accurately, who should make his appearance, but stuart in a domino! the moment he addressed me, old eftsoones slunk away; nor could i catch another glimpse of him during that night. stuart told me that he had come to the masquerade, on the chance of finding me there, as i seemed so determined on going, the last time he was with me. he likewise explained the mystery of the darkened chamber, and the false alarm of fire. it appears, that as soon as he had discovered the views of betterton, he hired a lodging at the opposite side of the street, and had two police officers there, for the purpose of watching betterton's movements, and frustrating his attempts. he knocked several times in the course of yesterday, but was always answered that i had walked out. knowing that i had not, he began to suspect foul play, and determined on gaining admittance to me. he therefore knocked once more, and then rushed into the house crying fire. this manoeuvre had the desired effect, for an universal panic took place; and in the midst of it, he saw me issuing forth, and effect my escape. after having pursued me till he lost all traces of my route, he returned to my lodgings, and was informed by the poet, that betterton had persuaded the landlady to fasten a carpet at the outside of my window, in order to make me remain in bed, till the time for the masquerade should arrive; and thus prevent me from having an interview with stuart. we then walked up and down the room, while i gave him an account of the ancient and loyal vassal, and of all that i had heard respecting my family. he was silent on the subject; and only begged of me to point out eftsoones, as soon as i should see him; but that interesting old man never appeared. however, i was in great hopes of another adventure; for a domino now began hovering about us so much, that stuart at last addressed it; but it glided away. he said he knew it was betterton. in about an hour, i became tired of the scene; for no one took notice of my dress. we therefore bade jerry, who was in waiting, call a coach; and we proceeded in it to his house. on our way, i mentioned my determination of setting off to lady gwyn's the very next morning, as eftsoones had promised to meet me there. stuart, for a wonder, applauded my resolution; and even offered to accompany me himself. 'for,' said he, 'i think i know this old eftsoones; and if so, i fancy you will find me useful in unravelling part of the mystery. besides, i would assist, with all my soul, in any plan tending to withdraw you from the metropolis.' i snatched at his offer with joy; and it was then fixed that we should take a chaise the next morning, and go together. on our arrival at the lodging, stuart begged a bed of jerry, that he might be ready for the journey in time; and the good-natured irishman, finding him my friend, agreed to make up a pallet for him in the parlour. matters were soon arranged, and we have just separated for the night. well, biddy, what say you now? have i not made a glorious expedition of it? a young, rich, beautiful titled heiress already--think of that, biddy. as soon as i can decently turn lady gwyn out of doors, i mean to set up a most magnificent establishment. but i will treat the poor woman (who perhaps is innocent of her husband's crime) with extreme delicacy. she shall never want a bed or a plate. by the by, i must purchase silver plate. my livery shall be white and crimson. biddy, depend upon my patronage. how the parson and music-master will boast of having known me. then our village will swarm so, _to hear tell as how_ miss cherry has grown a great lady. old mother muggins, at the bottom of the hill, will make a good week's gossip out of it. however, i mean to condescend excessively, for there is nothing i hate so much as pride. yet do not suppose that i am speculating upon an easy life. though the chief obstacle to my marriage will soon be removed, by the confirmation of my noble birth, still i am not ignorant enough to imagine that no other impediments will interfere. besides, to confess the fact, i do not feel my mind quite prepared to marry montmorenci at so short a notice. hitherto i have thought of him but as a lover, not as a husband--very different characters, in general. ah, no, my friend; be well assured, that adversity will not desert me quite so quickly. a present good is often the prognostic of an approaching evil; and when prosperity points its sunshine in our faces, misfortune, like our shadows, is sure to be behind. adieu. letter xxii after having breakfasted, and remunerated our entertainers, stuart and i set out in a post-chaise, while jerry ran at our side half way down the street, heaping me with blessings; and bidding me come to him if ever i should be ruined. after we had advanced a few miles into the country, stuart began to look frequently through the back window, and appeared uneasy. at length he stopped the carriage, and desired the driver to turn round. as soon as the man had done so, another carriage, which, it seems, had followed us from london, passed us, and immediately turned after us. ''tis as i thought!' cried stuart, and stopping the chaise again, jumped out of it. the chaise behind us also stopped; and a gentleman alighted from it and approached. but imagine my surprise, when i found that this gentleman was old betterton! i could almost have embraced him, his villainous face looked so promising, and so pregnant with mischief. 'sir,' said he to stuart, 'as you have perceived me following your carriage, i find myself compelled, however unwillingly, to declare my motives for doing so. last night i happened to be at the pantheon, in a domino, and saw you there escorting this lady. i confess i had long before suspected your intentions towards her, and seeing you now together at a masquerade, and without a matron, i did not feel my suspicions lessened. i therefore had you both traced home, and i found, to my great horror, that you stopped at a wretched, and, as i am informed, infamous house in st. giles's, where you remained during the night. i found too, that a chaise was at the door of it this morning: whence concluding, as i well might, that an elopement was in agitation, i determined, if possible, to prevent so dreadful a catastrophe, by hiring a carriage and pursuing you. 'sir, you undertook to lecture me, when last i saw you; and plausibly enough you performed your part. it is now my duty to return the obligation. mr. stuart, mr. stuart, is it not a shame for you, mr. stuart? is this the way to treat the daughter of your friend, mr. stuart? go, silly boy, return to your home; and bless that heaven which hath sent me to the rescue of this fair unfortunate.' 'by all that is comical,' cried stuart, laughing immoderately, 'this is too ludicrous even to be angry at! miss wilkinson, allow me to introduce you to mr. whylome eftsoones, an ancient and loyal vassal of the de willoughbys;--a mere modern in his principles, i am afraid; but addicted, i wis, to antiquated language.' betterton, i thought, looked rather blank, as he said, 'really, sir, i do not understand----' 'but really, sir,' cried stuart, 'i _do_ understand. i understand, that if you would take less trouble in protecting this lady's honour, you would have a better chance of preserving your own.' 'sir,' answered betterton, 'i will have you to know, that i would sacrifice my life in defence of my honour.' 'well, then,' said stuart, 'though your life has but little of the saint, it will, at least, have something of the martyr.' betterton scowled at him askance, and grinned a thousand devils. 'hear me, gentlemen,' cried i. 'if either of you again say any thing disrespectful or insulting to the other, i declare, on my honour, he shall leave me instantly. at present, i should be happy if both would do me the favour of escorting me to lady gwyn's, as i may meet with treatment there that will render the support of friends indispensible.' it was now stuart's turn to look downcast, and betterton's to smile triumphant. the fact is, i wished to shew this admirable villain how grateful i felt for his meritorious conduct in not having deserted me. 'i will accept of your invitation with pleasure,' said he, 'for my seat lies within a few miles of her ladyship, and i wish to visit my tenantry.' it was now noon. a few fleecy clouds floated in the blue depths of ether. the breeze brought coolness on its wings, and an inviting valley, watered by a rivulet, lay on the left; here whitened with sheep, and there dotted with little encampments of hay. exhilarated by the scene, after so long a confinement in the smoke and stir of london, i proposed to my companions the rural exercise of walking, as preferable to proceeding cooped up in a carriage. each, whatever was his motive, caught at the proposal with delight, and we dismissed our chaises. i now hastened to luxuriate in arcadian beatitude. the pastoral habit of tuscany was favourable; nothing remained but to rival an ida, or a glorvina, in simple touches of nature; and to trip along the lawns, like a daphne or a hamadryad. in an instant, i sprang across a hedge, and fled towards the little valley, light as a wood-nymph flying from a satyr. i then took up a most picturesque position. it was beside of the streamlet, under a weeping willow, and on a grassy bank. close behind me lay one of the most romantic cottages that i had ever seen, and at its back was a small garden, encompassed by green paling. the stream, bordered with wild-flowers, prattled prettily; save here and there, where a jutting stone shattered its crystal, and made its music hoarse. it purled and murmured a little too, but no where could it be said either to tinkle or gurgle, to chide or brawl. flinging off my bonnet, i shook my narcissine locks over my shoulders, and began braiding them in the manner of a simple shepherdess. stuart came up the first. i plucked a daisy that was half dipt into the brook; and instead of shaking off its moisture, i quaffed the liquid fragrance with my lip, and then held the flower to him. 'what am i to do with it?' said he. 'to pledge me,' replied i. 'to drink nature's nectar, that trembles on the leaves which my lip has consecrated.' he laughed and kissed the flower. that moment a lambkin began its pretty bleat. 'now,' said i, 'make me a simple tripping little ditty on a lambkin.' 'you shall have it,' answered he, 'and such as an attorney's clerk would read to a milliner's apprentice.' dear sensibility, o la! i heard a little lamb cry, ba; says i, so you have lost mamma? ah! the little lamb, as i said so, frisking about the field did go, and frisking, trod upon my toe. oh! 'neat enough,' said i, 'only that it wants the word love in it.' 'true,' cried stuart; 'for all modern poems of the kind abound in the word, though they seldom have much of the feeling.' 'and pray, my good friend,' asked i archly, as i bound up my golden ringlets--'what is love?' 'nay,' said he, 'they say that talking of love is making it.' plucking a thistle that sprang from the bank, i blew away its down with my balmy breath, merely to hide my confusion. surely i am the most sensitive of all created beings! betterton had now reached us, out of breath after his race, and utterly unable to articulate. 'betterton,' cried i, 'what is love?' ''tis,' said he, gasping, ''tis--'tis----' 'the gentleman,' cried stuart, 'gives as good a description of it as most of our modern poets; who make its chief ingredients panting and broken murmurs.' 'now in my opinion,' said i, 'love is a mystical sympathy, which unfolds itself in the glance that seeks the soul,--the sentiment that the soul embodies--the tender gaiety--the more delicious sadness--the stifled sigh--the soft and malicious smile--the thrill, the hope, the fear--each in itself a little bliss. in a word, it is the swoon of the soul, the delirium of the heart, the elegant inebriety of unsophisticated sentiment.' 'if such be love,' said stuart, 'i fear i shall never bring myself to make it.' 'and pray,' said i, 'how would you make love?' 'there are many modes,' answered he, 'and the way to succeed with one girl is often the way to fail with another. girls may be divided into the conversable and inconversable. he who can talk the best, has therefore the best chance of the former; but would a man make a conquest of one of the beautiful inutilities, who sits in sweet stupidity, plays off the small simpers, and founds her prospects in life on the shape of her face, he has little more to do than call her a goddess and make himself a monkey. or if that should fail, as he cannot apply to her understanding, he must have recourse to her feeling, and try what the touch can do for him. the touch has a thousand virtues. only let him establish a lodgment on the first joint of her little finger, he may soon set out on his travels, and make the grand tour of her waist. this is, indeed, to have wit at his fingers' ends; and this, i can assure you, is the best and shortest way to gain the hearts of those demure misses, who think that all modesty consists in silence, that to be insipid is to be innocent, and that because they have not a word for a young man in public, they may have a kiss for him in private.' 'come,' said i, 'let us talk of love in poetry, not prose. i want some pretty verses to fill up my memoirs; so, betterton, now for an amorous ode to your mistress.' betterton bowed and began: to fanny say, fanny, why has bounteous heaven, in every end benign and wise, perfection to your features given? enchantment to your witching eyes? was it that mortal man might view thy charms at distance, and adore? ah, no! the man who would not woo, were less than mortal, or were more. the mossy rose that scents the sky, by bee, by butterfly caress'd, we leave not on the stalk to die, but fondly snatch it to the breast there, unsurpassed in sweets, it dwells;- unless the breast be fanny's own: there blooming, every bloom excels;- except of fanny's blush alone. o fanny, life is on the wing, and years, like rivers, glide away: to-morrow may misfortune bring, then, gentle girl, enjoy to-day and while a lingering kiss i sip, ah, start not from these ardent arms; nor think the printure of my lip will rob your own of any charms. for see, we crush not, though we tread, the cup and primrose. fanny smiled. come then and press the cup, she said, come then and press the primrose wild. 'now,' cried stuart, 'i can give you a poem, with just as much love in it, and twice as much kissing.' 'that,' said i, 'would be a treasure indeed.' he then began thus: to sally dawn with stains of ruddy light, streaks her grey and fragrant fingers, while the ethiop foot of night, envious of my sally, lingers. upward poplars, downward willows, rustle round us; zephyrs sprinkle leaves of daffodillies, lilies, pennyroyal, periwinkle. rosy, balmy, honied, humid, biting, burning, murmuring kisses, sally, i will snatch from you, mid looks demure that tempt to blisses. if your cheek grow cold, my dear, i will kiss it, till it flushes, or if warm, my raptured tear, shall extinguish all its blushes. yes, that dimple is a valley, where sports many a little true love, and that glance you dart, my sally, might melt diamonds into dew love. but while idle thus i chat, i the war of lips am missing. this, this, this, and that, that, that, these make kissing, kissing, kissing. the style of this poem reminded me of montmorenci, and at the same moment i heard a rustling sound behind me. i started. ''tis montmorenci!' cried i. agitated in the extreme, i turned to see.--it was only a cock-sparrow. 'i deserve the disappointment,' said i to myself, 'for i have never once thought of that amiable youth since i last beheld him. 'sweetest and noblest of men,' exclaimed i, aloud, 'say, dost thou mourn my mysterious absence? perhaps the draught of air that i now inhale is the same which thou hast breathed forth, in a sigh for the far distant cherubina!' 'that cannot well be,' interrupted stuart, 'or at least the sigh of this unknown must have been packed up in a case, and hermetically sealed, to have come to you without being dispersed on the way.' 'there you happen to be mistaken,' answered i. 'for in the hermit of the rock, the heroine, while sitting on the coast of sardinia, seemed to think it highly probable, that the billow at her feet might be the identical billow which had swallowed up her lover, about a year before, off the coast of martinique.' 'that was not at all more improbable than valancourt's theory,' said stuart. 'what was it?' asked i. 'why,' said he, 'that the sun sets, in different longitudes, at the same moment. for when his emily was going to italy, while he remained in france, he begged of her to watch the setting of the sun every evening, that both their eyes might be fixed upon the same object at once. now, as the sun would set, where she was in italy, much earlier than where he was in france, he certainly took the best of all possible methods to prevent their looking at it together.' 'but, sir,' said betterton, 'heroes and heroines are not bound to understand astronomy.' 'and yet,' answered stuart, 'they are greater star-gazers than the ancient egyptians. to form an attachment for the moon, and write a sonnet on it, is the principal test of being a heroine.' as he spoke, a painted butterfly came fluttering about me. to pursue it was a classical amusement, for caroline of lichfield made a butterfly-hunt her pastime; so springing on my feet, i began the chace. the nimble insect eluded me for a long time, and at last got over the paling, into the little garden. i followed it through a small gate, and caught it; but alas! bruised it in the capture, and broke one of its wings. the poor thing sought refuge in a lily, where it lay struggling a few moments, and then its little spirit fled for ever. what an opportunity for a sonnet! i determined to compose one under the willow. a beautiful rose-bush was blushing near the lily, and reminded me how pastoral i should look, could i recline on roses, during my poetical ecstasy. but would it be proper to pick them? surely a few could do no harm. i glanced round--nobody was in sight--i picked a few. but what signified a few for what i wanted? i picked a few more. the more i picked, the more i longed to pick--'tis human nature; and was not eve herself tempted in a garden? so from roses i went to lilies, from lilies to carnations, thence to jessamine, honey-suckle, eglantine, sweet-pea; till, in short, i had filled my bonnet, and almost emptied the beds. i then hurried to the willow with my prize; sentenced stuart and betterton to fifty yards banishment, and constructed a charming couch of flowers, which i damasked and inlaid with daisies, butter-flowers, and moss. enraptured with my paradisaical carpet, i flung myself upon it, and my recumbent form, as it pressed the perfumes, was indeed that of mahomet's houri. exercise and agitation had heightened the glow of my cheeks, and the wind had blown my yellow hair about my face, like withered leaves round a ripened peach. i never looked so lovely. in a short time i was able to repeat this sonnet aloud. sonnet where the blue stream reflected flowerets pale, a fluttering butterfly, with many a freak, dipped into dancing bells, and spread its sail of azure pinions, edged with jetty streak. i snatched it passing; but a pinion frail, ingrained with mealy gold, i chanced to break. the mangled insect, ill deserving bane, falls in the hollow of a lily new. my tears drop after it, but drop in vain. the cup, embalmed with azure airs and dew, and flowery dust and grains of fragrant seed, can ne'er revive it from the fatal deed. so guileless nymphs attract some traiterous eye, so by the spoiler crushed, reject all joy and die. now that the pomp of composition was over, i began to think i had treated the owner of the garden extremely ill. i felt myself guilty of little less than theft, and was deliberating on what i ought to do, when an old, grey-headed peasant came running towards me from the garden. 'miss!' cried he, 'have you seen any body pass this way with a parcel of flowers; for some confounded thief has just robbed me of all i had?' i raised myself a little to reply, and he perceived the flowers underneath. 'odd's life!' cried he, 'so you are the thief, are you? how dare you, hussey, commit such a robbery?' 'i am no hussey, and 'tis no robbery,' cried i; 'and trust me, you shall neither have apology nor compensation. hussey, indeed! sir, it was all your own fault for leaving that uncouth gate of your's open. i am afraid, sir, that you are a shockingly ignorant old man.' the peasant was just about to seize me, when stuart ran up, and prevented him. they had then some private conversation together, and i saw stuart give him a guinea. the talismanic touch of gold struck instant peace, and a compact of amity followed. indeed, i have ever found, that even my face, though a heroine's, and with all its dimples, blushes, and glances, could never do half so much for me as the royal face on a bit of gold. the peasant was now very civil, and invited us to rest in his cottage. thither we repaired, and found his daughter, a beautiful young woman, just preparing the dinner. i felt instantly interested in her fate. i likewise felt hungry; so calling her aside, i told her that i would be happy to have a dinner, and, if possible, a bed, at the cottage; and that i would recompense her liberally for them, as i was a lady of rank, but at present in great affliction. she said she would be very glad to accommodate me, if her father would permit her; and she then went to consult him. after a private conference between them and stuart, she told me that her father was willing to let me remain. so we soon agreed upon the terms, and a village was at hand, where stuart and betterton might dine and sleep. before they left me, they made me give a solemn promise not to quit the cottage, till both of them should return, the next morning. stuart took an opportunity of asking me, whether he could speak to me in private, that evening. 'at ten o'clock to-night,' answered i, 'i will be sitting at the casement of my chamber. trill a lamenting canzonet beneath it, as a signal, and i will admit you to a stolen interview.' betterton and he then departed, but not in company with each other. dinner is announced. adieu letter xxiii at dinner, a young farmer joined us; and i soon perceived that he and the peasant's daughter, mary, were born for each other. they betrayed their mutual tenderness by a thousand little innocent stratagems, that passed, as they thought, unobserved. after dinner, when mary was about accompanying me to walk, the youth stole after us, and just as i had got into the garden, he drew her back, and i heard him kiss her. she came to me with her face a little flushed, and her ripe lips ruddier than before. 'well, mary,' said i, 'what was he doing to you?' 'doing, ma'am? nothing, i am sure.' 'nothing, mary?' 'why, ma'am, he only wanted to be a little rude, and kiss me, i believe.' 'and you would not allow him, mary?' 'why should i tell a falsehood about it, ma'am?' said she. 'to be sure i did not hinder him; for he is my sweetheart, and we are to be married next week.' 'and do you love him, mary?' 'better than my life, ma'am. there never was such a good lad; he has not a fault in the wide world, and all the girls are dying of envy that i have got him.' 'well, mary,' said i, 'i foresee we shall spend a most delicious evening. we will take a rural repast down to the brook, and tell our loves. the contrast will be beautiful;--mine, the refined, sentimental, pathetic story; your's the pretty, simple, little, artless tale. come, my friend; let us return, and prepare the rustic banquet. no souchong, or bohea; (blessed names these!) no hot or cold cakes--oh! no, but creams, berries, and fruits; goat's milk, figs, and honey--arcadian, pastoral, primeval dainties!' we then went back to the cottage, but could get nothing better than currants, gooseberries, and a maple bowl of cream. mary, indeed, cut a large slice of bread and butter for her private amusement; and with these we returned to the streamlet. i then threw myself on my flowery couch, and my companion sat beside me. we helped ourselves. i took rivulet to my cream, and scooped the brook with my rosy palm. innocent nymph! ah, why couldst thou not sit down in the lap of content here, and dance, and sing, and say thy prayers, and go to heaven with this nut-brown maid? i picked up a languishing rose, and sighed as i inhaled its perfume, and gazed on its decay. 'such, mary,' said i, 'such will be the fate of you and me. how soft, how serene this evening. it is a landscape for a claud. but how much more charming is an italian or a french than an english landscape. o! to saunter over hillocks, covered with lavender, wild thyme, juniper and tamarise, while shrubs fringe the summits of the rocks, or patches of meagre vegetation tint their recesses! plantations of almonds, cypresses, palms, olives, and dates stretch along; nor are the larch and ilex, the masses of granite, and dark forests of fir wanting; while the majestic garonne wanders, descending from the pyrenees, and winding its blue waves towards the bay of biscay. 'is not all this exquisite, mary?' 'it must, ma'am, since you say so,' replied she. 'then,' continued i, 'though your own cottage is tolerable, yet is it, as in italy, covered with vine leaves, fig-trees, jessamine, and clusters of grapes? is it tufted with myrtle, or shaded with a grove of lemon, orange, and bergamot?' 'but ma'am,' said mary, ''tis shaded by some fine old elms.' 'true,' cried i, with the smile of approaching triumph. 'but do the flowers of the spreading agnus castus mingle with the pomegranate of shemlek? does the asiatic andrachne rear its red trunk? are the rose-coloured nerit, and verdant alia marina imbost upon the rocks? and do the golden clusters of eastern spartium gleam amidst the fragrant foliage of the cedrat, the most elegant shrub of the levant? do they, mary?' 'i believe not, ma'am,' answered she. 'but then our fields are all over daisies, butterflowers, clover-blossoms, and daffodowndillies.' 'daffodowndillies!' cried i. 'ah, mary, mary, you may be a very good girl, but you do not shine in description. now i leave it to your own taste, which sounds better,--asiatic andrachne, or daffodowndillies? if you knew any thing of novels, you would describe for the ear, not for the eye. oh, my young friend, never, while you live, say daffodowndillies.' 'never, if i can help it, ma'am,' said mary. 'and i hope you are not offended with me, or think the worse of me, on account of my having said it now; for i could safely make oath that i never heard, till this instant, of its being a naughty word.' 'i am satisfied,' said i. 'so now let us tell our loves, and you shall begin.' 'indeed, ma'am,' said she, 'i have nothing to tell.' 'impossible,' cried i. 'did william never save your life?' 'never, ma'am.' 'well then, he had a quarrel with you?' 'never, in all his born days, ma'am.' 'shocking! why how long have you known him?' 'about six months, ma'am. he took a small farm near us; and he liked me from the first, and i liked him, and both families wished for the match; and when he asked me to marry him, i said i would; and so we shall be married next week; and that is the whole history, ma'am.' 'a melancholy history, indeed!' said i. 'what a pity that an interesting pair, like you, who, without flattery, seem born for one of marmontel's tales, should be so cruelly sacrificed.' i then began to consider whether any thing could yet be done in their behalf, or whether the matter was indeed past redemption. i reflected that it would be but an act of common charity,--hardly deserving praise--to snatch them awhile from the dogged and headlong way they were setting about matrimony, and introduce them to a few of the sensibilities. surely with very little ingenuity, i might get up an incident or two between them;--a week or a fortnight's torture, perhaps;--and afterwards enjoy the luxury of reuniting them. full of this laudable intention, i sat meditating awhile; and at length hit upon an admirable plan. it was no less than to make mary (without her own knowledge) write a letter to william, dismissing him for ever! this appears impossible, but attend. 'my story,' said i, to the unsuspecting girl, 'is long and lamentable, and i fear, i have not spirits to relate it. i shall merely tell you, that i yesterday eloped with the younger of the gentlemen who were here this morning, and married him. i was induced to take this step, in consequence of my parents having insisted that i should marry my first cousin; who, by the by, is a namesake of your william's. now, mary, i have a favour to beg of you. my cousin william must be made acquainted with my marriage; though i mean to keep it a secret from my family, and as i do not wish to tell him such unhappy tidings in my own hand-writing--and in high life, my fair rustic, young ladies must not write to young gentlemen, your taking the trouble to write out the letter for me, would bind me to you for ever.' 'that i will, and welcome,' said the simple girl; 'only ma'am, i fear i shall disgrace a lady like you, with my bad writing. i am, out and out, the worst scribbler in our family; and william says to me but yesterday, ah, mary, says he, if your tongue talked as your pen writes, you might die an old maid for me. ah, william, says i, i would bite off my tongue sooner than die an old maid. so, to be sure, willy laughed very hearty.' we then returned home, and retired to my chamber, where i dictated, and mary wrote as follows: 'dear william, 'prepare your mind for receiving a great and unexpected shock. to keep you no longer in suspense, learn that i am married. 'before i had become acquainted with you, i was attached to another man, whose name i must beg leave to conceal. about a year since, circumstances compelled him to go abroad, and before his departure, he procured a written promise from me, to marry him on the first day of his return. you then came, and succeeded in rivalling him. 'as he never once wrote, after he had left the country, i concluded that he was dead. yesterday, however, a letter from him was put into my hand, which announced his return, and appointed a private interview. i went. he had a clergyman in waiting to join our hands. i prayed, entreated, wept--all in vain. 'i became his wife. 'o william, pity, but do not blame me. if you are a man of honour and of feeling, never shew this letter, or tell its contents to one living soul. do not even speak to myself on the subject of it. 'you see i pay your own feelings the compliment of not signing the name that i now bear. 'adieu, dear william: adieu for ever.' we then returned to the sitting-room, and found william there. while we were conversing, i took an opportunity to slip the letter, unperceived, into his hand, and to bid him read it in some other place. he retired with it, and we continued talking. but in about half an hour he hurried into the room, with an agitated countenance; stopped opposite to mary, and looked at her earnestly. 'william!' cried she, 'william! for shame then, don't frighten one so.' 'no, mary,' said he, 'i scorn to frighten you, or injure you either. i believe i am above that. but no wonder my last look at you should be frightful. there is your true-lover's knot--there is your hair--there are your letters. so now, mary, good-bye, and may you be for ever happy, is what i pray providence, from the bottom of my broken heart!' with these words, and a piteous glance of anguish, he rushed from the room. mary remained motionless a moment; then half rose, sat down, rose again; and grew pale and red by turns. ''tis so--so laughable,' said she at length, while her quivering lip refused the attempted smile. 'all my presents returned too. sure--my heavens!--sure he cannot want to break off with me? well, i have as good a spirit as he, i believe. the base man; the cruel, cruel man!' and she burst into a passion of tears. i tried to sooth her, but the more i said, the more she wept. she was sure, she said, she was quite sure that he wanted to leave her; and then she sobbed so piteously, that i was on the point of undeceiving her; when, fortunately, we heard her father returning, and she ran into her own room. he asked about her; i told him that she was not well;--the old excuse of a fretting heroine; so the good man went to her, and with some difficulty gained admittance. they have remained together ever since. how delicious will be the happy denouement of this pathetic episode, this dear novellette; and how sweetly will it read in my memoirs! adieu. letter xxiv the night was so dark when i repaired to the casement, that i have been trying to compose a description of it for you, in the style of the best romances. but after having summoned to my mind all the black articles of value that i can recollect--ebony, sables, palls, pitch, and even coal, i find i have nothing better to say, than, simply, that it was a dark night. having opened the casement, i sat down at it, and repeated these lines aloud. sonnet now while within their wings each feather'd pair, hide their hush'd heads, thy visit, moon, renew, shake thy pale tresses down, irradiate air, earth, and the spicy flowers that scent the dew. the lonely nightingale shall pipe to thee, and i will moralize her minstrelsy. ten thousand birds the sun resplendent sing, one only warbles to the milder moon. thus for the great, how many wake the string, thus for the good, how few the lyre attune. as soon as i had finished the sonnet, a low and tremulous voice, close to the casement, sung these words: song haste, my love, and come away; what is folly, what is sorrow? 'tis to turn from, joys to-day, tis to wait for cares to-morrow. o'er the river, aspens shiver thus i tremble at delay. light discovers, vowing lovers: see the stars with sharpened ray, gathering thicker, glancing quicker; haste, my love, and come away. i sat enraptured, and heaved a sigh. 'enchanting sigh!' cried the singer, as he sprang through the window; but it was not the voice of stuart. i screamed loudly. 'hush!' cried the mysterious unknown, and advanced towards me; when, to my great relief, the door was thrown open, and the old peasant entered, with mary behind him, holding a candle. in the middle of the room, stood a man, clad in a black cloak, with black feathers in his hat, and a black mask on his face. the peasant, pale as death, ran forward, knocked him to the ground, and seized a pistol and carving-knife, that were stuck in a belt about his waist. 'unmask him!' cried i. the peasant, kneeling on his body, tore off the mask, and i beheld--betterton! 'alarm the neighbours, mary!' cried the peasant. mary put down the candle, and went out. 'i must appear in an unfavourable light to you, my good man,' said this terrifying character; 'but the young lady will inform you that i came hither at her own request.' 'for shame!' cried i. 'what a falsehood!' 'falsehood!' said he. 'i have your own letter, desiring me to come.' 'the man is mad,' cried i. 'i never wrote him a letter.' 'i can produce it to your face,' said he, pulling a paper from his pocket, and to my great amazement reading these lines. 'cherubina begs that betterton will repair to her window, at ten o'clock to-night, disguised like an italian assassin, with dagger, cloak, and pistol. the signal is to be his singing an air under the casement, which she will then open, and he may enter her chamber.' 'i will take the most solemn oath,' cried i, 'that i never wrote a line of it. but this unhappy wretch, who is a ruffian of the first pretensions, has a base design upon me, and has followed me from london, for the purpose of effecting it; so i suppose, he wrote the letter himself, as an excuse, in case of discovery.' 'then he shall march to the magistrate's,' said the peasant, 'and i will indict him for house-breaking!' a man half so frantic as betterton i never beheld. he foamed, he grinned, he grinded the remnants of his teeth; and swore that stuart was at the bottom of the whole plot. by this time, mary having returned with two men, we set forward in a body to the magistrate's, and delivered our depositions before him. i swore that i did not write the letter, and that, to the best of my belief, betterton harboured bad designs against me. the peasant swore that he had found the culprit, armed with a knife and pistol, in his house. the magistrate, therefore, notwithstanding all that betterton could say, committed him to prison without hesitation. as they were leading him away, he cast a furious look at the magistrate, and said: 'ay, sir, i suppose you are one of those pensioned justices, who minister our vague and sanguinary laws, and do dark deeds for our usurping oligarchy, that has assumed a power of making our most innocent actions misdemeanours, of determining points of law without appeal, of imprisoning our persons without trial, and of breaking open our houses with the standing army. but nothing will go right till we have a reform in parliament--neither peace nor war, commerce nor agriculture----' 'clocks nor watches, i suppose,' said the magistrate. 'ay, clocks nor watches,' cried betterton, in a rage. 'for how can our mechanics make any thing good, while a packed parliament deprives them of money and a mart?' 'so then,' said the magistrate, 'if st. dunstan's clock is out of order, 'tis owing to the want of a reform in parliament.' 'i have not the most distant doubt of it,' cried betterton. ''tis fair then,' said the magistrate, 'that the reformists should take such a latitude as they do; for, probably, by their encouragement of time-pieces, they will at last discover the longitude.' 'no sneering, sir,' cried betterton. 'now do your duty, as you call it, and abide the consequence.' this gallant grey lothario was then led off; and our party returned home. adieu. letter xxv i rose early this morning, and repaired to my favourite willow, to contemplate the placid landscape. flinging myself on the grass, close to the brook, i began to warble a rustic madrigal. i then let down my length of tresses, and, stooping over the streamlet, laved them in the little urn of the dimpling naiad. this, you know, was agreeable enough, but the accident that befel me was not. for, leaning too much over, i lost my balance, and rolled headlong into the middle of the rivulet. as it was shallow, i did not fear being drowned, but as i was a heroine, i hoped to be rescued. therefore, instead of rising, as i might easily have done, there i lay, shrieking and listening, and now and then lifting up my head, in hopes to see stuart come flying towards me on the wings of the wind, oh no! my gentleman thought proper to make himself scarce; so dripping, shivering, and indignant, i scrambled out, and bent my steps towards the cottage. on turning the corner of the hedge, who should i perceive at the door, but the hopeful youth himself, quite at his ease, and blowing a penny trumpet for a chubby boy. 'what has happened to you?' said he, seeing me so wet. 'only that i fell into the brook,' answered i, 'and was under the disagreeable necessity of saving my own life, when i expected that you would have condescended to take the trouble off my hands.' 'expected!' cried he. 'surely you had no reason for supposing that i was so near to you, as even to have witnessed the disaster.' 'and it is, therefore,' retorted i, 'that you ought to have been so near me as to have witnessed it.' 'you deal in riddles,' said he. 'not at all,' answered i. 'for the farther off a distrest heroine believes a hero, the nearer he is sure to be. only let her have good grounds for supposing him at her antipodes, and nine times out of ten she finds him at her elbow.' 'well,' said he, laughing, 'though i did not save your life, i will not endanger it, by detaining you in your wet dress. pray hasten to change it.' i took his advice, and borrowed some clothes from mary, while mine were put to the fire. after breakfast, i once more equipped myself in my tuscan costume, and a carriage being ready for us, i took an affectionate leave of that interesting rustic. poor girl! her attempts at cheerfulness all the morning were truly tragical; and, absorbed in another sorrow, she felt but little for my departure. on our way, stuart confessed that he was the person who wrote the letter to betterton in my name; and that he did so for the purpose of entrapping him in such a manner as to prevent him from accompanying me farther. he was at the window during the whole scene; as he meant to have seized betterton himself, had not the peasant done so. 'you will excuse my thus interfering in your concerns,' added he; 'but gratitude demands of me to protect the daughter of my guardian; and friendship for her improves the duty to a pleasure.' 'ah!' said i, 'however it has happened, i fear you dislike me strangely.' 'believe me, you mistake,' answered he. 'with a few foibles (which are themselves as fascinating as foibles can be), you possess many virtues; and, let me add, a thousand attractions. i who tell you blunt truths, may well afford you flattery.' 'flattery,' said i, pleased by his praises, and willing to please him in return by serious conversation, 'deserves censure only when the motive for using it is mean or vicious.' 'your remark is a just one,' observed he. 'flattery is often but the hyperbole of friendship; and even though a compliment itself may not be sincere, our motive for paying it may be good. flattery, so far from injuring, may sometimes benefit the object of it; for it is possible to create a virtue in others, by persuading them that they possess it.' 'besides,' said i, 'may we not pay a compliment, without intending that it should be believed; but merely to make ourselves agreeable by an effort of the wit? and since such an effort shews that we consider the person flattered worthy of it, the compliment proves a kind intention at least, and thus tends to cement affection and friendship.' in this manner stuart insensibly led me to talk on grave topics; and we continued a delightful conversation the remainder of the day. sometimes he seemed greatly gratified at my sprightly sallies, or serious remarks; but never could i throw him off his guard, by the dangerous softness of my manner. he now calls me the lovely visionary. would you believe that this laughing, careless, unpathetic creature, is a poet, and a poet of feeling, as the following lines will prove. but whether he wrote them on a real or an imaginary being, i cannot, by any art, extract from him. the farewell go, gentle muse, 'tis near the gloomy day, long dreaded; go, and say farewell for me; a sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say, for far she hastens hence. ah, hard decree! tell her i feel that at the parting hour, more than the waves will heave in tumult wild: more than the skies will threat a gushing shower, more than the breeze will breathe a murmur mild. say that her influence flies not with her form, that distant she will still engage my mind: that suns are most remote when most they warm, that flying parthians scatter darts behind. long will i gaze upon her vacant home, as the bird lingers near its pilfered nest, there, will i cry, she turned the studious tome; there sported, there her envied pet caressed. there, while she plied accomplished works of art, i saw her form, inclined with sapphic grace; her radiant eyes, blest emblems of her heart, and all the living treasures of her face. the parian forehead parting clustered hair, the cheek of peachy tinct, the meaning brow; the witching archness, and the grace so rare, so magical, it charmed i knew not how. light was her footstep as the silent flakes of falling snow; her smile was blithe as morn; her dimple, like the print the berry makes, in some smooth lake, when dropping from the thorn. to snatch her passing accents as she spoke, to see her slender hand, (that future prize) fling back a ringlet, oft i dared provoke, the gentle vengeance of averted eyes. yet ah, what wonder, if, when shrinking awe withheld me from her sight, i broke my chain? or when i made a single glance my law, what wonder if that law were made in vain? and say, can nought but converse love inspire? what tho' for me her lips have never moved? the vale that speaks but with its feathered choir, when long beheld, eternally is loved. go then, my muse, 'tis near the gloomy day of parting; go, and say farewell for me; a sad farewell to her who deigned thee, say, whate'er engage her, wheresoe'er she be. if slumbering, tell her in my dreams she sways, if speaking, tell her in my words she glows; if thoughtful, tell her in my thoughts she strays, if tuneful, tell her in my song she flows. tell her that soon my dreams unblest will prove; that soon my words on absent charms will dwell; that soon my thoughts remembered hours will love; that soon my song of vain regrets will tell. then, in romantic moments, i will frame, some scene ideal, where we meet at last; where, by my peril, snatched from wreck or flame, she smiles reward and talks of all the past. now for the lark she flies my wistful lay. ah, could the bard some winged warbler be, following her form, no longer would he say, go, gentle muse, and bid farewell for me. i write from an inn within a mile of lady gwyn's. another hour and my fate is decided. adieu. letter xxvi at length, with a throbbing heart, i now, for the first time, beheld the mansion of my revered ancestors--the present abode of lady gwyn. that unfortunate usurper of my rights was not denied to me; so i alighted; and though stuart wished much to be present at the interview, i would not permit him; but was ushered by the footman into the sitting-room. i entered with erect, yet gentle majesty; while my tuscan habit, which was soiled and shrivelled by the brook, gave me an air of complicated distress. i found her ladyship at a table, classifying fossils. she was tall and thin, and bore the remains of beauty; but i could not discover the family face. she looked at me with some surprise; smiled, and begged to know my business. 'it is a business,' said i, 'of the most vital importance to your ladyship's honour and repose; and i lament that an imperious necessity compels me to the invidious task of acquainting you with it. could anything add to the painful nature of my feelings, it would be to find that i had wounded yours.' 'your preamble alarms me,' said she. 'do, pray be explicit.' 'i must begin,' said i, 'with declaring my perfect conviction of your ignorance, that any person is existing, who has a right to the property which your ladyship at present possesses.' 'assuredly such a notion never entered my head,' said she, 'and indeed, were such a claim made, i should consider it as utterly untenable--in fact, impossible.' 'i regret,' said i, 'that it is undeniable. there are documents extant, and witnesses living, to prove it beyond all refutation.' her ladyship, i thought, changed colour, as she said: 'this is strange; but i cannot believe it. who would have the face to set up such a silly claim?' 'i am so unfortunate as to have that face,' answered i, in a tone of the most touching humility. 'you!' she cried with amazement. 'you!' 'pardon me the pain i give you,' said i, 'but such is the fact; and grating as this interview must be to the feelings of both parties, i do assure you, that i have sought it, solely to prevent the more disagreeable process of a law-suit.' 'you are welcome to twenty law-suits, if you wish them,' cried she, 'but i fancy they will not deprive me of my property.' 'at least,' said i, 'they may be the means of sullying the character of your deceased lord.' 'i defy the whole world,' cried she, 'to affix the slightest imputation on his character.' 'surely,' said i, 'you cannot pretend ignorance of the fact, that his lordship had the character of being--i trust, more from misfortune, than from inherent depravity; for your ladyship well knows that man, frail man, in a moment of temptation, perpetrates atrocities, which his better heart afterwards disowns.' 'but his character!' cried she. 'what of his character?' 'ah!' said i, 'your ladyship will not compel me to mention.' 'you have advanced too far to retreat,' cried she. 'i demand an unequivocal explanation. what of his character?' 'well, since i must speak plain,' replied i, 'it was that of an--assassin!' 'merciful powers!' said she, in a faint voice, and reddening violently. 'what does the horrid woman mean?' 'i have at this moment,' cried i, 'a person ready to make oath, that your unhappy husband bribed a servant of my father's to murder me, while yet an infant, in cold blood.' ''tis a falsehood!' cried she. 'i would stake my life on its being a vile, malicious, diabolical falsehood.' 'would it were!' said i, 'but oh! lady gwyn, the circumstances, the dreadful circumstances--these cannot be contradicted. it was midnight;--the bones of my noble father had just been deposited in the grave;--when a tall figure, wrapt in a dark cloak, and armed with a dagger, stood before the seneschal. _it was the late lord gwyn!_' 'who are you?' cried she, starting up quite pale and horror-struck. 'in the name of all that is dreadful, who can you be?' 'your own niece!' said i, meekly kneeling to receive her blessing--'lady cherubina de willoughby, the daughter of your ladyship's deceased brother, lord de willoughby, and of his much injured wife, the lady hysterica belamour!' 'never heard of such persons in all my life!' cried she, ringing the bell furiously. 'pray,' said i, 'be calm. act with dignity in this affair. do not disgrace our family. on my honour, i mean to treat you with kindness. nay, we must positively be on terms of friendship--i make it a point. after all, what is rank? what are riches? how vapid their charms, compared with the heartfelt joys of truth and virtue! o, lady gwyn, o, my respected aunt; i conjure you by our common ties of blood, by your brother, who was my father, spurn the perilous toy, fortune, and retire in time, and without exposing your lost lord, into the peaceful bosom of obscurity!' 'conduct this wretch out of the house,' said her ladyship to the servant who had entered. 'she wants to extort money from me, i believe.' 'a moment more,' cried i. 'where is old eftsoones? where is that worthy character?' 'i know no such person,' said she. 'begone, impostor!' at the word impostor, i smiled; drew aside my ringlets with one hand, and pointed to my inestimable mole with the other. 'am i an impostor now?' cried i. 'but learn, unfortunate woman, that i have a certain parchment too.'---'and a great deal of insolence too,' said she. 'the resemblance of it, at least,' cried i, 'for i have your ladyship's portrait.' 'my portrait!' said she with a sneer. 'as sure as your name is nell gwyn,' cried i; 'for nell gwyn is written under it; and let me add, that you would have consulted both your own taste, and the dignity of our house better, had you got it written eleanor instead of nell.' 'you little impertinent reprobate!' exclaimed she, feeling the peculiar poignancy of the sarcasm. 'begone this moment, or i will have you drummed through the village!' i waved my hand in token of high disdain, and vanished. 'well,' said stuart, as i got to the carriage, 'has her ladyship acknowledged your claims?' 'no, truly,' cried i, 'but she has turned me out of my own house--think of that!' 'then,' said he, springing from the chaise, 'i will try whether i cannot succeed better with her ladyship;' and he went into the house. i remained in a state of the greatest perturbation till he came back. 'good news!' cried he. 'her ladyship wishes to see you, and apologize for her rudeness; and i fancy,' added he, with a significant nod, 'all will go well in a certain affair.' 'yes, yes,' said i, nodding in return, 'i flatter myself she now finds civility the best of her game.' i then alighted, and her ladyship ran forward to meet me. she pressed my hand, _my-deared_ me twice in a breath, told me that stuart had given her my little history--that it was delicious--elegant--exotic; and concluded with declaring, that i must remain at her house a few days, to talk over the great object of my visit. much as i mistrusted this sudden alteration in her conduct, i consented to spend a short time with her, on the principle, that heroines always contrive to get under the same roof with their bitterest enemies. stuart appeared quite delighted at my determination, and after another private interview with her ladyship, set off for london, to make further inquiries about wilkinson. i am, however, resolved not to release that mischievous farmer, till i have secured my title and estate. you see i am grown quite sharp. her ladyship and i had then a long conversation, and she fairly confessed the probability that my claims are just, but denied all knowledge of old eftsoones. i now begin to think rather better of her. she has the sweetest temper in the world, loves literature and perroquets, scrapes mezzotintos, and spends half her income in buying any thing that is hardly to be had. she led me through her cabinet, which contains the most curious assortment in nature--vases of onyx and sardonyx, cameos and intaglios; subjects in sea-horse teeth, by fiamingo and benvenuto cellini; and antique gems in jadestone, mochoa, coral, amber, and turkish agate. she has already presented me with several dresses, and she calls me her lovely _protã©gã©e_, and the lady cherubina,--a sound that makes my very heart leap within me. nay, she did me the honour of assuring me, that her curiosity to know a real heroine was one motive for her having asked me on this visit; and that she positively considers an hour with me worth all her curiosities put together. what a delicate compliment! so could i do less, in return, than repeat my assurances, that when i succeed in dispossessing her of the property, she shall never want an asylum in my house. adieu. letter xxvii think of its having never once struck me, till i had retired for the night, that i might be murdered! how so manifest a danger escaped my recollection, is inconceivable; but so it was, i never thought of it. lady gwyn might be (for any thing i could tell to the contrary) just as capable of plotting an assassination as the marchesa di vivaldi; and surely her motives were far more urgent. i therefore searched in my chamber, for some trap-door, or sliding pannel, by which assassins might enter it; but i could find none. i then resolved on exploring the galleries, corridors, and suites of apartments, in this immense mansion; in hopes to discover some place of retreat, or at least some mystery relative to my birth. accordingly, at the celebrated hour of midnight, i took up the taper, and unbolting my door, stole softly along the lobby. i stopped before one of our family pictures. it was of a lady, pale, pensive, and interesting; and whose eyes, which appeared to look at me, were sky-blue, like my own. that was sufficient. 'gentle image of my departed mother!' ejaculated i, kneeling before it, 'may thy sacred ashes repose in peace!' i then faintly chaunted a fragment of a hymn, and advanced. no sigh met my listening ear, no moan amidst the pauses of the gust. with a trembling hand i opened a door, and found myself in a spacious chamber. it was magnificently furnished, and a piano stood in one corner of it. intending to run my fingers over the keys, i walked forward; till a low rustling in that direction made me pause. but how shall i paint to you my horror, my dismay, when i heard the mysterious instrument on a sudden begin to sound; not loudly, but (more terrible still!) with a hurried murmur; as if all its chords were agitated at once, by the hand of some invisible demon. i did not faint, i did not shriek; but i stood transfixed to the spot. the music ceased. i recovered courage and advanced. the music began again; and again i paused. what! should i not lift the simple lid of a mere piano, after emily's having drawn aside the mysterious veil, and discovered the terrific wax doll underneath it? emulation, enthusiasm, curiosity prompted me, and i rushed undaunted to the piano. louder and more rapid grew the notes--my desperate hand raised the cover, and beneath it, i beheld a sight to me the most hideous and fearful upon earth,--a mouse! i screamed and dropped the candle, which was instantly extinguished. the mouse ran by me; i flew towards the door, but missed it, and fell against a table; nor was it till after i had made much clamour, that i got out of the room. as i groped my way through the corridor, i heard voices and people in confusion above stairs; and presently lights appeared. the whole house was in a tumult. 'they are coming to murder me at last!' cried i, as i regained my chamber, and began heaping chairs and tables against the door. presently several persons arrived at it, and called my name. i said not a word. they called louder, but still i was silent; till at length they burst open the door, and lady gwyn, with some of her domestics, entered. they found me kneeling in an attitude of supplication. 'spare, oh, spare me!' cried i. 'my dear,' said her ladyship, 'no harm shall happen you.' 'alas, then,' exclaimed i, 'what portends this nocturnal visit? this assault on my chamber? all these dreadful faces? was it not enough, unhappy woman, that thy husband attempted my life, but must thou, too, thirst for my blood?' lady gwyn whispered a servant, who left the room; the rest raised, and put me to bed; while i read her ladyship such a lecture on murder, as absolutely astonished her. the servant soon after returned with a cup. 'here, my love,' said her ladyship, 'is a composing draught for you. drink it, and you will be quite well to-morrow.' i took it with gladness, for i felt my brain strangely bewildered by the terror that i had just undergone. indeed i have sometimes experienced the same sensation before, and it is extremely disagreeable. they then left a candle in my room, and departed. my mind still remains uneasy; but i have barricaded the door, and am determined on not undressing. i believe, however, i must now throw myself on the bed; for the draught has made me sleepy. adieu. letter xxviii o biddy grimes, i am poisoned! that fatal draught last night--why did i drink it?--i am in dreadful agony. when this reaches you, all will be over.--but i would not die without letting you know. farewell for ever, my poor biddy! i bequeath you all my ornaments. letter xxix yes, my friend, you may well stare at receiving another letter from me; and at hearing that i have not been poisoned in the least! i must unfold the mystery. when i woke this morning, after my nocturnal perambulation, i found my limbs so stiff, and such pains in all my bones, that i was almost unable to move. judge of my horror and despair; for it instantly flashed across my mind, that lady gwyn had poisoned me! my whole frame underwent a sudden revulsion; i grew sick, and rang the bell with violence; nor ceased an instant, till half the servants, and lady gwyn herself, had burst into my chamber. 'if you have a remnant of mercy left,' cried i, 'send for a doctor!' 'what is the matter, my dear,' said her ladyship. 'only that you have poisoned me, my dear,' cried i. 'dear, indeed! i presume your ladyship imagines, that the liberty you have taken with my life, authorizes all other freedoms. oh, what will become of me!' 'do, tell me,' said she, 'how are you unwell?' 'i am sick to death,' cried i. 'i have pains in all my limbs, and i shall be a corpse in half an hour. oh, indeed, you have done the business completely. lady eleanor gwyn, i do here, on my death-bed, and with all my senses about me, accuse you, before your domestics, of having administered a deadly potion to me last night.' 'go for the physician,' said her ladyship to a servant. 'well may you feel alarmed,' cried i. 'your life will pay the forfeit of mine.' 'but you need not feel alarmed,' said her ladyship, 'for really, what i gave you last night, was merely to make you sleep.' 'yes,' cried i, 'the sleep of the grave! o lady gwyn, what have i done to you, to deserve death at your hands? and in such a manner too! had you even shewn so much regard to custom and common decency, as to have offered me the potion in a bowl or a goblet, there might have been some little palliation. but to add insult to injury;--to trick me out of my life with a paltry tea-cup;--to poison a girl of my pretensions, as vulgarly as you would a rat;--no, no, madam, this is not to be pardoned!' her ladyship again began assuring me that i had taken nothing more than a soporific; but i would not hear her, and at length, i sent her and the domestics out of the chamber, that i might prepare for my approaching end. how to prepare was the question; for i had never thought of death seriously, heroines so seldom die. should i follow the beautiful precedent of the dying heloise, who called her friends about her, got her chamber sprinkled with flowers and perfumes, and then gave up the ghost, in a state of elegant inebriation with home-made wine, which she passed for spanish? alas! i had no friends--not even stuart, at hand; flowers and perfumes i would not condescend to beg from my murderess; and as for wine, i could not abide the thoughts of it in a morning. but amidst these reflections, a more serious and less agreeable subject intruded itself upon me,--the thoughts of a future state. i strove to banish it, but it would not be repulsed. yet surely, said i, as a heroine, i am a pattern of perfect virtue; and therefore, i must be happy hereafter. but was virtue sufficient? at church (seldom as i had frequented it, in consequence of its sober ceremonies, so unsuited to my taste,) i remembered to have heard a very different doctrine. there i had heard, that we cannot learn to do right without the divine aid, and that to propitiate it, we must make ourselves acquainted with those principles of religion, which enable us to prefer duteous prayers, and to place implicit reliance on the power and goodness of the deity. alas, i knew nothing of religion, except from novels; and in these, though the devotion of heroines is sentimental and graceful to a degree, it never influences their acts, or appears connected with their moral duties. it is so speculative and generalized, that it would answer the greek or the persian church, as well as the christian; and none but the picturesque and enthusiastic part is presented; such as kissing a cross, chanting a vesper with elevated eyes, or composing a well-worded prayer. the more i thought, the more horrible appeared my situation. i felt a confused idea, that i had led a worthless, if not a criminal life; that i had left myself without a friend in this world, and had not sought to make one in the next. i became more and more agitated. i tried to turn my thoughts back to the plan of expiring with grace, but all in vain. i then wrote the note to you; then endeavoured to pray: nothing could calm or divert my mind. the pains grew worse, i felt sick at heart, my palate was parched, and i now expected that every breath would be my last. my soul recoiled from the thought, and my brain became a confused chaos. hideous visions of eternity rushed into my mind; i lay shivering, groaning, and abandoned to the most deplorable despair. in this state the physician found me. o what a joyful relief, when he declared, that my disorder was nothing but a violent rheumatism, contracted, it seems, by my fall into the water the morning before! never was transport equal to mine; and i assured him that he should have a place in my memoirs. he prescribed for me; but remarked, that i might remain ill a whole month, or be quite well in a few days. 'positively,' said her ladyship, 'you must be quite well in four; for then my ball comes on; and i mean to make you the most conspicuous figure at it. i have great plans for you, i assure you.' i thanked her ladyship, and begged pardon for having been so giddy as to call her a murderess; while she laughed at my mistake, and made quite light of it. noble woman! but i dare say magnanimity is our family virtue. no sooner had i ceased to be miserable about leaving the world, than i became almost as much so about losing the ball. to lose it from any cause whatever, was sufficiently provoking; but to lose it by so gross a disorder as a rheumatism, was, indeed, dreadful. now, had i even some pale, genteel, sofa-reclining illness, curable by hartshorn, i would bless my kind stars, and drink that nauseous cordial, from morning even unto night. for disguise thyself as thou wilt, hartshorn, still thou art a bitter draught; and though heroines in all novels have been made to drink of thee, thou art no less bitter on that account. being on this subject, i have to lament, that i am utterly unacquainted with those refined ailments, which every girl that i read of, meets with, as things of course. the consequence is my wanting that beauty, which, touched with the languid delicacy of illness, gains from sentiment what it loses in bloom; so that really this horse's constitution of mine is a terrible disadvantage to me. i know, had i the power of inventing my own indispositions, i would strike out something far beyond even the hectics and head-aches of my fair predecessors. i believe there is not a sigh-fever; but i would fall ill of a scald from a lover's tear, or a classic scratch from the thorn of a rose. adieu. letter xxx this morning i awoke almost free from pain; and towards evening, i was able to appear in the drawing-room. lady gwyn had asked several of her friends to tea, so that i passed a delightful afternoon; the charm, admiration, and astonishment of all. on retiring for the night to my chamber, i found this note on my toilette, and read it with a beating heart. _to the lady cherubina._ 'your mother lives! and is confined in one of the subterranean vaults belonging to the villa. at midnight you will hear a tapping at your door. open it, and two men in masks will appear outside. they will blindfold, and conduct you to her. you will know her by her striking likeness to her picture in the gallery. be silent, courageous, and circumspect. 'an unknown friend.' what a flood of new feelings gushed upon my soul, as i laid down the billet, and lifted my filial eyes to heaven! i was about to behold my mother. mother--endearing name! i pictured to myself, that unfortunate lady, stretched on a mattrass of straw, her eyes sunken in their sockets, yet still retaining a portion of their wonted fire; her frame emaciated, her voice feeble, her hand damp and chill. fondly did i depict our meeting--our embrace; she gently pushing me from her, to gaze on all the lineaments of my countenance, and then baring my temple to search for the mole. all, all is convincing; and she calls me the softened image of my noble father! two tedious hours i waited in extreme anxiety, till at length the clock struck twelve. my heart beat responsive, and in a few moments after, i heard the promised signal at my door. i unbolted it, and beheld two men in masks and cloaks. they blindfolded me, and each taking an arm, led me along. not a word passed. we traversed several suites of apartments, ascended flights of stairs, descended others; now went this way, now that; obliquely, circularly, angularly; till i began actually to imagine we were all the time in one spot. at length my conductors stopped. 'unlock the postern gate,' whispered one, 'while i light a torch.' 'we are betrayed!' said the other, 'for this is the wrong key.' 'then thou beest the traitor,' cried the first. 'thou liest, dost lie, and art lying!' cried the second. 'take that!' exclaimed the first. a groan followed, and the wretch dropped to the ground. 'you have murdered him!' cried i, sickening with horror. 'i have only hamstrung him, my lady,' said the fellow. 'he will be lame for life.' 'treason!' shouted the wounded man. his companion burst open the gate; a sudden current of wind met us, and we fled along with incredible speed, while low moans and smothered shrieks were heard at either side of us. 'gracious heaven, where are we?' cried i. 'in the cavern of death!' said my conductor, 'famous for rats and banditti.' on a sudden innumerable footsteps echoed behind us. we ran swifter. 'fire!' cried a ferocious accent, almost at my ear; and in a moment several pistols were discharged. i stopped, unable to move, breathe, or speak. 'i am wounded all over, right and left, fore and aft!' cried my conductor. 'am i bleeding?' said i, feeling myself with my hands. 'no, blessed st. anthony be praised!' answered he; 'and now all is safe, for we are at the cell, and the banditti have turned into the wrong passage.' he stopped, and unlocked a door. 'enter,' said he, 'and behold your unhappy mother!' he led me forward, took the bandage from my eyes, and retiring, locked the door upon me. agitated already by the terrors of my dangerous expedition, i felt additional horror on finding myself in a dismal cell, lighted with a lantern; where, at a small table, sat a woman suffering under a corpulency unparalleled in the memoirs of human monsters. she was clad in sackcloth, her head was swathed in linen, and had grey locks on it, like horses' tails. hundreds of frogs were leaping about the floor; a piece of mouldy bread, a mug of water, and a manuscript, lay on the table; some straw, strewn with dead snakes and skulls, occupied one corner, and the farther side of the cell was concealed behind a black curtain. i stood at the door, doubtful, and afraid to advance; while the prodigious prisoner sat examining me from head to foot. at last i summoned courage to say, 'i fear, madam, i am an intruder here. i have certainly been shewn into the wrong room.' 'it is, it is my own, my only daughter, my cherubina!' cried she, with a tremendous voice. 'come to my maternal arms, thou living picture of the departed theodore!' 'why, ma'am,' said i, 'i would with great pleasure, but i am afraid that---oh, madam, indeed, indeed, i am quite sure you cannot be my mother!' 'for shame!' cried she. 'why not?' 'why, madam,' answered i, 'my mother was of a thin habit; as her picture proves.' 'and so was i once,' said she. 'this deplorable plumpness is owing to want of exercise. you see, however, that i retain all my former paleness.' 'pardon me,' said i, 'for i must say that your face is a rich scarlet.' 'and is this our tender meeting?' cried she. 'after ten years' imprisonment, to be disowned by my daughter, and taunted with sarcastic insinuations against my face? here is a pretty joke! tell me, girl, will you embrace me, or will you not?' 'indeed, madam,' answered i, 'i will embrace you presently.' 'presently!' cried she. 'yes,' said i, 'depend upon it i will. only let me get over the first shock.' 'shock!' vociferated she. dreading her violence, and feeling myself bound to do the duties of a daughter, i kneeled at her feet, and said: 'ever excellent, ever exalted author of my being, i beg thy maternal blessing!' my mother raised me from the ground, and hugged me to her heart, with such cruel vigour, that almost crushed, i cried out stoutly, and struggled for release. 'and now,' said she, relaxing her grasp, 'let us talk over our wrongs. this manuscript is a faithful narrative of my life, previous to my marriage. it was written by my female confidant, to divert her grief, during the long and alarming illness of her dutch pug. take it to your chamber, and blot it with your tears, my love.' i put the scroll in my bosom. 'need i shock your gentle feelings,' continued she, 'by relating my subsequent story? suffice it, that as soon as you were stolen, i went mad about the woods, till i was caught; and on recovering my senses, i found myself in this infernal dungeon. look at that calendar of small sticks, notched all over with my dismal days and nights. ten long years i have eaten nothing but bread. oh, ye favourite pullets, oh ye inimitable apple-pies, shall i never, never, taste you more? oft too, my reason wanders. oft i see figures that rise like furies, to torment me. i see them when asleep; i see them now--now!' she sat in a fixed attitude of horror, while her straining eyes moved slowly round, as if they followed something. i stood shuddering, and hating her more and more every moment. 'gentle companion of my confinement!' cried she, apostrophizing a huge toad that she pulled out of her bosom; 'dear, spotted fondling; thou, next to my cherubina, art worthy of my love. embrace each other, my friends.' and she put the hideous pet into my hand. i screamed and dropped it. 'oh!' cried i, in a passion of despair, 'what madness possessed me to undertake this execrable enterprize!' and i began beating with my hand against the door. 'do you want to leave your poor mother?' said she, in a whimpering tone. 'oh! i am so frightened!' said i. 'you will spend the night here, however,' cried she; 'and probably your whole life too; for no doubt the ruffian who brought you hither was employed by lady gwyn to entrap you.' when i heard this terrible suggestion, my blood ran cold, and i began crying bitterly. 'come, my love!' said my mother, 'and let me lull thee to repose on my soft bosom. what is the world to us? here in each other's society, we will enjoy all that affection, all that virtue can confer. come, my daughter, and let me clasp thee to my heart once more!' 'ah,' cried i, 'spare me!' 'what!' exclaimed she, 'do you spurn my proffered embrace?' 'dear, no, madam,' answered i. 'but--but you squeeze one so!' my mother made a huge stride towards me; then stood groaning and rolling her eyes. 'help!' cried i, half frantic; 'help! help!' i was stopped by a suppressed titter of infernal laughter, as if from many demons; and on looking towards the black curtain, whence the sound came, i saw it agitated; and about twenty terrific faces appeared peeping through slits in it, and making grins of a most diabolical nature. i hid my face in my hands. ''tis the banditti!' cried my mother. as she spoke, the door opened, a bandage was flung over my eyes, and i was hurried off, almost senseless, in some one's arms; till at length, i found myself alone in my own chamber. such was the detestable adventure of to-night. oh, biddy, that i should have lived to meet this mother of mine! how different from the mothers that other heroines contrive to rummage out in northern turrets and ruined chapels! i am out of all patience. liberate her i will, of course, and make a suitable provision for her, when i get possession of my property, but positively, never will i sleep under the same roof with--(ye powers of filial love forgive me!) such a living mountain of human horror. adieu. letter xxxi while her ladyship is busied in preparing for the ball of to-morrow night, i find time to copy my mother's memoirs for your perusal. were she herself elegant and interesting, perhaps i might think them so too; and if i dislike them, it must be because i dislike her; for the plot, sentiment, diction, and pictures of nature, differ little from what we find in other novels. _il castello di grimgothico_, or memoirs of lady hysterica belamour. a novel. _by anna maria marianne matilda pottingen_, author of the bloody bodkin, sonnets on most of the planets, &c. &c. &c. oh, sophonisba, sophonisba, oh! thompson. chapter i blow, blow, thou wintry wind.--shakespeare. blow, breezes, blow.--moore. a storm.--a rustic repast.--an alarm.--uncommon readiness in a child.--an inundated stranger.--a castle out of repair.--an impaired character. it was on a nocturnal night in autumnal october; the wet rain fell in liquid quantities, and the thunder rolled in an awful and ossianly manner. the lowly, but peaceful inhabitants of a small, but decent cottage, were just sitting down to their homely, but wholesome supper, when a loud knocking at the door alarmed them. bertram armed himself with a ladle. 'lackadaisy!' cried old margueritone, and little billy seized the favourable moment to fill his mouth with meat. innocent fraud! happy childhood! the father's lustre and the mother's bloom.--thompson. bertram then opened the door; when lo! pale, breathless, dripping, and with a look that would have shocked the humane society, a beautiful female tottered into the room. 'lackadaisy, ma'am,' said margueritone, 'are you wet?' 'wet!' exclaimed the fair unknown, wringing a rivulet of rain from the corner of her robe; 'o ye gods, wet!' margueritone felt the justice, the gentleness of the reproof, and turned the subject, by recommending a glass of spirits. spirit of my sainted sire. the stranger sipped, shook her head, and fainted. her hair was long and dark, and the bed was ready; so since she seems in distress, we will leave her there awhile; lest we should betray an ignorance of the world, in appearing not to know the proper time for deserting people. on the rocky summit of a beetling precipice, whose base was lashed by the angry atlantic, stood a moated, and turreted structure, called il castello di grimgothico. as the northern tower had remained uninhabited since the death of its late lord, henriques de violenci, lights and figures were, _par consequence_, observed in it at midnight. besides, the black eyebrows of the present baron had a habit of meeting for several years, and _quelquefois_, he paced the picture-gallery with a hurried step. these circumstances combined, there could be no doubt of his having committed murder. accordingly, all avoided him, except the count stiletto, and the hectic, but heavenly hysterica. the former, he knew, was the most pale-faced, flagitious character in the world. but birds of a plume associate. the latter shall be presented to the reader in the next chapter. chapter ii 'oh!'--milton. 'ah!'--pope. a history.--a mystery.--an original reflection on death.--the heroine described.--the landscape not described.--an awful reason given. one evening, the baroness de violenci, having sprained her left leg in the composition of an ecstatic ode, resolved not to go to lady penthesilea rouge's rout. while she was sitting alone, at a plate of prawns, the footman entered with a basket, which had just been left for her. 'lay it down, john,' said she, touching his forehead with her fork. that gay-hearted young fellow did as he was desired, and capered out of the room. judge of her astonishment, when she found, on opening it, a little cherub of a baby sleeping within. an oaken cross, with 'hysterica,' inscribed in chalk, was appended at its neck, and a mark, like a bruised gooseberry, added interest to its elbow. as she and her lord never had children (at least she could answer for herself), she determined, _sur le champ_, on adopting the pretty hysterica. fifteen years did this worthy woman dedicate to the progress of her little charge; and in that time, taught her every mortal accomplishment. her sigh, particularly, was esteemed the softest in europe. but the stroke of death is inevitable; come it must at last, and neither virtue nor wisdom can avoid it. in a word, the good old baroness died, and our heroine fell senseless on her body. o what a fall was there, my countrymen! but it is now time to describe our heroine. as milton tells us, that eve was '_more lovely than pandora_' (an imaginary lady, who never existed but in the brains of poets), so do we declare, and are ready to stake our lives, that our heroine excelled in her form the timinitilidi, whom no man ever saw; and, in her voice, the music of the spheres, which no man ever heard. perhaps her face was not perfect; but it was more--it was interesting--it was oval. her eyes were of the real, original old blue; and her eyelashes of the best silk. you forget the thickness of her lips, in the casket of pearls which they enshrined; and the roses of york and lancaster were united in her cheek. a nose of the grecian order surmounted the whole. such was hysterica. but alas! misfortunes are often gregarious, like sheep. for one night, when our heroine had repaired to the chapel, intending to drop her customary tear on the tomb of her sainted benefactress, she heard on a sudden, oh, horrid, horrible, and horridest horror! the distant organ peal a solemn voluntary. while she was preparing, in much terror and astonishment, to accompany it with her voice, four men in masks rushed from among some tombs, and bore her to a carriage, which instantly drove off with the whole party. in vain she sought to soften them by swoons, tears, and a simple little ballad: they sat counting murders, and not minding her. as the blinds of the carriage were closed the whole way, we wave a description of the country which they traversed. besides, the prospect within the carriage will occupy the reader enough; for in one of the villains, hysterica discovered--count stiletto! she fainted. on the second day, the carriage stopped at an old castle, and she was conveyed into a tapestried apartment, where the delicate creature instantly fell ill of an inverted eyelash, caused by continual weeping. she then drew upon the contemplation of future sorrows, for a supply of that melancholy which her immediate exigencies demanded. chapter iii be thou a spirit of health, or goblin damn'd?--shakespeare. fresh embarrassments.--an insult from a spectre.--grand discoveries.--a shriek.--a tear.--a sigh.--a blush.--a swoon. it is a remark founded upon the nature of man, and universally credited by the thinking part of the world, that to suffer is an attribute of mortality. impressed with a due conviction of this important precept, our heroine but smiled as she heard stiletto lock her door. it was now midnight, and she took up her lamp to examine the chamber. rusty daggers, mouldering bones, and ragged palls, lay scattered in all the profusion of feudal plenty. several horrors now made their appearance; but the most uncommon was a winged eyeball that fluttered before her face. say, little, foolish, fluttering thing? she began shrieking and adjusting her hair at a mirror, when lo! she beheld the reflection of a ghastly visage peeping over her shoulder! much disconcerted, the trembling girl approached the bed. an impertinent apparition, with a peculiar nose, stood there, and made faces at her. she felt offended at the freedom, to say nothing of her being half dead with fright. 'is it not enough,' thought she, 'to be harassed by beings of this world, but those of the next too must think proper to interfere? i am sure,' said she, as she raised her voice in a taunting manner, '_en veritã©_, i have no desire to meddle with _their_ affairs. _sur ma vie_, i have no taste for brim-stone. so let me just advise a _certain_ inhabitant of a _certain_ world (not the _best_, i believe,) to think less of _my_ concerns, and more of _his own_.' having thus asserted her dignity, without being too personal, she walked to the casement in tears, and sang these simple lines, which she graced with intermittent sobs. song alas, well-a-day, woe to me, singing willow, willow, willow; my lover is far, far at sea. on a billow, billow, billow. ah, theodore, would thou could'st be, on my pillow, pillow, pillow! here she heaved a deep sigh, when, to her utter astonishment, a voice, as if from a chamber underneath; took up the tune with these words: song alas, well-a-day, woe to me, singing sorrow, sorrow, sorrow; a ducat would soon make me free, could i borrow, borrow, borrow; and then i would pillow with thee, to-morrow, morrow, morrow! was it?--it was!--yes, it _was_ the voice of her love, her life, her long-lost theodore de willoughby!!! how should she reach him? forty times she ran round and round her chamber, with agitated eyes and distracted tresses. here we must pause a moment, and express our surprise at the negligence of the sylphs and sylphids, in permitting the ringlets of heroines to be so frequently dishevelled. o ye fat-cheeked little cherubims, who flap your innocent wings, and fly through oceans of air in a minute, without having a hair of your heads discomposed,--no wonder that such stiff ringlets should be made of gold! at length hysterica found a sliding pannel. she likewise found a moth-eaten parchment, which she sat down to peruse. but, gentle reader, imagine her emotions, on decyphering these wonderful words. manuscript ---six tedious years ------and all for what? ------ ------------no sun, no moon. ------murd ------ adul ------because i am the wife of lord belamour. --- ---then tore me from him, and my little hysterica ------ ---------cruel stiletto! ------he confesses that he put the sleeping babe into a basket ------sent her to the baroness de violenci ------oaken cross ------chalk --- ---bruised gooseberry ---------------i am poisoned ------a great pain across my back ------i ---j ---k ------oh! ---ah! ---oh! ------------ _fascinante peggina belamour._ this then was the mother of our heroine; and the ms. elucidated, beyond dispute, the mysteries which had hitherto hung over the birth of that unfortunate orphan. we need not add that she fainted, recovered, passed through the pannel, discovered the dungeon of her theodore; and having asked him how he did, 'comment vous portez vous?' fell into unsophisticated hysterics. chapter iv sure such a pair were never seen, so justly formed to meet by nature.--sheridan. a tender dialogue.--an interesting flight.--a mischievous cloud. --our hero hits upon a singular expedient.--fails.--takes a trip to the metropolis. 'and is this you?' cried the delighted youth, as she revived. 'indeed, indeed it is,' said she. 'are you quite, quite sure?' cried he. 'indeed, indeed i am,' said she. 'well, how do you do?' cried he. 'pretty well i thank you,' said she. they then separated, after fixing to meet again. one night, as they were indulging each other in innocent endearments, and filling up each finer pause with lemonade, a sudden thought struck lord theodore. 'let us escape,' said he. 'let us,' said she. 'gods, what a thought was there!' they then contrived this ingenious mode of accomplishing their object. in one of the galleries which lay between their chambers, there was a window. having opened it, they found that they had nothing to do but get out at it. they therefore fled into the neighbouring forest. happy, happy, happy pair!--dryden. but it is an incontrovertible truism, that _les genres humains_ are liable to disaster; for in consequence of a cloud that obscured the moon, hysterica fell into a snow-pit. what could theodore do? to save her was impossible; to perish with her would be suicide. in this emergency, he formed a bold project, and ran two miles for assistance. but alas! on his return, not a trace of her could be found. he was quite _au desespoir_; so, having called her long enough, he called a chaise, and set off for london. chapter v 'tis she!--pope. o vous!--telemachus. all hail!--macbeth. an extraordinary rencontre.--pathetic repartees.--natural consequences resulting from an excess in spirituous liquors. --terrific nonsense talked by two maniacs. one night as lord theodore, on his return from the theatre, was passing along a dark alley, he perceived a candle lighting in a small window, on the ground-floor of a deciduous hovel. an indescribable sensation, an unaccountable something, whispered to him, in still, small accents, 'peep through the pane.' he did so; but what were his emotions, when he beheld--whom? why the very young lady that he had left for dead in the forest--his hysterica!!! she was clearstarching in a dimity bedgown. he sleeked his eyebrows with his finger, then flung open the sash, and stood before her. '_ah, ma belle amie!_' cried he. 'so i have caught you at last. i really thought you were dead.' 'i am dead to love and to hope!' said she. 'o ye powers!' cried he, making a blow at his forehead. 'there are many kinds of powers,' said she carelessly: 'perhaps you now mean the powers of impudence, mr.--i beg pardon--lord theodore de willoughby, i believe.' 'i believe so,' retorted he, 'mrs.--or rather lady hys--hys--hys.'- 'hiss away, my lord!' exclaimed the sensitive girl, and fainted. lord theodore rushed at a bottle that stood on the dresser, and poured half a pint of it into her mouth; but perceiving by the colour that it was not water, he put it to his lips;--it was brandy. in a paroxysm of despair he swallowed the contents; and at the same moment hysterica woke from her fainting-fit, in a high delirium. 'what have you done to me?' stammered she. 'oh! i am lost.' 'what!' exclaimed the youth, who had also got a brain-fever; 'after my preserving you in brandy?' 'i am happy to hear it,' lisped she; 'and every thing round me seems to be happy, for every thing round me seems to be dancing!' both now began singing, with dreadful facetiousness; he, 'fill the bowl,' and she, 'drink to me only.' at length they sang themselves asleep. chapter vi take him for all in all, we ne'er shall look upon his like again.--shakespeare. birth, parentage, and education of our hero.--an aspiring porter.--eclaircissement. lord theodore de willoughby was the son of lord de willoughby, of de willoughby castle. after having graduated at oxford, he took, not alone a tour of the orkney islands, but an opportunity of saving our heroine's life. hence their mutual attachment. about the same time, count stiletto had conceived a design against that poor orphan; and dreading lord theodore as a rival, waylaid and imprisoned him. but to return. next morning, the lovers woke in full possession of their faculties, when the happiest _denouement_ took place. hysterica told theodore that she had extricated herself from the snow, at the risk of her life. in fact, she was obliged to pelt it away in balls, and theodore now recollected having been hit with one, during his search for her. fearful of returning to the castle, she walked _ã  londres_; and officiated there in the respective capacities of cook, milliner, own woman, and washerwoman. her honour too, was untarnished, though a hulking porter had paid her the most delicate attentions, and assured her that theodore was married to cruel barbara allen. theodore called down several stars to witness his unalterable love; and, as a farther proof of the fact, offered to marry her the next day. her former scruples (the mysterious circumstances of her birth) being now removed, she beamed an inflammatory glance, and consented. he deposited a kiss on her cheek, and a blush was the rosy result. he therefore repeated the application. chapter vii sure such a day as this was never seen!--thomas thumb. the day, th' important day!--addison. o giorno felice!--italian. rural scenery.--the bridal costume.--old friends.--little billy greatly grown.--the marriage.--a scene of mortality.--conclusion. the morning of the happy day destined to unite our lovers was ushered into the world with a blue sky, and the ringing of bells. maidens, united in bonds of amity and artificial roses, come dancing to the pipe and tabor; while groups of children and chickens add hilarity to the unison of congenial minds. on the left of the village are seen plantations of tufted turnips; on the right a dilapidated dog-kennel, with venerable grandeur marks the scene; while every where the delighted eye catches monstrous mountains and minute daisies. in a word, all nature wears one universal grin. the procession now set forward to the church. the bride was habited in white drapery. ten signs of the zodiac, worked in spangles, sparkled round its edge, but virgo was omitted at her own desire; and the bridegroom proposed to dispense with capricorn. sweet delicacy! she held a pot of myrtle in her hand, and wore on her head a small lighted torch, emblematical of hymen. the boys and girls bounded about her, and old margueritone begged the favour of lighting her pipe at her la'ship's head. 'aha, i remember you!' said little billy, pointing his plump and dimpled finger at her. she remarked how tall he was grown, and took him in her arms; while he playfully beat her with an infinitude of small thumps. the marriage ceremony passed off with great spirit; and the fond bridegroom, as he pressed her to his heart, felt how pure, how delicious are the joys of virtue. that evening, he gave a _fãªte champetre_ to the peasantry; and, afterwards, a magnificent supper to his friends. the company consisted of lord lilliput, sir james brobdignag, little billy, anacharsis clootz, and joe miller. nothing, they thought, could add to their happiness; but they were miserably mistaken. a messenger, pale as priam's, rushed into the room, and proclaimed lord theodore a peer of great britain, as his father had died the night before. all present congratulated lord de willoughby on this prosperous turn of affairs; while himself and his charming bride exchanged a look that spoke volumes. little billy then pledged him in a goblet of falernian; but he very properly refused, alleging, that as the dear child was in love with hysterica, he had probably poisoned the wine, in a fit of jealousy. the whole party were in raptures at this mark of his lordship's discretion. after supper, little billy rose, and bowing gracefully to the bride, stabbed himself to the heart. our readers may now wish to learn what became of the remaining personages in this narrative. count stiletto is dead; lord lilliput is no more; sir james brobdignag has departed this life; anacharsis clootz is in his grave; and mr. j. miller is in another, and we trust, a better world. old margueritone expired with the bible in her hand, and the coroner's inquest brought in a verdict of lunacy. having thus conducted our lovers to the summit of human happiness, we shall take leave of our readers with this moral reflection:- the falling out of lovers is the renewal of love. the end. i must now leave you to prepare my dress for the ball. the ball-room, which occupies an entire wing of the house, is full of artists and workmen; but her ladyship will not permit me to see it till the night of the dance; as, she says, she means to surprise me with its splendour. cynics may say what they will against expensive decorations; but in my opinion, whatever tends to promote taste in the fine arts (and a mental is in some degree productive of a moral taste); whatever furnishes artizans with employment, and excites their emulation, must improve the condition of society. adieu. letter xxxii the morning of the ball, i awoke without any remains of my late indisposition, except that captivating paleness, that sprinkling of lilies, which adds to interest without detracting from beauty. i rose with the sun, and taking a small china vase in my hand, tripped into the parterre, to collect the fresh and fragrant dew that glistened on the blossoms. i filled the piece of painted earth with the nectar of the sky, and returned. during the day, i took nothing but honey, milk, and dried conserves; a repast the most likely to promote that ethereal character which i purposed adopting at night. towards evening, i laved my limbs in a tepid bath; and as soon as the sun had waved his last crimson banner in the west, i began my toilette. so variable is fashion, that i determined not to dress according to its existing laws; since they might be completely exploded in a month; and, at all events, by the time my life is written, they will have become quite antiquated. for instance, do we not already abhor evelina's and harriet byron's powdered, pomatumed, and frizzled hair? it was, therefore, my plan to dress in imitation of classical models, and to copy the immortal toilette of greece. having first divested myself from head to foot of every habiliment, i took a long piece of the finest cambric, and twice wound it gracefully round my shoulders and bosom, and twice enveloped my form in its folds; which, while they delineated the outline of my shape, veiled the tincture of my skin. i then flung over it a drapery of embroidered gauze, and its unimplicated simplicity gave to my perfect figure the spirit of an antique statue. an apparent tissue of woven air, it fell like a vapour round me. a zone of gold and a clasp prettily imprisoned my waist; and my graceful arms, undegraded by gloves, were bare to the shoulder. part of my hair was confined by a bodkin, and part floated over my neck in native ringlets. as i could not well wear my leg naked, i drew on it a texture of woven silk; and laced a pair of sandals over my little foot; which resembled that of a youthful thetis, or of a fugitive atalanta. i then bathed my face with the dew which i had gathered in the morning, poured on my hair and bosom the balmy waters of the distilled rose, and sprinkled my drapery with fragrant floods of lavender; so that i might be said to move in an ambient atmosphere of odours. behold me now, dressed to a charm, to a criticism. here was no sloping, or goring, or seaming, or frilling, or flouncing. detestable mechanism of millinery! no tedious papillotes, or unpoetical pins were here. all was done, in a few minutes, with a clasp, a zone, and a bodkin. as i surveyed my form in the mirror, i was enraptured at its sylphic delicacy; but i trembled to reflect, that the fairest flowers are the most fragile. you would imagine that a maiden's sigh could dissipate the drapery; and its aerial effect was as if a fairy were to lift the filmy gossamer on her spear, and lightly fling it over a rose-bud. resolving not to make myself visible till all the guests had arrived, i sat down and read ossian, to store my mind with ideas for conversation. i love ossian, it is so sublime, so bewildered, so full of a blue and white melancholy; of ghosts, and the four elements. i likewise turned over other books; for, as i had never mixed in fashionable society, i could not talk that nothingness, which is every thing in high life. nor, indeed, if i could, would i; because, as a heroine, it was my part to converse with point, flowers, and sublimation. about to appear in a world where all was new to me; ignorant of its forms, inexperienced in its rules; fair, young, and original, i resolved on adopting such manners as should not be subject to place, time, accident, or fashion. in short, to copy universal, generalized, unsophisticated nature, and grecian statues. as i had studied elegance of attitude before i knew the world, my graces were original, and all my own creation; so that if i had not the temporary mannerisms of a marchioness, i had, at least, the immortal movements of a seraph. words may become obsolete, but the language of gesture is universal and eternal. as for smiles, i felt myself perfect mistress of all that were ever ascribed to heroines;--the fatal smile, the smile such as precedes the dissolution of sainted goodness, the fragment of a broken smile, and the sly smile that creates the little dimple on the left side of the little mouth. at length the most interesting moment of my life arrived; the moment when i was to burst, like a new planet, on the fashionable hemisphere. i descended the stairs, and pausing at the door, tried to tranquillize my fluttered spirits. i then assumed an air-lifted figure, scarcely touching the ground, and glided into the room. the company were walking in groups, or sitting. 'that is she;--there she is;--look, look!' was whispered on all sides. every eye fixed itself upon me, while i felt at once elevated and opprest. lady gwyn advanced, took my hand, and paying me the highest compliments on my appearance, led me to a sofa, at the upper end of the room. a semicircle of astonished admirers, head over head, ranged itself in my front, and a smile of glowing approbation illuminated the faces of all. there i sat, in all the bashful diffidence of a simple and inexperienced recluse, trembling for myself, fearing for others, systematically suppressing my feelings, impulsively betraying them; while, with an expression of sweet wildness, and retiring consciousness, was observable a degree of susceptibility too exquisite to admit of lasting peace. at last a spruce and puny fop stepped from amidst the group, and seated himself beside me. 'this was a fine day, ma'am,' said he, as he admired the accurate turn of his ankle. 'yes,' answered i, 'halcyon was the morn, when i strayed into the garden, to gather flowery dew; and it seemed as if the twins of latona had met to propitiate their rites. blushes, like their own roses, coloured the vapours; and rays, pure as their thoughts, silvered the foliage.' the company murmured applause. 'what a pity,' said he, 'that this evening was wet; as in consequence of it, we have probably lost another beautiful description from you.' 'ah, my good friend,' cried i, wreathing my favourite smile; and laying the rosy tip of my finger on his arm; 'such is the state of man. his morning rises in sunshine, and his evening sets in rain.' while the company were again expressing their approbation, i overheard one of them whisper to the fop: 'come, play the girl off, and let her have your best nonsense.' the fop winked at him, and then turned to me; while i sat shocked and astonished, but collecting all my powers. 'see,' said he, 'how you have fascinated every eye. actually you are the queen-bee; with all your swarm about you.' 'and with my drone too,' said i, bowing slightly. 'happy in being a drone,' said he, 'so he but sips of your honey.' 'rather say,' cried i, 'that he deserves my sting.' 'ah,' said he, laying his hand on his heart; 'your eyes have fixed a sting here.' 'then your tongue,' returned i, 'is rather more innocent; for though it may have the venom of a sting, it wants the point.' the company laughed, and he coloured. 'do i tease you?' said he, trying to rally. 'how cruel! actually i am so abashed, as you may see, that my modesty flies into my face.' 'then,' said i, 'your modesty must be very hard run for a refuge.' here the room echoed with acclamations. 'i am not at a loss for an answer,' said he, looking round him, and forcing a smile. 'i am not indeed.' 'then pray let me have it,' said i, 'for folly never becomes truly ludicrous till it tries to be pert.' 'bravo! bravo!' cried an hundred voices at once, and away the little drone flew from my hive. i tossed back my ringlets with an infantine shake of the head, and sat as if unconscious of my triumph. the best of it is, that every word he said will one day appear in print. men who converse with a heroine ought to talk for the press, or they will make but a silly figure in her memoirs. 'i thank you for your spirit, my dear,' said lady gwyn, sitting down beside me. 'that little puppy deserves every severity. think of his always sitting in his dressing-gown, a full hour after he has shaved, that the blood may subside from his face. he protests his surprise how men can find pleasure in running after a nasty fox; cuts out half his own coat at his tailor's; has a smile, and a "pretty!" for every one and every thing; sits silent till one of his four only topics is introduced, and then lisping a descant on the last opera, the last boxing-match, the last race, or the last play, he drains his last idea, and has nothing at your service, for the remainder of the night, but an assenting bow. such insects should never come out but at butterfly-season; and even then, only in a four-wheeled bandbox, while monkeys strew the way with mignionette. no, i can never forgive him for having gone to lady bontein's last rout in preference to mine; though he knew that she gave her's on the same evening purposely to thin my party.' 'and pray,' said i, 'who is lady bontein?' 'that tall personage yonder, with sorrel hair,' answered her ladyship; 'and with one shoulder of the gothic order, and the other of the corinthian. she has now been forty years endeavouring to look handsome, and she still thinks, that by diligent perseverance she will succeed at last. see how she freshens her smiles, and labours to look at ease; though she has all the awkwardness of a milkmaid, without any of the simplicity. you must know she has pored over latin, till her mind has become as dead as the language itself. then she writes well-bred sonnets about a tear, or a primrose, or a daisy; but nothing larger than a lark; and talks botany with the men, as she thinks that science is a sufficient excuse for indecency. nay, the meek creature affects the bible too; but it is whispered, that she has often thrown it at her footman's head, without any affectation at all. but the magnificence of to-night will put all competition out of her power; and i have also planned a little _scena_, classical, appropriate, and almost unique; not alone in order to complete my triumph over her, but to grace your entrance into life, by conferring a peculiar mark of distinction on you.' 'on me!' cried i. 'what mark? i deserve no mark, i am sure.' 'indeed you do,' said she. 'all the world knows that you are the first heroine in it; and the fact is, i mean to celebrate your merits to-night, by crowning you, just as corinne was crowned in the capitol.' 'dear lady gwyn,' cried i, panting with joy; 'sure you are not---ah, are you serious?' 'most serious, my love,' answered she, 'and in a short time the ceremony will commence. you may perceive that the young men and girls have left the room. it is to prepare for the procession; and now excuse me, as i must assist them.' she then hurried out, and i remained half an hour, in an agony of anxious expectation. at last, i heard a confused murmur at the door, and a gentleman ran forward from it, to clear a passage. a lane was soon formed of the guests; and fancy my feelings, when i beheld the promised procession entering! first appeared several little children, who came tripping towards me; some with baskets of flowers, and others with vases of odorous waters, or censers of fragrant fire. after them advanced a tall youth of noble port, conspicuous in a scarlet robe, that trailed behind him with graceful dignity. on his head was a plat of palm, in his left hand he held a long wand, and in his right the destined wreath of laurel and myrtle. behind him came maidens, two by two, and hand in hand. they had each a drapery of white muslin flung negligently round them, and knotted just under the shoulder; while their luxuriant hair floated over their bosoms. the youths came next, habited in flowing vestments of white linen. the leader approached, and making profound obeisance, took my hand. i rose, bowed, and we proceeded with a slow step out of the room; while the children ran before us, tossing their little censers, scattering pansies, and sprinkling liquid sweets. the nymphs and youths followed in couples, and the company closed the procession. we crossed the hall, ascended the winding staircase, and passed along the corridor, till we reached the ball-room. the folding doors then flew open, as if with wings; and a scene presented itself, which almost baffles description. it was a spacious apartment, oval in its form, and walled all round with a luxuriant texture of interwoven foliage, kept compact by green lattice-work. branches of the broad chesnut and arbutus were relieved with lauristinas, acacias, and mountain-ash; while here and there, within the branches, appeared clusters of lamps, that mingled their coloured rays, and poured a flood of lustre on the leaves. the floor was chalked into circular compartments, and each depicted some gentle scene of romance. there i saw mortimer and his amanda, delville and his cecilia, valencourt and his emily. the ceiling was of moss, illuminated with large circles of lamps; and from the centre of each circle, a basket was seen peeping, and half inverted, as if about to shower its ripe fruits and chaplets upon our heads. at the upper end of the room i beheld a large arbour, elevated on a gradual slope of turf. its outside was intertwined with jessamines, honeysuckles, and eglantines, tufted with clumps of sunflowers, lilies, hollyhocks, and a thousand other blossoms, and hung with clusters of grapes, and trails of intricate ivy; while all its interior was so studded with innumerable lamps, that it formed a resplendent arch of variegated fire. the seat was a grassy bank, strewn with a profusion of aromatic herbs; and the footstool was a heap of roses. just from under this footstool, and through the turf, came gushing a little rill, that first tumbled its warbling waters down some rugged stones, and then separating itself to the right and left, ran along a pebbled channel, bordered with flowery banks, till it was lost, at either side, amidst overshadowing branches. the moment i set foot in the room, a stream of invisible music, as if from above, and softened by distance, came swelling on my enraptured ear. thrice we circled this enchanted chamber, and trod to the solemn measure. i was amazed, entranced; i felt elevated to the empyrean. i moved with the grandeur of a goddess, and the grace of a vision. at length my conductor led me across the little rill, into the bower. i sat down, and he stood beside me. the children lay in groups on the grass, while the youths and virgins ranged themselves along the opposite side of the streamlet, and the rest of the company stood behind them. the master of this august ceremony now waved his wand: the music ceased, all was silent, and he thus began. 'my countrymen and countrywomen. 'behold your cherubina; behold the most celebrated woman in our island. need i recount to you all her accomplishments? her impassioned sensibility, her exquisite art in depicting the delicate and affecting relations between the beauties of nature, and the deep emotions of the soul? need i dwell on those elegant adventures, those sorrows, and those horrors, which she has experienced; i might almost say, sought? oh! no. the whole globe already resounds with them, and their fame will descend to the most remote posterity. 'need i portray her eloquence, the purity of her style, and the smoothness of her periods? are not her ancestors illustrious? are not her manners fascinating? alas! to this question, some of our hearts beat audible response. her's is the head of a sappho, deficient alone in the voluptuous languor, which should characterize the countenance of that enamoured lesbian. 'to crown her, therefore, as the patroness of arts, the paragon of charms, and the first of heroines, is to gratify our feelings, more than her own; by enabling us to pay a just homage to beauty and to virtue.' he ceased amidst thunders of applause. i rose;--and in an instant, it was the stillness of death. then with a timorous, yet ardent air, i thus addressed the assembly. 'my countrymen, my countrywomen! 'i will not thank you, for i cannot. in giving me cause to be grateful, you have taken from me the means of expressing my gratitude, for you have overpowered me. 'how i happen to deserve the beautiful eulogium just pronounced, i am sure i cannot conceive. till this flattering moment, i never knew that the grove resounds with my praises, that my style is pure, and my head a sappho's. but unconsciousness of merit is the characteristic of a heroine. 'the gratitude, however, which my words cannot express, my deeds shall evince; and i now pledge myself, that neither rank nor riches (which, from my pursuits, i am peculiarly liable to) shall ever make me unmindful of what i owe to adversity. for, from her, i have acquired all my knowledge of the world, my sympathy, my pensiveness, and my sensibility. yes, since adversity thus adds to virtue, it must be a virtue to seek adversity. 'england, my friends, is now the depository of all that remains of virtue;--the ark that floats upon the waters of the deluge. but what preserves her virtuous? her women. and whence arises their purity? from education. 'to you, then, my fair auditory, i would enjoin a diligent cultivation of learning. but oh! beware what books you peruse; for, trust me, some are as injurious as others are salutary. i cannot point out to you the mischievous class, because i have never read them; but indubitably, the most useful are novels and romances. such as i am, these, these alone have made me. these, by depicting heroines sublimated almost to immateriality, teach the common class of womankind to reach what is uncommon, by striving at what is unattainable; to despise the grovelling follies and idlenesses of the mere worker of samplers, and to contract a taste for that sensibility, whose tear is the dissolution of pearls, whose blush is the sunbeam of the cheek, and whose sigh is more costly than the breeze, that comes laden with oriental frankincense.' i spoke, and peals of acclamation shook the bower. the priest of the ceremony now raises the crown on high, then lowers it by slow degrees, and holds it suspended over my head. letting down my tresses, and folding my hands on my bosom, i throw myself upon my knees, and incline forward to receive it. i am crowned. at the same moment, drums, and trumpets, and shouts, burst upon my ear, in a hurricane of triumph. the youths and maidens make obeisance; i rise, press my hand to my heart, and bow deeply. tears start into my eyes. i feel far above mortality. hardly had the tumult subsided when a harp was brought to the bower; and they requested that i would sing and play an improvisatore, like corinne. what was i to do? for i knew nothing of the harp, but a few chords! in this difficulty, i luckily recollected a heroine, who was educated only by an old steward, and his old wife, in an old castle, with an old lute; and who, notwithstanding, as soon as she stepped into society, played and sang, like angels, by intuition. i therefore felt quite reassured, and sat to the harp. i struck a few low lydian notes, and cast a timid glance around me. at first my voice was scarcely louder than a sigh; and my accompaniment was a harmonic chord, swept at intervals. the words came from the moment. 'where is my blue-eyed chief? said the white-bosomed daughter of erin, as the wave kissed her foot; and wherefore went he from his weeping maid, to the fight of heroes? she saw a dim form rise before her, like a mist from the valley. pale grew her cheek, as the blighted leaf in autumn. your lover, it shrilly shrieked, sleeps among the dead, like a broken thistle amidst dandelions; but his spirit, like the thistly down, has ascended into the skies. the maiden heard; she ran, she flew, she sprang from a rock. the waves closed over her. peace to the daughter of erin!' as i sang 'she ran, she flew,' the workings and tremblings of the minstrel were in unison; while my winged fingers fluttered along the chords, light as a swallow over a little lake, when he touches it with the utmost feather of his pinion. but while i sang, 'peace to the daughter of erin!' my voice, as it died over the faint vibration of the strings, had all the heart-breaking softness of an eolian lyre; so woeful was it, so wistful, so wildered. 'viva! viva!' resounded through the room. at the last cadence, i dropped one arm gently down, and hanging the other on the harp, leaned my languishing head upon it, while my moistened eyes were half closed. a sudden disturbance at the door roused me from my trance. i looked up, and beheld--what?--can you imagine what? no, my friend, you could not to the day of judgment. i saw, in short, my great mother come striding towards me, with outspread arms, and calling, 'my daughter, my daughter!' in a voice that might waken the dead. my heart died within me: down i darted from the bower, and ran for shelter behind lady gwyn. 'give me back my daughter!' vociferated the dreadful woman, advancing close to her ladyship. 'oh! do no such thing!' whispered i, pulling her ladyship by the sleeve. 'take half--all my property; but do not be the death of me!' 'what are you muttering there, miss?' cried my mother, espying me. 'what makes you stand peeping over that wretch's shoulder?' 'indeed, ma'am,' stammered i, 'i am--i am taking your part.' 'who could have presumed to liberate this woman?' cried lady gwyn. 'the condottieri,' said my mother, 'headed by the great damno sulphureo volcanoni.' 'then you must return to your prison, this moment,' cried lady gwyn. my mother fell on her knees, and began blubbering; while the guests got round, and interceded for her being restored to liberty. i too thought it my duty to say something (my mother all the time sobbing horribly); till, at length, lady gwyn consented--for my sake, she said,--to set the poor wretch free; but on this special condition, that there should be no prosecution for false imprisonment. all matters being amicably adjusted, my mother begged a morsel of meat, as she had not eaten any these ten years. in a few minutes, a small table, furnished with a cold turkey and a decanter of wine, was laid for her in the bower. the moment she perceived it, she ran, and seating herself in the scene of my recent triumph, began devouring with such avidity, that i was thunderstruck. one wing soon went; the second shared the fate of its companion, and now she set about a large slice of the breast. 'what a charming appetite your dear mother has got!' said several of the guests to me. i confessed it, but assured them that inordinate hunger did not run in our family. her appetite being at last satiated, she next assailed the wine. glass after glass disappeared with inconceivable rapidity, and every glass went to my heart. 'she will be quite intoxicated!' thought i; while my fears for the hereditary honour of our house overcoming my personal terrors, i had the resolution to steal across, and whisper: 'mother, if you have any regard for your daughter, and respect for your ancestors, drink no more.' 'no more than this decanter, upon my honour!' said she, applying it to her lips. at this moment the violins struck up. 'and now,' cried my mother, running down from the bower, 'who is for a dance?' 'i am,' said my friend, the little fop, advancing, and taking her hand. 'then,' said she, 'we will waltz, if you please.' santa maria!--waltz! a circle was cleared, and they began whirling each other round at a frightful rate,--or rather she him; for he was like a plaything in her hands; and had he let go his grasp, i am sure he would have been flung up among the branches, and have stuck there, like king charles in the oak. at last, while i was standing, a statue of shame, and wondering how any human being, endowed with a common portion of reason, could act so ridiculous a part, this miserable woman, overcome with wine and waltzing, fell flat upon the floor; and was carried out of the room by four grinning footmen. i could hold no longer: the character of my family demanded a prompt explanation, and with tears in my eyes, i desired to be heard. silence was obtained. 'i beseech of this assembly,' said i, 'to acquit me of having hand, act, or part, in the conduct of that unfortunate person. i never even saw her, till i came to this house; and that i may never see her again, i pray heaven. i hate her, i dread her; and i now protest, in the most unequivocal manner, that i do not believe her to be my mother at all. she has no resemblance to the portrait in the gallery; and as she was stark mad, when found in the woods, she perhaps imagined herself my mother; for i am told that mad persons are apt to fancy themselves great people. no, my malignant star ordained us to meet, that she might place me in awkward situations by her vulgarity; just as mrs. garnet, the supposed mother of the beggar girl, used to place that heroine. i am sure this is the case; nothing can convince me to the contrary; and therefore, i thus publicly renounce, disown, and wash my hands of her, now and for ever.' the company coincided in my sentiments, and applauded my determination. country dancing was then proposed: the men sauntered about the room for partners; the mothers walked their daughters up and down, to shew their paces; and their daughters turned away their heads when they saw their favourites approaching to ask them. ugliness and diamonds occupied the top of the set; the beauties stood in the centre, and the motley couples came last;--old bachelors with misses of fifteen; and boys, who were glad to be thought men, with antiques, who were sorry to be called maids. other unfortunates, drest to a pin, yet noticed by nobody, sat protruding the supercilious lip at a distance. and now the merry maze commenced. but what mutilated steps, what grotesque graces! one girl sprang and sprawled to the terror of every ankle; and with a clear idea of space, shewed that she had no notion of time. another, not deigning to dance, only moved; while her poor partner was seen helping her in, like a tired jade to the distance post. this bartered elegance for a flicflac; that swam down the set; a third cut her way through it; and a fourth, who, by her longevity, could not be dancing for a husband, appeared, by her earnestness, to be dancing for her life. all this delighted me highly, for it would shew my graces to the greater advantage. my partner was the gentleman who had crowned me; and now, when our turn to dance down came, a general whisper among the spectators, and their sudden hurry towards me, proved that much was expected from my performance. i would not disappoint them for worlds; besides, it was incumbent on me to stamp a marked dissimilarity between my supposed mother, and myself, in every thing; and to call forth respect and admiration, as much as she had excited derision and contempt. and now, with my right foot behind, and the point of it but just touching the ground, i leaned forward on my left, and stood as if in act to ascend from this vale of tears to regions of interminable beatitude. the next moment the music gave the signal, and i began. despising the figure of the common country-dance, i meandered through all the intricacies of the dance of ariadne; imitating in my circular and oblique motions the harmonious movement of the spheres; and resembling, in my light and playful form, the horoe of bathycles, as they appeared in the temple of amycla. sometimes with a rapid flight, and glowing smile, i darted, like a herald iris, through the mazes of the set; sometimes assuming the dignity of a young diana, i floated in a swimming languishment; and sometimes, like a pastoral nymph of languedoc, capriciously did i bend my head on one side, and dance up insidious. what a hebe! i happened not to see my partner from the time i began till i had ended; but when panting and playful, i flew like a lapwing, to my seat, he followed, and requested that i would accept the assurances of his high admiration. soon afterwards, waltzing was introduced. 'you have already imitated ida's dancing,' said he. 'will you now imitate charlotte's, and allow me, like werter, to hold in my arms the most lovely of women; to fly with her, like the wind, and lose sight of every other object?' i consented; he led me forth, and clasping my waist, began the circuitous exercise of waltzing. round and round we flew, and swifter and swifter; till my head grew quite giddy. lamps, trees, dresses, faces, all seemed to be shattered and huddled together, and sent whisking round the room in a vortex. but, oh, my friend, how shall i find language to describe the calamitous termination of an evening so propitious in its commencement? i blush as i write it, till the reflected crimson dyes my paper. for in the midst of my rotatory motion, while heaven seemed earth, and earth seemed heaven; the zone, on which all my attire depended, and by which it was all confined, on a sudden burst asunder, and in the next whirl, more than half of my dress dropped at my feet! another revolution and i had acted diana to fifty acteons; but i shrieked, and extricating myself from my partner, sank on the floor, amidst the wreck of my drapery. the ladies ran, ranged themselves round me, and cast a mantle over my half-revealed charms. i was too much shocked, and indeed too giddy to move; so they lifted me between them, and bore me, in slow procession, out of the room. it was the funeral of modesty; but the pall was supported by tittering malice. i hurried into bed, and cried myself asleep. i cannot think, much less write of this disaster, with common fortitude. i wonder whether thompson's musidora could be considered a sufficient precedent, or at least a palliative parallel? if not, and that my biographer records it, i am undone. adieu. letter xxxiii yesterday lady gwyn took me, at my particular request, to visit monkton castle, an old ruin, within three miles of us; and as it forms part of that property which she holds at present, it is mine to all intents and purposes. the door-way was stopped up with stones, so that i could not take a survey of its interior; but outside it looked desolate enough. i mean, at some future period, to furnish it like udolpho, and other castles of romance, and to reside there during the howling months. after dinner her ladyship went to superintend the unpacking of some beautiful china, which had just arrived from london; and i was left alone on the sofa. evening had already begun to close: a delicious indolence thrilled through my limbs, and i felt all that lassitude and vacuity which the want of incident ever creates. 'were there even some youth in the house,' thought i, 'who would conceive an unhappy attachment for me;--had her ladyship but a persecuting son, what scenes might happen! suppose at this moment the door were to be thrown open, and he to enter, with a quick step, and booted and spurred. he starts on seeing me. never had i looked so lovely. 'heavens!' murmurs he, ''tis a divinity!' then suddenly recollecting himself, he advances with a respectful bow. 'pardon this intrusion,' says he; 'but i--really i--.' i rise, and colouring violently, mutter, without looking at him: 'i wonder where her ladyship can be?' but as i am about to pass him, he snatches my hand, and leading me back to the sofa, says:--'suffer me to detain you a moment. this occasion, so long desired, i cannot bring myself to relinquish. prevented by the jealous care of a too fond mother, from appearing before you, i have sought and found a thousand opportunities, on the stairs--in the garden--in the shrubbery--to behold those charms. fatal opportunities! for they have robbed me of my peace for ever! yes, charming cherubina, you have undone me. that airy, yet dignified form; those mild, yet sparkling eyes; those lips, more delicious than the banquet of the gods----' 'really, signor,' says i, in all the pleasing simplicity of maiden embarrassment, 'this language is as improper for me to hear as for you to express.' 'it is, it is improper,' cries he, with animation, 'for it is inadequate.' 'yes,' says i 'inadequate to the respect i deserve as the guest of your mother.' 'ah!' exclaims he, 'why should the guest imitate the harshness of the hostess?' 'that she may not,' says i, 'countenance the follies of the son. signor, i desire you will unhand me.' 'never!' cries he; 'never, till you say you pity me. o, my cherubina; o, my soul's idol!' and he drops upon his knee, and grasps my hand; when behold, the door opens, and lady gwyn appears at it! never were astonishment and dismay equal to her's. 'godfrey, godfrey,' says she, 'is this the conduct that i requested of you? this, to seek clandestine interviews, where i had prohibited even an open acquaintance? and for thee, fair unfortunate,' turning towards me, with that mild look, which cuts more than a thousand sarcasms; 'for thee, lovely frail one, thou must seek some other asylum.' her sweet eyes swim in tears. i fling myself at her feet. 'i am innocent,' i cry, 'innocent as the little fawn that frisks itself to repose by the bubbling fountain.' she smiles incredulous. 'come,' says she, taking my hand, 'let me lead you to your apartment.' 'stay, in mercy stay!' cries godfrey, rushing between us and the door. she waves him aside. i reach my room. nothing can console me. i am all despair. in a few minutes the maid taps at my door, with a slip of paper from godfrey. 'oh, cherubina,' it says, 'how my heart is torn for you! as you value your fame, perhaps your life, meet me to-night, at twelve, in the shrubbery.' after a long struggle, i resolve to meet him. 'tis twelve, the winds are abroad, the shower descends. i fling on something, and steal into the shrubbery. i find him there before me. he thanks me ten thousand, thousand times for my kindness, my condescension; and by degrees, leads me into the avenue, where i see a chaise in waiting. i shrink back; he prays, implores; and at length, snatching me in his arms, is about to force me into the vehicle, when on a sudden--'hold, villain!' cries a voice. it is the voice of stuart! i shriek, and drop to the ground. the clashing of swords resounds over my contested body, and i faint. on recovering, i find myself in a small, but decent chamber, with an old woman and a beautiful girl watching over me. 'st. catherine be praised,' exclaims the young peasant, 'she comes to herself.' 'tell me,' i cry, 'is he murdered?' 'the gentleman is dead, sure enough, miss,' says the woman. i laugh frantic, and point my finger. 'ha! look yonder,' i cry; 'see his mangled corpse, mildly smiling, even in death. see, they fight; he falls.--barbarous godfrey! valiant, generous, unfortunate stuart! and hark, hear you that! 'tis the bell tolling, tolling, tolling!' during six weeks i continue in this dreadful brain-fever. slowly i recover. a low melancholy preys upon me, and i am in the last stage of a consumption. but though i lose my bloom, illness touches my features with something more than human. one evening, i had got my chair on the green before the door, and was watching the sun as he set in a blaze of gold. 'and oh!' exclaimed i, 'soon must i set like thee, fair luminary;--when i am interrupted by a stifled sigh, just behind me. i turn. heaven and earth! who should be leaning over me, with looks of unutterable love, but--stuart! in an instant, i see him, i shriek, i run, i leap into his arms.---unfortunate leap; for it wakened me from a delicious reverie, and i found myself in the arms,--not of stuart,--but of the old butler! down we both came, and broke in pieces a superb china vase, which he was just bringing into the room. 'what will my lady say to this?' cried he, rising and collecting the fragments. 'she will smile with ineffable grace,' answered i, 'and make a moral reflection on the instability of sublunary things.' he shook his head, and went on with his work of affliction; while i hastened to the glass, where i found my face flushed from my reverie, my hair dishevelled, and my long eyelashes wet with tears. i perceived too that my dress had got a terrible rent by my fall. hardly had i recomposed myself, when her ladyship returned, and called for tea. 'how did you tear your robe, my love?' said she. 'by a fall that i got just now,' replied i. 'sure never was such an unfortunate fall!' 'nay, child,' said she, rallying me, 'though a martyr to the tender sensibilities, you must not be a victim to torn muslin.' 'i am extremely distressed, however,' said i. 'but why so?' cried she. 'it was an accident, and all of us are awkward at times. life has too many serious miseries to admit of vexation about trifles.' 'there now!' cried i, with delight. 'i declare i told the butler, when i broke the china vase, that you would make a moral reflection.' 'broke the---oh! mercy, have you broken my beautiful china vase?' 'smashed it to atoms,' answered i, in a tone of the most assuasive sweetness. 'you did?' exclaimed she, in a voice that stunned me. 'and pray, how dared you go near it? how dared you even look at it? you, who are not fit company for crockery, much less china;--a crazed creature, that i brought into my house to divert my guests. you a title? you a beauty?' 'dear lady gwyn,' said i, 'do be calm under this calamity. trust me life has too many serious miseries to admit of vexation about trifles.' her ladyship rose, with her cheeks inflamed, and her eyes glittering. i ran out of the room, in much terror; then up stairs, and into the nearest bed-chamber. it happened to be her ladyship's; and this circumstance struck me as most providential; for, in her present mood, she would probably compel me to quit the house; so that i could never have another opportunity of ransacking her caskets and cabinets, for memorials of my birth. i therefore began the search; but in the midst of it was interrupted by hearing a small voice cry, 'get out!' much amazed, i looked up, and perceived her ladyship's favourite parrot in its cage. 'get out!' said the parrot. 'i will let thee out, cost what it will,' cried i. so with much sensibility, and indeed, very little spleen, i took the bird, and put it out at the window. after having accurately examined several drawers, i found a casket in one of them; opened it, and beheld within (o delightful sight!) a miniature set round with inestimable diamonds, and bearing a perfect resemblance to the portrait in the gallery,--face, attitude, attire, every thing! 'relic of my much injured house!' exclaimed i, depositing the picture in my bosom.' image of my sainted mother, never will i part with thee!' 'what are you doing in my room?' cried lady gwyn, as she burst into it. 'how is this? all my dresses about the floor! my drawers, my casket open!--and, as i live, here is the miniature gone! why you graceless little thing, are you robbing me?' 'madam,' answered i, 'that miniature belongs to my family; i have recovered it at last; and let me see who will dare take it from me.' 'you are more knave than fool,' said her ladyship: 'give it back this instant, or, on my honour, i will expose you to the servants.' 'what is the use of bullying?' said i. 'sure you are ruined should this swindling affair come to be known, not that i would, for the world, hang your ladyship;--far from it,--but then your character will be blasted. ah! lady gwyn, where is your hereditary honour? where is your prudence? where is your dignity?' 'where is my parrot?' shrieked her ladyship. 'ranging the radiant air!' exclaimed i--'inhaling life, and fragrance, and freedom amidst the clouds! i let it out at the window.' her ladyship ran towards me, but i passed her, and made the best of my way down stairs; while she followed, calling, stop thief! too well i knew and rued the dire expression; nor stopped an instant, but hurried out of the house--through the lawn--down the avenue--into a hay-field;--the servants in hot pursuit. not a moment was to be lost: a drowning man, you know, will grasp at straws, and i crept for refuge under a heap of hay. but whether they found me there, or how long i remained, or what has become of me since, or what is likely to become of me hereafter, you shall learn in my next. adieu. letter xxxiv i remained in my disagreeable situation till night had closed, and the pursuit appeared over. i then rose, and walked through the fields, without any settled intention. terror was now succeeded by bitter indignation at the conduct of lady gwyn, who had dared to drive me from my own house, and vilify me as a common thief. insupportable insult! unparalleled degradation! was there no revenge? no remedy? like a rapid ray from heaven, a thought at once simple and magnificent shot through my brain, and made my very heart bound with transport. when i name monkton castle, need i tell you the rest? need i tell you that i determined to seize on that antique abode of my ancestors, to fortify it against assaults, to procure domestics and suitable furniture for it, and to reside there, the present rival, and the future victress of the vile lady gwyn? let her dispossess me if she dare, or if she can; for i have heard that possession is a great number of points of the law in one's favour. as to fitting up the castle, that will be quite an easy matter; for the tradespeople of london willingly give credit for any amount to a personage of rank like me; and therefore i have nothing more to do than make some friend there bespeak furniture in my name. it appeared to me that jerry sullivan was the most eligible person i could select; so now, a light heart making a light foot, i tripped back to the road, and took my way towards monkton castle, for the purpose of procuring an asylum in some cottage near it, and writing a letter of instructions to jerry. it was starlight, and i had walked almost three miles, when a little girl with a bundle of sticks on her back overtook me, and began asking alms. in the midst of her supplications, we came to the hut where she lived, and i followed her into it, with the hope of getting a night's lodging there, or at least a direction to one. in a room, comfortless, with walls of smoked mud, i found a wrinkled and decrepit beldame, and two smutty children, holding their hands over a few faded embers. i begged permission to rest myself for a short time; the woman, after looking at me keenly, consented, and i sat down. i then entered into conversation, represented myself as a wandering stranger in distress, and inquired if i had any chance of finding a lodging about the neighbourhood. the woman assured me that i had not, and on perceiving me much disconcerted at the disappointment, coarsely, but cordially, offered me her hut for the night. i saw i had nothing for it but to remain there; so the fire was replenished, some brown bread and sour milk (the last of their store) produced, and while we sat round it, i requested of the poor woman to let me know what had reduced her to such distress. she told me, with many tears and episodes, that her daughter and son-in-law, who had supported her, died about a month ago, and left these children behind, without any means of subsistence, except what they could procure from the charitable. all their appearances corroborated this account, for famine had set its meagre finger on their faces. i wished to pity them, but their whining, their dirtiness, and their vulgarity, disgusted more than interested me. i nauseated the brats, and abhorred the haggard hostess. how it happens, i know not, but the misery that looks alluring on paper is almost always repulsed in real life. i turn with distaste from a ragged beggar, or a decayed tradesman, while the recorded sorrows of a belfield or a rushbrook draw tears of pity from me as i read. at length we began to think of rest. the children gave me their pallet: i threw myself upon it without undressing, and they slept on some straw with a blanket over them. in the morning we presented a most dismal group. not a morsel had we for breakfast, nor the means of obtaining any. the poor cripple, who had expected some assistance from me, sat grunting in a corner; the children whimpered and shivered; and i, with more elegance, but not less misery, chaunted a matin to the virgin. i then began seriously to consider what mode of immediate subsistence i ought to adopt; and at last i hit upon a most pleasing and judicious plan. as some days must elapse between my writing to jerry sullivan and his coming down (for i mean to have him here, if possible), and as the cottage is within a short distance from the castle, i have resolved to remain with my hostess till he shall arrive, and to go forth every day in the character of a beggar-girl. like another rosa, i will earn my bread by asking alms. my simple and imploring address, my half-suppressed sigh, my cheek yet traced with the recent tear, all will be irresistible. even the shrivelled palm of age will expand at my supplication, and the youths, offering compliments with eleemosynary silver, will call me the lovely vagabond, or the mendicant angel. thus my few days of beggary will prove quite delightful; and oh, how sweet, when those are over, to reward and patronize, as lady of the castle, those hospitable cottagers who have pitied and sheltered me as the beggar-girl. my first step was writing to jerry sullivan; and i fortunately found the stump of a pen, some thick ink, and coarse paper, in the cottage. this was my letter. 'honest jerry, 'since i saw you last, i have established all my claims, and am now the lady cherubina de willoughby, the true and illustrious mistress of gwyn castle, monkton castle, and other estates of uncommon extent and value. now, jerry, as i am convinced that you feel grateful for the services, however trivial, which i have done you, i know you will be happy at an opportunity of obliging me in return. 'will you then execute some commissions for me? meaning to make monkton castle (which is uninhabited at present) my residence, i wish to furnish it according to the style of the times it was built in. you must, therefore, bespeak, at the best shops, such articles as i shall now enumerate. 'first. antique tapestry sufficient to furnish one entire wing. 'second. painted glass enriched with armorial bearings. 'third. pennons and flags, stained with the best old blood;--feudal if possible. 'fourth. black feathers, and cloaks for my liveries. 'fifth. an old lute, or lyre, or harp. 'sixth. black hangings, curtains, and a velvet pall. 'seventh. a warder's trumpet. 'eighth. a bell for the portal. 'besides these, i shall want antique chairs, tables, beds, and, in a word, all the casts-off of castles that you can lay hands upon. 'you must also get a handsome barouche, and four horses; and by mentioning my name (the lady cherubina de willoughby, of monkton castle), and by shewing this letter, no shopkeeper or mechanic will refuse you credit for anything. tell them i will pass my receipts as soon as the several articles arrive. 'i have now to make a proposal, which, i hope and trust, will meet with your approbation. your present business does not appear to be prosperous: all the offices in my castle are still unoccupied, and as i have the highest opinion of your discretion and honesty, the situation of warden (a most ostensible one) is at your service. the salary is two hundred a-year: consider of it. 'at all events, i do beseech of you to come down, as soon as you can, on receipt of this letter, and remain a few days, for the purpose of assisting me in my regulations. 'you might travel in the barouche, and bring some of the smaller articles with you. pray be here in three days at farthest. 'cherubina de willoughby. '_monkton castle._' i now began to think that i might, and should summon other friends, on this important occasion; and accordingly i wrote a few lines to higginson. 'dear sir, 'intending to take immediate possession of monkton castle, which has devolved to me by right of lineal descent; and wishing, in imitation of ancient times, for a wild and enthusiastic minstrel, as part of my household, i have to acquaint you, that if you should think such an office eligible, i shall be happy to place you in it, and to recompense your poetical services with an annual stipend of two hundred pounds. 'should this proposal prove acceptable, be so good as to call on my trusty servant, jerry sullivan, in st. giles's, and accompany him down in my barouche. 'cherubina de willoughby. '_monkton castle._' i then penned a billet to montmorenci; ah, ask not why, but pity me. silly cherubina! and yet, mark how her burning pen can write ice. 'my lord, 'pardon the trouble i am about giving you, but as i mean to reside, for the future, in one of my castles (my birth and pretensions having already been acknowledged by lady gwyn), i wish to secure the parchment and picture that i left at my former lodgings at drury lane. 'will you, my lord, have the goodness to transmit them, by some trusty hand, to jerry sullivan, the woollen-draper in st. giles's, who will convey them to me at monkton castle. 'with sentiments of respect and esteem, 'i have the honour to be, 'my lord, 'your lordship's most obedient, 'and most humble servant, 'cherubina de willoughby. '_monkton castle._' now this is precisely the formal sort of letter which a heroine sometimes indites to her lover: he cannot, for the soul of him, tell why; so down he comes, all distracted in a postchaise, and makes such a dishevelled entrance, as melts her heart in an instant, and the scene ends with his arm round her waist. adieu. letter xxxv as i was now about to go begging, i thought it necessary to look like a beggar; so i dressed myself in a tattered gown, cap, and cloak, that had belonged to the deceased daughter of my hostess. then placing my mother's portrait in my bosom, i sallied forth, and took the road to the neighbouring village. being sunday, the rustics looked trim and festive, the nymphs and youths frolicked along, the grandsires sat at their doors, the sun was shining; all things smiled but the miserable cherubina. at length i reached the village, and deposited my letters for the post. the church, imbosomed in trees, stood at a little distance. the people were at prayers, and as i judged that they would soon be dismissed, i placed myself at the sacred gate, as an auspicious station for the commencement of my supplicatory career. in a short time they began to leave the church. 'one penny for the poor starving girl,' said i. 'how are you? how are you? how are you?' was gabbled on all sides. 'one penny,--one penny,--oh, one penny!' softly faltered i. it was the cooing of a dove amidst the chattering of magpies. 'and who was that stranger in the next pew?' said one lady. 'one penny for the love of----' 'she seemed to think herself too pretty to pray,' said another. 'one penny for the----' 'perhaps motion does not become her lips,' said another. 'one penny for the love of charity.' but they had gotten into their carriages. 'if youth, innocence, and distress can touch your hearts,' said i, following some gentlemen down the road, 'pity the destitute orphan, the hungry vagrant, the most injured and innocent of her sex. gentlemen, good gentlemen, kind gentlemen----.' 'go to hell,' said they. 'there is for you, sweetheart,' cried a coarse voice from behind, while a halfpenny jingled at my foot. i turned to thank my benefactor, and found that he was a drunken man in the stocks. disgusted and indignant at the failure of my first attempt, i hurried out of the village, and strayed along, addressing all i met, but all appeared too gay to pity misery. hour after hour i passed in fruitless efforts, now walking, now sitting; till at length day began to close, and fatigue and horrid hunger were enfeebling my limbs. in a piteous condition, i determined to turn my steps back towards the cottage; for night was already blackening the blue hemisphere, the mountainous clouds hung low, and the winds piped the portentous moan of a coming hurricane. by the little light that still remained, i saw a long avenue on my left, which, i thought, might lead to some hospitable place of shelter; and i began, as well as the gloom of the trees would permit, to grope my way through it. after much labour and many falls, i came to an opening, and as i saw no house, i still walked straight forward. by this time the storm had burst upon my head with tremendous violence, and it was with difficulty that i could keep my feet. at last i fancied i could perceive a building in front, and i bent my steps towards it. as i drew nearer, i found my way sometimes obstructed by heaps of stones, or broken columns, and i concluded that i was approaching some prodigious castle, where i should be sure to find shelter, horror, owls, and one of my near relations. i therefore hastened towards it, and soon my extended hands touched the structure. my heart struck a throb of joy, and i began to feel along the wall for some ruined portal or archway. hardly had i moved ten paces, when my groping hands plunged into unresisting air: i stopped a moment, then entered through the vacuity, and to my great comfort, found myself under immediate shelter. this then, i guessed, was the great hall of the castle, and i prepared my mind for the most terrible things. i had not advanced three yards, when i paused in much terror; for i thought i heard a stir just beside me. again all was still, and i ventured forward. i now fancied that i heard a gentle breathing; and at the same instant i struck my foot against something, which, with a sudden movement, tripped up my heels, and down i came, shrieking and begging for mercy; while a frightful bustle arose all round me,--such passing and repassing, rustling and rushing, that i gave myself over for lost. 'oh, gentlemen banditti!' cried i, 'spare my persecuted life, and i will never, never betray you!' they did not answer a syllable, but retired to some distance, where they held a horrid silence. in a few minutes, i heard steps outside, and two persons entered the building. 'this shelters us well enough,' said one of them. 'curse on the storm,' cried the other, 'it will hinder any more of them from coming out to-night. however we have killed four already, and, please goodness, not one will be alive on the estate this day month.' oh, biddy, how my soul sickened at the shocking reflection, that four of a family were already murdered in cold blood, and that the rest were to share the same fate in a month! unable to contain myself, i muttered, 'mercy upon me, mercy upon me!' 'did you hear that?' whispered one of the men. 'i did,' said the other. 'off with us this moment!' and off they both ran. i too determined to quit this nest of horrors, for my very life appeared in danger; so, rising, i began to grope my way towards the door, when i fell over something that lay on the ground, and as i put out my hand, i touched (oh, horrible!) a dead, cold, damp human face. instantly the thought struck me that this was one of the four whom the ruffians had murdered, and i flung myself from it, with a shiver of horror; but in doing so, laid my hand on another face; while a faint gleam of lightning that flashed at the moment shewed me two bodies, pale, ghastly, naked, and half covered with straw. i started up, screaming, and made a desperate effort to reach the door; but just as i was darting out of it, i found my shoulder seized with a ferocious grasp. 'i have caught one of them,' cried the person. 'fetch the lantern.' 'i am innocent of the murder!' cried i. 'i swear to you that i am. they did not fall by my dagger, i can assure you.' 'who? what murder?' cried he. 'hollo, help! here is a murder committed.' 'not by me!' cried i. 'not by me, not by me! no, no, no, my hands are unstained with their blood.' and now a lantern being brought, i perceived several servants in liveries, who first examined my features, and then dragged me back into the building, while they searched there for some poachers, whom they had been way-laying when they found me. the building! and what was the building, think you? why nothing more than the shell of an unfinished house,--a mere modern morsel of a tasteless temple! and what were the banditti who had knocked me down, think you? why nothing more than a few harmless sheep, that now lay huddled together in a corner! and what were the two corpses, think you? why nothing more than two heathen statues for the little temple!--and the ruffians that talked of their having killed, and having to kill, were only the poachers, who had killed four hares! here then was the whole mystery developed, and a great deal of good fright gone for nothing. however, some trouble still remained to me. the servants, swearing that i was either concerned with the poachers, or in some murder, dragged me down a shrubbery, till we reached a large mansion. we then entered a lighted hall: one of them went to call his master, and after a few minutes, an elderly gentleman, with a troop of young men and women at his heels, came out of a parlour. 'is that the murderess? what a young murderess! i never saw a murderess before!' was whispered about by the ladies. 'what murder is this you were talking of, young woman?' said the gentleman to me. 'i will tell you with pleasure,' answered i. 'you must know that i am a wandering beggar-girl, without home, parents, or friends; and when the storm began, i ran, for shelter, into the temple of taste, as your servants called it. so, thinking it a castle, and some sheep which threw me down, banditti, and a couple of statues, corpses, of course it was quite natural for me to suppose, when two men entered, and began to talk of having killed something, that they meant these very corpses. was it not natural now? and so that is the plain and simple narrative of the whole affair.' to my great surprise, a general burst of laughter ran round the hall. 'sheep banditti, and statues corpses. dear me,--bless me--well to be sure!' tittered the misses. 'young woman,' said the gentleman, 'your incoherent account inclines me to think you concerned in some atrocious transaction, which i must make it my business to discover.' 'i am sure,' said a young lady, 'she carries the gallows in her face.' ''tis so pretty a gallows,' said a young gentleman, 'that i wish i were hanging upon it.' 'fie brother,' said the young lady, 'how can you talk so to a murderess?' 'and how can you talk so,' cried i, 'before you know me to be a murderess? it is not just, it is not generous, it is not feminine. men impelled by love, may deprive our sex of virtue; but we ourselves, actuated by rancorous, not gentle impulses, rob each other of character.' 'oh! indeed, you have done for yourself now,' said the young lady. 'that sentence of morality has settled you completely.' 'then i presume you do not admire morality,' said i. 'not from the lips of a low wretch like you,' said she. 'know, young woman,' cried i, 'that the current which runs through these veins is registered in hereditary heraldry.' the company gave a most disgusting laugh. 'it is,' cried i, 'i tell you it is. i tell you i am of the blood noble.' 'oh blood!' squeaked a young gentleman. what wonder that i forgot my prudence amidst these indignities? yes, the proud spirit of my ancestors swelled my heart, all my house stirred within me, and the blood of the de willoughbys rose into my face, as i drew the magnificent picture from my bosom, pointed a quivering finger at it, and exclaimed: 'behold the portrait of my titled mother!' 'see, see!' cried the girls crowding round. ''tis covered all over with diamonds!' 'i flatter myself it is,' said i. 'there is proof irrefragable for you!' 'proof enough to hang you i fancy!' cried the old gentleman, snatching it out of my hand. 'so now, my lady, you must march to the magistrate.' i wept, knelt, entreated, all was in vain: his son, the young man who had paid my face the compliment, took charge of my person, and accompanied by the servant who had seized me, set off with me to the magistrate's. during our walk, he tried to discover how i had got possession of the picture, but i was on my guard, and merely replied that time would tell my innocence. on a sudden, he desired the servant to go back for an umbrella, and take it to the magistrate's after him. the man having left us: 'now,' said the 'squire, 'whether you are a pilferer of pictures i know not, but this i know, that you are a pilferer of hearts, and that i am determined to keep you in close custody, till you return mine, which you have just stolen. to be plain, i will extricate you from your present difficulty, and conceal you in a cottage just at hand, if you will allow me to support and visit you. you understand me.' the blood gushed into my cheeks as he spoke; but however indignant i felt at the proposal, i likewise felt that it would be prudent to dissemble; and as other heroines in similar predicaments do not hesitate to hint that they will compromise their honours, i too determined to give my tempter some hope; and thus make him my friend till i could extricate myself from this emergency. i therefore replied that i trusted he would not find me deficient in gratitude. 'thank you, love,' said he. 'and now here is the cottage.' he then tapped at a door: an elderly woman opened it, and within i perceived a young woman, with a bold, but handsome face, hastily adjusting her cap at a glass. 'i have brought a wretched creature,' said he, 'whom i found starving on the road. pray take care of her, and give her some refreshment. you must also contrive a bed for her.' the women looked earnestly at me, and then significantly at each other. 'she shall have no bed in my house,' said the elder, 'for i warrant this is the hussey who has been setting you against poor susan, in order to get you herself, and telling you lies about tommy hicks's visiting here--poor girl!' 'ay, and bob saunders,' cried the daughter. 'sweet innocent!' cried the mother. 'and the three hawkins's,' cried the daughter. 'tender lamb!' cried the mother, 'and a girl too that never looked at mortal man but the 'squire.' 'and john mullins, and jacob jones, and patrick o'brien,' cried the daughter. 'think of that!' cried the mother. 'yes, think of that!' cried the daughter. 'patrick o'brien! the broad-shouldered abominable man! oh! i will cut my throat--i will--so i will!' 'alas!' said i, 'behold the fatal effects of licentious love. here is a girl, whom your money, perhaps, allured from the paths of virtue.' 'oh! no,' cried susan, 'it was his honour's handsome face, and his fine words, so bleeding and so sore, and he called me an angel above the heavens!' 'yes,' said i, 'it is the tenderness of youth, the smile of joy, the blush of innocence, which kindle the flame of the seducer; and yet these are what he would destroy. it is the heart of sensibility which he would engage, and yet in that heart he would plant every rankling pang, every bitter misery. detestable passion! which accomplishes the worst of purposes, through the medium of the best and sweetest affections. she whose innocent mind ascribes to others the motives that actuate itself, she who confides, because she would not deceive, she who has a tear for real grief, and who melts at the simulated miseries of her lover, she soonest falls a sacrifice to his arts; while the cold vestal, who goes forth into the world callous to feeling, and armed with austerity, repulses his approaches with indignation, and calls her prudence virtue.' the young man gazed on me with surprise, and the mother had come closer; but susan was peeping at her face in the glass. 'look on that beautiful girl before you,' cried i. 'heaven itself is not brighter than her brow; the tints of the morning cannot rival her blushes.' susan held down her head, but cast an under glance at the 'squire. 'such is she now,' continued i, 'but too soon you may behold her pale, shivering, unsteady of step, and hoarse with nocturnal curses, one of those unhappy thousands, who nightly strew our streets with the premature ruins of dilapidated beauty.' 'yes, look at her, look at her!' cried the mother, who flushing even through her wrinkles, and quivering in every limb, now rushed towards her daughter, and snatching off her cap, bared her forehead. 'look at her! she was once my lovely pride, the blessing of my heart; and see what he has now made her for me; while i, miserable as i am, must wink at her guilt, that i may save her from disgrace and ruin!' 'oh! then,' cried i, turning to the 'squire, 'while still some portion of her fame remains, fly from her, fly for ever!' 'i certainly mean to do so,' replied he, 'so pray make your mind easy. you see, susan, by this young woman's sentiments, that she cannot be what you suspected her.' 'and i am convinced, susan,' said i, 'that you feel grateful for the pains i have taken to reclaim the 'squire from a connection so fatal to you both.' 'i am quite sure i do,' sobbed susan, 'and i will pray for your health and happiness ever while i live. so, dear miss, since i must lose him, i hope you will coax him to leave me some money first; not that i ever valued him for his money, but you know i could not see my mother go without her tea o'nights.' 'amiable creature!' cried i. 'yes, i will intercede for you.' 'my giving you money,' said the 'squire, 'will depend on my finding, when i return to-morrow morning, that you have treated this girl well to-night.' 'i will treat her like a sister,' said susan. the 'squire now declared that he must be gone; then taking me aside, 'i shall see you early to-morrow,' whispered he, 'and remove you to a house about a mile hence, and i will tell my father that you ran away. meantime, continue to talk virtue, and these people will think you a saint.' he then bade us all good-night, and departed. instantly i set my wits at work, and soon hit upon a plan to accomplish my escape. i told the women that i had an old mother, about a mile from the cottage, who was almost starving; and that if i could procure a little silver, and a loaf of bread, i would run to her hut with the relief, and return immediately. to describe the kind solicitude, the sweet goodnature that mother and daughter manifested, in loading me with victuals and money, were impossible. suffice it, that they gave me half-a-crown, some bread, tea, and sugar; and susan herself offered to carry them; but this i declined; and now, with a secret sigh at the probability that i might never see them again, i left their house, and hastened towards the cottage of the poor woman. having reached it, i made the hungry inhabitants happy once more, while i solaced myself with some tea, and the pleasing reflection, that i had brought comfort to the distressed, and had reclaimed a deluded girl from ruin and infamy. adieu, letter xxxvi after my last letter, i spent two tedious days in employments that i now blush to relate;--no less than doing all the dirty work of the cottage, such as sweeping the room, kindling the fire, cooking the victuals; and trying, by dint of comb and soap, to make cherubs of the children. what bewitched me, i cannot conceive, for the humanity of other heroines is ever clean, elegant, and fit for the reader. they give silver and tears in abundance, but they never descend to the bodily charity of working, like wire-drawers, for withered old women and brats with rosy noses. i can only say, in vindication of myself, that those who sheltered me were poor and helpless themselves, and that they deserved some recompense on my part for their hospitality to me. so you must not condemn me totally; for i do declare to you, that i would much rather have relieved them with my purse, and soothed them with my sympathy, than have fried their herrings and washed their faces. at the same time, take notice, i was not totally forgetful of my nobler destiny; for i dedicated part of this period to the composition of a poem, which i reserve for my memoirs. my biographer can say that it was suggested by the story of susan; and even if it should still appear to be somewhat forced into my book, i would rather have this the case, than suffer posterity to go without it altogether. here it is. caroline beneath a thatch, where gadding woodbine flower'd, about the lattice and the porch embower'd, an aged widow lived, whose calm decline, clung on one hope, her lovely caroline. her lovely caroline, in virtue blest, as morning snow, was spotless and unprest. her tresses unadorn'd a braid controll'd, her pastoral russet knew no civic gold. in either cheek an eddying dimple play'd, and blushes flitted with a rosy shade. her airy step seem'd lighting from the sky, and joy and frolic sparkled in her eye. yet would she weep at sorrows not her own, and love foredoom'd her heart his panting throne. for her the rustics strove a homely grace, clipped their redundant locks, and smooth'd their pace; lurk'd near her custom'd path, in trimmest guise, and talk'd the simple praises of her eyes. but fatal hour, when she, by swains unmov'd, beheld the master of the vale, and loved. long had he tempted her reserve in vain, till one luxuriant eve that sunn'd the plain; on the bent herbage, where a gushing brook, blue harebells and the tufted violet shook; where hung umbrageous branches overhead, and the rain'd roses lay in fragments red, he found the slumbering maid. prophane he press'd her virgin lip, then first by man carest. she starts, and like a ruddy cloud bestrewn, at brake of morning, o'er the paly moon; or as on alpine cliffs, a wounded doe sheds all its purple life upon the snow; so the maid blushes, while her humble eyes fear from a knot of primroses to rise; and mute she sits, affecting to repair the discomposed meanders of her hair. need i his arts unfold? the accomplish'd guile that glosses poisonous words with gilded smile? the tear suborned, the tongue complete to please; eyes ecstasied, idolatry of knees? these and his oaths i pass. enough to tell, the virgin listen'd, and believ'd, and fell. and now from home maternal long decoy'd she dwells with him midst pleasures unenjoy'd; till the sad tidings that her parent dear to grief had died a victim reach her ear. pale with despair, 'at least, at least,' she cries, 'stretch'd on her ashes, let me close these eyes. short shelter need the village now bestow, ere by her sacred grave they lay me low.' then, without nurture or repose, she hastes her journey homeward over rocks and wastes; till, as her steps a hill familiar gain, bursts on her filling eyes her native plain. she pants, expands her arms, 'ah, peaceful scene!' exclaiming: 'ah, dear valley, lovely green, still ye remain the same; your hawthorn still, all your white cottages, the little mill; its osiered brook, that prattles thro' the meads, the plat where oft i danced to piping reeds. all, all remain unalter'd. 'tis but thine to suffer change, weak, wicked caroline!' the setting sun now purples hill and lake, and lengthen'd shadows shadows overtake. a parting carol larks and throstles sing, the swains aside their heated sickles fling. now dairies all arrang'd, the nymphs renew the straggling tress, and tighten'd aprons blue; and fix some hasty floweret, as they run in a blithe tumult to the pipe begun. and now, while dance and frolic shake the vale, sudden the panting girl, dishevell'd, pale, stands in the midst. all pausing gather round, and gaze amaz'd. the tabors cease to sound. 'yes, ye may well,' the faltering suppliant cries, 'well may ye frown with those repulsive eyes. yet pity one not vicious but deceiv'd, who vows of marriage, ere she fell, believ'd. without a mother, sire, or fostering home, save, save me, leave me not forlorn to roam. not now the gifts ye once so fondly gave, not now the verse and rural wreath i crave; not now to lead your festive sports along, queen of the dance, and despot of the song; one shed is all, oh, just one wretched shed, to lay my weary limbs and aching head. then will i bless your bounty, then inure my frame to toil, and earn a pittance poor. then, while ye mix in mirth, will i, forlorn, beside my murder'd parent sit and mourn.' she paus'd, expecting answer. none replied. 'and have ye children, have ye hearts?' she cried. 'save me now, mothers, as from future harms ye hope to save the babies in your arms! see, to you, maids, i bend on abject knee; youths, even to you, who bent before to me. o, my companions, by our happy plays, by dear remembrance of departed days; by pity's self, your cruel parents move; by sacred friendship; oh! by those ye love! oft when ye trespassed, i for pardon pray'd; oft on myself your little mischiefs laid. did i not always sooth the wounded mind? was i not called the generous and the kind? still silent? what! no word, no look to cheer? no gentle gesture? what, not even a tear? go then, ye pure! to heights of virtue climb; let none plead for me, none forgive my crime. go--yet the culprit, by her god forgiven, may plead for you before the throne of heaven! ye simple pleasures of my rural hours, ye skies all sunshine, and ye paths all flowers; home, where no more a soothing friend i see, dear happy home, a last farewell to thee!' claspt are her hands, her features strewn with hair, and her eyes sparkle with a keen despair. but as she turns, a sudden burst of tears, and struggles, as of one withheld, she hears. 'speak!' she conjures, 'ere yet to phrenzy driven, tell me who weeps? what angel sent from heaven?' 'i, i your friend!' exclaims, with panting charms, a rosy girl, and darts into her arms. 'what! will you leave me? me, your other heart, your favourite ellen? no, we must not part; no, never! come, and in our cottage live; come, for the cruel village shall forgive. o, my own darling, come, and unreproved, here on this heart rest ever, ever lov'd; here on this constant heart!' while thus she spoke, her furious sire the linkt embraces broke. borne in his arms, she wept, entreated, rav'd; then fainted, as a mute farewell she wav'd. but now the wretch, with low and wildered cries, round and around revolving vacant eyes: slow from the green departs, and pauses now, and gnaws her tresses and contracts her brow. shock'd by the change, the matrons, stern no more, pursue her steps and her return implore: soon a poor maniac, innocent of ill, she wanders unconfined, and drinks the rill, and plucks the simple cress. a hovel near her native vale defends her from the year. with tender feet to flint and thistle bare, and faded willows weeping in her hair, she climbs some rock at morn, and all alone, chaunts hasty snatches of harmonious moan. when moons empearl the leafy locks of bowers, with liquid grain, and light the glistening flowers, she gathers honeysuckle down the dells, and tangled eglantine, and slumbering bells; and with moist finger, painted by the leaves, a coronet of roses interweaves; then steals unheard, and gliding thro' the yews, the odorous offering on her mother strews. at morn with tender pause, the nymphs admire, how recent chaplets still the grave attire; and matrons nightly tell, how fairies seen, danc'd roundelays aslant its cowslipped green. even when the whiten'd vale is bleak with snows, that verdant spot the little robin knows; and sure to find the flakes at dawn remov'd, alights and chirps upon its turf belov'd. such her employ; till now, one wintry day, some shepherds hurrying by the haunted clay, find the pale ruin, life for ever flown, with her cheek pillow'd on its dripping stone. the turf unfinish'd wreaths of ivy strew, and her lank locks are dim with misty dew. poor ellen hymns her requiem. willows pine around her grave. fallen, fallen caroline! this morning, having resumed my muslins, i repaired to my castle, and seated on the stump of a withered oak, began an accurate survey of its strength, for the purpose of ascertaining whether it could stand a siege, in case lady gwyn should attempt to dispossess me of it. i must now describe it to you. it is situated about a quarter of a mile from the road, on a waste tract of land, where a few decayed trunks of trees are all that remain of a former forest. the castle itself, which i fear is rather too small for long corridors and suites of apartments, forms a square, with a turret at each corner, and with a large gateway, now stopped up with stones, at the southern side. while i surveyed its roofless walls, over-topt with briony, grass, and nettles, and admired the gothic points of the windows, where mantling ivy had supplied the place of glass, long suffering and murder came to my thoughts. as i sat planning, from romances, the revival of the feudal customs and manners in my castle, and of the feudal system among my tenantry (all so favourable to heroines), i saw a magnificent barouche, turning from the road into the common, and advancing towards me. my heart beat high: the carriage approached, stopt; and who should alight from it, but higginson and jerry! after higginson, with reverence, and jerry, with familiarity, had congratulated me on my good fortune, the latter looked hard at the castle. 'the people told us that this was monkton castle,' said he; 'but where is the monkton castle that your ladyship is to live in?' 'there it is, my friend,' answered i. 'what? there!' cried he. 'yes, there,' said i. 'what, there, there!' 'yes, there, there.' 'oh! murder! murder!' 'how far are we from your ladyship's house?' said the postilion, advancing with his hat off. 'this castle is my house,' answered i. 'begging your ladyship's pardon,' said he; 'what i mean, is, how far are we from where your ladyship lives?' 'i live in this castle,' answered i. jerry began making signs to me over the fellow's shoulder, to hold my tongue. 'what are you grimacing about there, mr. sullivan?' said i. 'nothing at all, ma'am,' answered he. ''tis a way i have got; but your ladyship, you know, is only come down to this castle on a sort of a country excursion, to see if it wants repairing, you know: you don't mean to live in it, you know.' and he put his finger on his nose, and winked at me. 'but i know i do mean to live in it,' cried i, 'and so i request you will cease your grinning.' 'oh, murder, murder!' muttered he, swinging round on his heel. the postilion now stood staring at the venerable edifice, with an expression of the most insolent ridicule. 'and what are _you_ looking at?' cried jerry. 'at the sky through the castle window,' said the fellow, reddening, and shaking with smothered laughter. 'why then mind your own business,' cried jerry, 'and that is, to take the horses from the carriage, and set off with yourself as fast as you can.' 'not till i am paid for their journey down,' said the postilion. 'so will your ladyship have the goodness to pay me?' 'certainly,' said i. 'jerry, pay the fellow.' 'deuce a rap have i,' answered jerry. 'i laid out my last farthing in little things for your ladyship.' 'higginson,' said i, 'shall i trouble you to pay him?' 'it irks me to declare,' answered higginson, 'that in equipments for this expedition;--a nice little desk, a nice little comb, a nice little pocket-glass, a nice little----' 'in short you have no money,' cried i. 'not a farthing,' answered he. 'neither have i,' said i; 'so, postilion, you must call another time.' 'here is a pretty to do!' cried the postilion. 'damme, this is a shy sort of a business. not even the price of a feed of oats! snuff my eyes, i must have the money. i must, blow me.' ''tis i that will blow you,' cried jerry, 'if you don't unloose your horses this moment, and pack off.' the postilion took them from the carriage, in silence; then having mounted one of them, and ridden a few paces from us, he stopped. 'now you set of vagabonds and swindlers,' cried he, 'without a roof over your heads, or a penny in your pockets, to go diddle an honest man out of his day's labour; wait till master takes you in hand: and if i don't tell the coachmaker what a blockhead he was to give you his barouche on tick, may i be particularly horsewhipt! ladyship! a rummish sort of a tit for a ladyship! and that is my lord, i suppose. and this is the marquis. three pickpockets from fleet-street, i would bet a whip to a wisp. ladyship! oh, her ladyship!' and away he cantered, ladyshipping it, till he was out of hearing. 'that young person deserves a moral lecture,' said higginson. 'he deserves a confounded drubbing,' cried jerry. 'but now, 'pon your conscience, does your ladyship intend to live in this old castle?' 'upon my honour i do,' replied i. 'and is there no decent house on the estate, that one of your tenants could lend you?' said he. 'why you must know,' replied i, 'that though lady gwyn, the person who has withheld my property from me so long, acknowledged my right to it but a few days since, still, as she has not yet yielded up the title deeds, in consequence of a quarrel which obliged me to quit her house, it is improbable that the tenantry would treat me as their mistress. all i can do, is, to seize this uninhabited castle which lies on my own estate. but i can tell you, that a heroine of good taste, and who wishes to rise in her profession, would infinitely prefer the desolation of a castle to the comforts of a villa.' 'well, of all the wise freaks----' cried jerry, standing astride, sticking his hands in his ribs, and nodding his head, as he looked up at the castle. 'i tell you what, mr. sullivan,' interrupted i, 'if you have the slightest objection to remaining here, you are at perfect liberty to depart this moment.' 'and do you think i would leave you?' cried he. 'oh then, oh then, 'tis i that wouldn't! and the worse your quandary, the more i would stick by you;--that is jerry sullivan. and if it was a gallows itself you were speculating in, i would assist you all the same. one can find friends enough when one is in the right, but give me the fellow that would fight for me right or wrong.' i shook his honest hand with warmth, and then asked him if he had performed my commissions. 'your ladyship shall hear,' said he. 'as soon as i got your letter, i went with it in my hand, and shewed it at fifty different shops;--clothiers, and glaziers, and upholsterers, and feather-makers, and trumpet-makers; but neither old tapestry, nor old painted glass, nor old flags stained with old blood, nor old lutes, nor old any thing that you wanted, could i get; and what i could get, i must pay for; and so what i must pay for, i would not get; and the reason why, i had no money; and moreover, as sure as ever i shewed them your letter, so sure they laughed at it.' 'laughed at it!' cried i. 'all but one,' said jerry. 'and he?' cried i. 'was going to knock me down,' answered jerry. 'so, as i did not wish to come without bringing something or other to you, and as you commanded me to get everything old; egad, i have brought three whole pieces of damaged black cloth out of our own shop, that i thought might answer for the hangings and curtains; and i bought a parcel of old funeral feathers and an old pall, from an undertaker; and i bought an old harp with five strings, that will do any thing but play; and i stole our own parlour bell; and i borrowed a horn from the guard of a mail-coach, which i hope will do for a trumpet; and now here they are all in the barouche, and my bed and trunk; and a box of mr. higginson's.' 'but the barouche?' said i; 'how did you get that?' 'by not shewing your letter,' answered jerry; 'and besides, the coach-maker knew me; and i told him it was for my lady de willoughby, as beautiful as an angel--but he did not mind that--and as rich as a jew;--but he minded that; and so he gave me the barouche, and a shake-hands into the bargain.' 'well, my friend,' said i, 'you did your best; so as soon as i can raise a sufficient sum, i will furnish my castle in a style of gothic grandeur, which your modern painters and glaziers have no notion of. meantime, if you and higginson will pull down those stones that choak the gateway, we will enter the building, and see what can be done with our present materials.' they commenced operations with such alacrity, that they soon cleared away the rubbish, and in we went. not a sign of a roof on the whole edifice: the venerable verdure of damp stained the walls, nettles and thistles clothed the ground, and three of the turrets, inaccessible to human feet, were to be come at only by an owl or an angel. however, on examining the fourth, or eastern turret, i found it in somewhat better condition than the rest. a half-decayed ladder, leaning against an aperture in the ceiling above, tempted me to mount, and i got into a room of about eight feet square (the breadth of the turret), overrun with moss and groundsel, and having a small window in one of its sides. from the floor, another ladder reached to another aperture in the ceiling above; and on ascending it, i found myself at the top of the tower, round which ran a broken parapet. this tower, therefore, i determined to fit up and inhabit; and to leave the other three in a state of classical dilapidation, as receptacles for strange noises, horrid sights, and nocturnal condottieri. i then descended, and made the minstrel and warden (for they have consented to undertake these offices) draw the barouche within the gateway, and convey the luggage up to the room that i meant for my residence. the next matter that we set about was hanging the chamber with the black cloth; and this we contrived to do by means of wooden pegs, which the warden cut with his knife, and drove, with a stone, through the drapery, into the crevices of the walls. we found two of the three pieces of black cloth sufficient to cover the sides of the room; and when the hangings were all arranged, i gazed on their sombrous and antique effect with the most heartfelt transport. i then named it the black chamber, and gave orders that it should always be called so. our next object was to contrive a bed for me. jerry, therefore, procured some branches of trees, and after much labour, and with no small ingenuity, constructed a bedstead, as crazy as any that ever creaked under a heroine. we then hung it round with curtains of black cloth; and jerry's own bed being placed upon it, we spread the black pall over that. never was there a more funereal piece of furniture; and i saw, with pride, that it rivalled the famous bed in the mysteries of udolpho. the minstrel all this time appeared stupified with astonishment, but worked like a horse, puffing and panting, and doing every thing that he was desired, without uttering a word. dinner now became our consideration, and i have just dispatched the warden (like peter, in the romance of the forest) to procure provisions. not a farthing has he to purchase any, since even the half-crown which susan gave me is already exhausted. but the light that enters at my window begins to grow grey, and an appropriate gloom thickens through the chamber. the minstrel stands in a corner, muttering poetry; while i write with his pen and ink on a stool that the warden made for me. my knees are my desk. adieu. letter xxxvii just at the close of evening, jerry came running towards the castle with a milk-pail on his head. 'see,' cried he, putting it down, 'how nicely i have choused a little milk-maid! there was she, tripping along as tight as her garter. 'fly for your life,' cries i, striding up to her: 'there is the big bull at my heels that has just killed two children, two sucking pigs, two---here! here! let me hold your pail for you!' and i whips it off her head. so, what does she do, but she runs off without it one way; and what does i do, but i runs off with it another way. and besides this, i have got my hat filled with young potatoes, and my pockets stuffed with ears of wheat; and if we can't eat a hearty dinner off these dainties, why that our next may be fried fleas and toasted leather!' though i was angry at the means used by jerry to get the provisions, yet, as dinner just then had more charms for me than moral sentiment, instead of instructing him in the lofty doctrines of the social compact, i bade him pound the grains of wheat between two flat stones. in the mean time, i sent the minstrel to the cottage for a light and some fuel; and on his return, made him stop up the window with grass and fern. he then kindled a fire of wood in the centre of the black chamber; for, as the floor was of stone, it ran no risk of being burned. this done, i mixed some milk with the bruised wheat, kneaded a cake, and laid it on the red embers, while jerry took charge of roasting the potatoes. as soon as our romantic repast was ready, i drew my stool to the fire: my household sat on large stones, and we made a tolerable meal, they on the potatoes, and i on the cake, which hunger had really rendered palatable. the warden lifted the pail to my lips, and i took a draught of the rural nectar; while the minstrel remarked, that nestor himself had not a larger goblet. i now paid the poor cottagers a visit, and carried the fragments of our dinner to them. on my return, we resumed our seats, and hung over the decayed embers, that cast a gloomy glare upon the bed and the drapery; while now and then, a flash from the ashes, as they sank, shot a reddened light on the paleness of the minstrel, and brightened the broad features of the warden. the wind had risen: there was a good deal of excellent howling round the turret: we sat silent, and looking for likenesses in the fire. 'come, warden,' cried i, 'repair these embers with a fresh splinter, and let me hear the memoirs of your life.' the warden consented, the fire was replenished, and he thus began: 'once upon a time when pigs were swine----' 'i will trouble you for a more respectable beginning,' said i; 'some striking, genteel little picture, to bespeak attention,--such as, "all was dark;" or, "it was on a gloomy night in the month of november."' 'that would be the devil's own lie,' cried jerry, 'because i was born in january; and by the same token, i was one of the youngest children that ever was born, for i saw light five months after my mother's marriage. well, being born, up i grew, and the first word i said was mammy; and my hair was quite yellow at first, though 'tis so brown now; and i promised to be handsome, but the symptom soon left me; and i remember i was as proud as lucifer when i got trowsers; and----' 'why now, jerry, what sort of trash is this?' said i. 'fie; a warden like you! i hoped to have heard something of interest and adventure from you; that your family was respectable, though poor----' 'respectable!' cried jerry. 'why, i am of the o'sullivans, who were kings of ireland, and that is the very reason i have not mister to my name, seeing as how i am of the blood royal. oh, if 'tis the wonderful your ladyship wants, by the powers, i am at home thereabouts. well, i was iddicated in great tenderness and ingenuity, and when i came of age, i went and seized on o'sullivan castle, and fortified it, and got a crown and sceptre, and reigned in great peace many years. but as the devil would have it----' 'jerry,' said i, 'i must insist on hearing no more of these monstrous untruths.' 'untruths!' cried he. 'why you might as well give me the lie at once. o murder! to think i would tell a falsehood about the matter!' 'sir,' said i, ''tis a falsehood on the very face of it.' ''pon my conscience then,' cried he, ''tis as like your own story as one pea is like another. and sure i did not contradict you (whatever i might think, and i have my thoughts too, i can tell you,) when you talked so glib of your great estates; though, to be sure, your ladyship is as poor as a rat. howsomever, since you will have it so, 'tis all a falsehood, sure enough; but now you shall hear the real story; though, for that matter, any body can tell truth, and no thanks to them. 'well, then, my father was nothing more than a common labourer, and just poor enough to be honest, but not poor enough to be a rogue. poverty is no great disgrace, provided one comes honestly by it; for one may get poor as well as rich by knavery. so, being poor, father used to make me earn odd pennies, when i was a boy; and at last i got so smart, that he resolved on sending me to sell chickens at the next town. but as i could only speak irish at that time, by reason we lived up the mountains, he sat down and taught me a little english, in case any gentlefolks should ask me about my chickens. now, jerry, says he, in irish, if any gentleman speaks to you, of course it will be to know the price of your chickens; so you are to say, _three shillings, sir_. then to be sure he will be for lowering the price, so you are to say stoutly, _no less, sir_; and if he shakes his head, or looks angry, 'tis a sign he won't buy unless you bate a little, so you are to say, _i believe i must take two, sir_. 'well, i got my lesson pat, and off i set, with my hair cut and my face washed, and thinking it the greatest day of my life; and i had not walked a hundred yards from the house, when i met a gentleman. 'pray how far is it to the next village?' says he. 'three shillings, sir,' says i. 'you are a saucy fellow,' says he. 'no less, sir,' says i. 'i will give you a box in the face,' says he. 'i believe i must take two, sir,' says i. 'but, instead of two, egad, i got six, and as many kicks as would match 'em; and home i ran howling.--well, that was very well, so when i told father that i was beaten for nothing: 'i warrant you were not,' says he; 'and if i had done so by my poor father, he would have broken every bone in my skin,' says he. 'but he was a better father than i am,' says he. 'how dare you say that your father was better than my father,' says i; and upon this, father takes me by the ear, and lugs me out of the house. just as we got outside, the same gentleman was passing by; and he stopped, and began to complain of me to my father; and then the whole matter came out, and both of them laughed very heartily. 'well, what do you think? 'pon my veracity, the gentleman took me home with him to clean the knives and boots. and then he sent me to school, where i learned english; and then i began to tend at table, and at last became a regular servant in the family. 'well, here i lived several years, and might have lived till now, but that one night, when mistress had company, while bringing in the tray of cake and wine, down i came, and broke all the glasses. 'by this and that,' says mistress; (only to be sure, mistress did'nt swear) 'you are quite drunk,' says she. 'never tasted a drop all day,' says i; and it was true for me, 'cause i did not begin till evening. 'who taught you to tell falsehoods?' says she. 'troth, you did,' says i; 'for you taught me to tell visitors you were not at home, when all the time you are peeping down the bannisters. fine fashions, indeed! nobody is ever at home now-a-days, but a snail,' says i. and i would have said more too, but that master kicked me out of the house. 'well, that was very well; and now my misfortunes were all before me, like a wheelbarrow. 'this happened in the year of the rebellion; so, being out of service, i lived at alehouses; and there it was that i met gentlemen with rusty superfine on their backs, and with the longest words in the world. they soon persuaded me that old ireland was going to ruin; i forget how now, but i know i had the whole story pat at that time; and the end of it was, that i became an united irishman. 'howsomever, though i would have died for my country, it would be carrying the joke too far to starve for her, and i had now spent all my wages. so, at last, back i went to my old master, and fell on my knees, and begged his pardon for my bad conduct when i lived with him, and prayed of him to take me once more. well, he did; and it was only two nights after that we heard a great noise outside, and master comes running into the kitchen. 'jerry,' says he, 'here are the rebels breaking into the house; and as i know you are a faithful fellow, take this sword and pistol, and stand by me.' 'no, but i will stand before you,' says i. so we mustered our men, five in all, and posted ourselves on the head of the stairs; when in burst the rebels into the hall, and we began a parley. 'why then, is that barney delany?' says i to their captain. 'why then, is that jerry sullivan?' says he to me. 'you are one of us,' says he, 'so now turn round and shoot your master,' says he. 'i will cut off both my hands first,' says i. 'take that then,' says he; and he fires a shot, and i another, and to it we kept, till we beat them all off. 'well, in a few months afterwards, this same barney being made prisoner, i was bound over as witness against him. so some of the gentlemen with the long words came to me, and told me how wrong i had acted in fighting for my master, instead of for my country, and that i must make amends by giving evidence in barney's favour. 'well, they puzzled me so, that from then till now i never could make out whether i was right or wrong in standing by master. but somehow, i think i was right; for though patriotism (as the gentlemen call it) is a fine thing, yet, after all, there is nothing like gratitude. why, if the devil himself did me a kind office, i believe i would make shift to do him another, and not act like the clergy, who spend their whole lives in snubbing at him, and calling him all manner of names, though they know, that, but for him, there would not be a clergyman or a fat living in the kingdom. 'howsomever, i was persuaded to do the genteel thing by barney delany; so, when the day for the trial came, i drank myself pretty unintelligible; and i swore point blank, before judge and jury, that i did not know barney good or bad, and that all i knew of him was good; and i bothered the lawyers, and they turned me from the table, and threatened to indite me for perjury. but it was the people that did praise me, and call it iligant swearing, mighty pretty evidence; and i was the great man of the day; and they took me to the fair that was hard by, where we tippled a little more, and then we sallied forth ripe for fun. 'well, as we were running through the fair, what should i see but a man's bald head sticking out of a hole in one of the tents--to cool, i suppose,--so i just lifted up my cudgel, and just laid it down again; when, in a moment, out came a whole set of fellows from the tent, and the man asks which of us had broken his head. 'it was myself,' says i, 'but curse me if i could help it, that skull of your's looked so inviting. 'accordingly both parties began a battle, and then others, who had nothing better to do, came and joined; they did not know why, but no matter for that. any one may fight when there is an occasion; but the beauty of it is, to fight when there is no occasion at all. 'howsomever, in the midst of it up came the military to spoil sport as usual; and they dispersed us, and made some of us prisoners, i among the rest, and we were put into bridewell. well, that was very well. so at night we contrived to break it open, beat the keepers, and make our escape. then what to do with myself was the question. it would go hard with me if i were caught again; so i skulked about the country several days, till happening to meet some lads going beyond seas to reap the english harvest, they persuaded me to buy a reaping-hook, and go with them. 'but to be sure, to be sure, such a hurricane as we had at sea, and such tumbling and tossing; and then we were driven to the world's end, or the land's end, or some end; but i know i thought i was come to my own end. in short, such wonderful adventures never were known.' 'what adventures, my friend?' cried i. 'i love to hear wonderful adventures.' 'why,' said he, 'we had an adventure every moment, for every moment we were near going to the bottom.' 'and was that all?' cried i. 'then,' said he, 'there was such pulling of ropes, and reefing and rigging; and we went over so many seas and channels; the irish channel, and the british channel, and the bristol channel, and the baltic sea, and the atlantic sea, and---oh dear, as good as forty more.' 'forty more!' cried i. 'and pray what were their names?' 'bad luck to me if i can remember,' said he. 'probably you were in the red sea,' said i. 'to be sure i was.' 'and in the black sea?' 'no doubt of it.' 'and in the white sea, and the pacific ocean?' 'in every mother's soul of them.' 'and pray what kind of seas are they?' asked i. 'why,' said he, 'the red sea is as red as blood, and the black sea is as black as ink, and the white sea is the colour of new milk, or nearer butter-milk; and the pacifi-ifi--what's that word?' 'pacific,' said i. 'and what is the meaning of pacific?' said he. 'it means peaceful or calm,' answered i. 'gad, i thought so,' said he, 'for the devil a wave that same ocean had on it high or low. 'pon my conscience, it was as smooth as the palm of my hand.' 'take care, jerry,' said i, laughing; 'i am afraid----' 'why then,' cried he, 'that i may never----' 'hush!' said i. 'no swearing.' 'by dad,' cried he, 'you had better tell my story yourself; for you seem resolved to have it all your own way. may be you won't believe me neither, when i tell you that i landed?' 'as you are not at sea now,' said i, 'i will believe you.' 'well then,' said he, 'i suppose you will believe that i made a little money by reaping, and then trudged to london to try my fortune.' 'i make no doubt of the fact,' said i. 'but pray how did you contrive to subsist in london at first?' 'by spitting through my teeth,' said jerry. 'take care,' cried i. 'this i suspect is another----' 'if you mean lie,' said he, 'i have caught you at last; for 'tis as true as true can be, and i will tell you all about it. you must know that 'tis now the fashion for gentlemen to be their own coachmen; and not only to drive like coachmen, but to talk, walk, dress, drink, swear, and even spit like coachmen. well, two days after my arrival in london, as i was standing in the street, and looking about, i happened to spit through my teeth, to the envy and admiration of a gentleman that was just driving his own carriage by me. for he stopped, and called me to him, and swore i should get half-a-crown if i would teach him to _pickle a wig_,--that was the word. so when he gave me plain english for it, i closed with him, and went to his house, and taught him to spit so well, that my fame spread through the town, and all the fashionable bloods came to me for instruction; till at last i had a good mind to set up a spitting academy. 'well, i had now spit myself into such affluence, that i refused a coachman's seat with forty pounds a year (for, as i said, even a curate had more than that); and may be, instead of a seat on the box, i might at last have risen to a seat in the parliament (for many a man has got there by dirtier tricks than mine), but that my profession, which was of a nature to dry up my mouth, forced me to frequent porterhouses; where, as the devil would have it, i met other gentlemen, such as i had met before, and with just the same set of long words. 'in a short time, all of us agreed that our country was ruined, and that something must be done. so we made ourselves into a club, for the purpose of writing ballads about the war, and the taxes, and a thousand lashes that a soldier got. and we used to set ten or twelve ballad-singers round a table in our club-room, each with her pint of beer; and one of our club would teach them the tune with a little kit, while i was in a cock-loft overhead composing the words. and they reckoned me the best poet of them all; and they told me that my writings would descend to posterity; and sometimes the thoughts came so quick on me, that i was obliged to chalk them down on the back of the bellows. but whenever i wanted an idea, i read the weekly register; and then between the register and the liquor, i got worked up to such a pitch of poetry, that my blood used to run cold in the morning, at the thoughts of what i would have done at night. 'well, one evening, the ballad-singers were round the table, sipping and singing to the little kit, and i had just popt down my head through the trap-door of the cock-loft, to ask the chairman the rhime for _reform_: 'confound you,' says he, 'didn't i tell you twenty times 'tis _a storm_;' when in bursts the door, and a parcel of peace-officers seize him, and the whole set, for holding seditious meetings, and publishing inflammatory songs. think of that! when i protest to you our only object was, by causing disunion, and convincing our enemies that we could not carry on the war, to procure a speedy and honorable peace. 'howsomever, i got out of the scrape by being concealed in the cock-loft; and i remember well it was on that very night i first saw my wife.' 'ah,' said i, 'give me the particulars of that event, the first meeting of lovers is always so interesting!' 'why,' said he, 'going home sorrowful enough after the ruin of our club, i resolved to drown care in a noggin; and accordingly turned into a gin-shop, where i found three fruit-women from covent garden, bound on the same errand.' 'what dram shall we drink?' says they. 'brandy,' says one. 'gin,' says another. 'anniseed-water,' says another. and so they fell to and drank. 'i am happy that i ever came to this city of lunnun; for my fortune is made,' says brandy. 'if my father had lived, i would be brought up to good iddication,' says gin. 'if my mother had lived, i would be brought up at a boarding-school,' says anniseed-water. 'why, curse you,' says gin, 'what was your mother but an old apple-woman?' 'and curse you,' says anniseed-water, 'what was your father but a gallows-bird of a bum-bailiff?' 'and then they fell a fighting and scratching; and anniseed-water (the present mrs. jerry sullivan) was getting well cuffed, when i came to her assistance. so that was our first meeting.' 'you may boast of it,' said i. 'now then for your courtship.' 'you shall hear,' said he. 'she was so much obliged to me, that she asked me home to tea, and i went. i found her a buxom widow, and at that time she was as fine a doorful, as tight a wench over a washing-tub, as you would wish to see. and there was her daughter, and a great deal of good company;--the tailor's wife, and the barber's wife, and the pawnbroker's wife; and none so grand as they. and they told as many lies over the first dish of tea as a parcel of porters would over twenty barrels of strong beer. and a young valet, who i could see was courting the widow, swore that it was as good to be out of the world as out of the fashion, and then he whispered to her that she looked killing genteel. but i only pinched her elbow, and i thought she liked that better.' 'it was very vulgar, however,' observed i. 'the first process is to kiss the hand.' 'ogh!' cried jerry, 'that is a slobbering trick, to be mumbling knuckles just as a pup niggles at a bone. i am the man to take at once, and fluster a woman, and reckon her ribs for her. no creeping up, and up, and up; and then down, and down, and down, for me--why, as i hope to be saved, i gave that same widow a thundering kiss on three days acquaintance.' 'poor thing!' exclaimed i. 'well, and what did she say?' 'say? why she said, "be quiet now, though i know you can't." so, of course, i kissed her still more; while she changed colour in a minute as often as a blackberry in a month. "ha done, do;" says she, "or i will call out, only there is nobody at home;"--when, at the moment, in pops the valet, and catches us lip to lip. 'now he was a conceited sort of a chap, who used to set himself off with great airs, shew his white hands--that, i verily believe, he washed every day of his life;--curse and swear just like a gentleman, keep a tooth-brush, and make both his heels meet when he bowed. 'well, i had nothing upon earth to oppose to all this but a bit of a quarrel;--that was _my_ strong point;--and sure enough, i gave him such a beating for catching us, that the widow thought me main stout, and married me in a week. 'with her money i set up shop; and i did not much mind her being ten years older than myself, since she was ten times richer. i only copied my own father there; for he once happened to be divided between two girls, one of them with a single cow for her portion, and the other with two cows; so he consulted his landlord which of them he should marry, and his landlord bade him by all means marry the girl with the two cows; "for," says he, "there is not a cow difference between any two women." 'so now that is my history.' 'if i am to collect from it,' said i, 'the character of your countrymen in your own class of life, i must conclude that they are frank, generous, and noble; but neglected in their morals and education, and oppressed by their superiors.' 'ay, there is the matter,' said jerry. 'by way of keeping us quiet they keep us down. now that is just the way to prevent our keeping quiet, for it is natural that men who are kept down should try to rise up.' 'and why do they keep you down?' asked i. 'because,' answered he, 'we are of one religion, and they of another; and they say our religion is so bad, that it would make us keep them down, if they did not keep us down.' 'then,' said i, 'you ought to be greatly obliged to them for keeping you down; because that is doing what they condemn, lest you should do it. now it is the highest possible test of good-nature, to become criminal ourselves, in order to keep our friends virtuous.' 'a wise legislator,' said the minstrel, 'ought not to forget the eighteenth century, in his retrospection to the sixteenth, nor in his anticipation of the twentieth.' 'i know nothing of anticskippation,' said jerry, 'but i will tell you a bit of a story. when i first went to london, and was poor, i used to dine in a cellar, with other irishmen, where the knives and forks were chained to the table, for fear we should steal them; though in my mind, the surest way to make a rogue, is to let him know that you think him one. well, when we began to grow rich, we got a spirit, and broke the chains, and paid for them; and broke them again, and paid for them again, and so on. at last the master began to see that the same spirit which made us break the chains would prevent us from stealing the knives and forks; so he took off the chains, and then his table was no disgrace, and we brought more company to it, and he made his fortune.' the minstrel and warden now retired to their allotted place of rest--the barouche. each was to keep watch in turn at the castle gate, and to toll the hour on the bell. the wind still moaned round the turret; and now the fire, ghastly in decay, but just tinged the projecting folds of the hangings. dismal looked the bed as i drew near; and while i lifted the velvet pall to creep beneath, i shivered, and almost expected to behold the apparition of a human face, starting from under it. when i lay down, i kept my eyes quite closed, for fear of seeing something; nor was it till the third bell had tolled that i fell asleep. adieu. letter xxxviii i rose early this morning, and summoned jerry to the black chamber, for my head was teeming with the most important projects. 'my friend,' said i, 'though lady gwyn has already acknowledged me as the rightful owner, not alone of this castle, but of the house that she herself inhabits, yet i cannot apply to my tenantry for rent, or even raise a sum of money sufficient to purchase my breakfast, till she surrenders up those deeds and parchments which would give me a legal claim. now as i fear i shall find it a hard matter to make her do so, i have resolved on proposing a compromise, and on waving all title to the house and demesne that she now occupies, provided she will consent to put me in formal possession of this castle, and all the land appertaining to it. 'i have therefore determined to pay her ladyship a visit for this purpose; but as i was driven from her house with disgrace once before, i mean to return thither now with such a train of domestics as shall put it out of her power to offer me insult, or detain my person. 'now, warden, if i could but hire a set of servants, who would consent to live in my castle and defend it, i would, on my part, give each of them a lot of ground, and consider them as feudal vassals; and they could accompany me to lady gwyn's. i have therefore to request that you will instantly set off, and endeavour to procure them for me, as no time is to be lost.' 'begging your ladyship's pardon,' said jerry, 'you are sending me of a fool's errand: for who but madmen would hire as servants in such a castle as this? would you have them build swallows' nests for themselves under the windows, and live on suction like the snipes?' 'mr. sullivan,' said i, 'cast no sarcasms, but go and do as you are desired.' 'well, from this moment out, i say nothing,' cried jerry. 'nothing at all, at all: but like the old woman's crow, i will be the devil for thinking.' 'another sarcasm?' said i. 'may be 'tis better for me to go at once, before i get into a scrape,' cried he. 'so now, your ladyship, how many of these same feudal vessels, as you call 'em; these vessels that are to have no drink----' 'jerry!----' 'well, well, give me my directions quick, and there is my hand on my mouth till i am out of the castle.' 'you may hire about fifteen or twenty of them,' said i. 'but remember, i will have no dapper footmen, with smirking faces. i must have a clan such as we read of in the middle ages; fellows with norman noses, and all sorts of frowns--men of iron, fit to live in comets.' 'better live in comets, than----' but he clapped his hand on his mouth in time, and then ran down the steps. during his absence, i paid a visit to the poor cottagers, and after having sat with them awhile, and promised them assistance before evening, i returned towards the castle. on approaching it, i perceived, to my great surprise, jerry also advancing at the head of about twenty strange looking men, all armed with bludgeons. 'here are the boys!' cried jerry. 'here are the true sort. few norman noses, i believe, but all honest hearts; and though they never lived in comets, egad they lived in ireland, and that is worth fifty comets. look at 'em. hold up your heads, you dogs. they came over only to save the hay, and reap the harvest; but when they found their countryman and a woman in distress, they volunteered their services; and now here they are, ready for that same lady gwyn, or any lady in the land.' 'welcome, my friends,' said i; 'and be well assured that i will reward you munificently.' 'three cheers!' cried jerry. they gave three cheers. my heart dilated with exultation at beholding this assemblage of feudal vassals at my command; and in a moment i had arranged my project. as it was expedient to inspire lady gwyn with respect and awe, i resolved on making the best possible display of my power, taste, and feudal magnificence. of course, i meant to visit her in my barouche; and since i had no horses for it, my plan was to make some of my domestics draw it in a triumphal manner, while the rest should follow in procession. to let them escort me in their own ragged and unclassical dresses was impossible; but i think you will give me credit for my ingenuity in supplying them with others. i determined to divide the black cloth into large pieces, which they should wear as cloaks, and to stick a black feather in each of their hats, a costume that would give them the pleasing appearance of udolphian condottieri. we now set about making the cloaks, but as we had not sufficient cloth remaining, we were obliged to strip the black chamber of part of its hangings. i had appropriated a large portion of the cloth to make flowing drapery for higginson, whom i meant to take in the barouche with me; but as minstrels never wear hats, and have always bald heads, i was at a loss how to manage about his, since he still cherished and curled his locks, with a spruceness most unmeet for minstrelsy. at last, after repeated assurances how much better he would look, i persuaded him to let jerry shave the crown of his head. accordingly, jerry performed the tonsoral operation in the black chamber, while i remained below, fixing the feathers and cloaks on my domestics. these poor fellows, who, i suppose, had never read even an alphabet, much less a romance, in their lives, stood gaping at each other in silent wonder, though some of them attempted unmeaning, and, i must say, troublesome jests on what was going forward. when drest, a more formidable and picturesque group than they presented you never beheld, and while i was still admiring them, forth from the turret issued the minstrel. but such a spectacle! half his huge head was shorn of its hair: his black garments, knotted just under his bare neck, gave a new ghastliness to his face, while his eyes, as he rivetted them upon me, were starting out of their sockets with anxiety and agitation. he looked preternatural. to contain was impossible: i began laughing, and the irishman uttered a shout of derision. the poor man looked round him, turned as pale as ashes; his face began to work and quiver, and at last he burst into a piteous fit of crying. then suddenly lifting a prodigious stone, he whirled it at jerry's head, who ducked for his life, and saved it. 'and what did i do to you?' cried jerry. 'you shaved my head because you knew it would spoil my looks,' cried the minstrel. 'and you are endeavouring to outdo me with my mistress, and she likes you better than me;--but it cannot be holpen. oh, dear, dear!' i tried to sooth him: nothing would do, nor could i persuade him to accompany me; so now, all being ready, i posted two sentinels on the top of the turret, and then got into my barouche. six vassals were deputed to draw it, the rest followed with their oaken saplings under their cloaks, and jerry headed the whole. never was a more august procession; and i will venture to say, that this country, at least, never saw any thing like it. as we proceeded along the road, the people ran out of their houses to gaze on us. some said that we were strolling players, and others swore that we were going to a funeral; while a rabble of boys and girls capered at our heels, and gathered as we went. it was not till about five o'clock that we reached lady gwyn's avenue. we paused there a moment, while i made my attendants shake the dust from their cloaks, and wipe the barouche; and now, with a beating heart, i found myself at her door. jerry then pealed an authoritative rap. the door opened. the servant stared. 'inform the lady gwyn,' said i, 'that her niece, the lady cherubina de willoughby, desires the honour of a conference with her.' the fellow grinned, and vanished; and, in a few minutes, out came her ladyship, accompanied by several guests, some of whose faces i remembered having seen there before. i therefore felt doubly delighted that i had come in such feudal and chivalric pomp. they greeted me with great kindness and respect. carelessly bowing to lady gwyn, as i sat half reclined in the barouche, i thus addressed her: 'i now come to your ladyship with a proposal, which it is as generous in me to offer, as it will be politic in you to accept. and first, learn, that i am at this moment in actual possession of monkton castle, the noble seat of my ancestors. to that castle, and to this house, your ladyship has already acknowledged my just right; and to both, of course, i can establish my claim by a judiciary process. 'as, however, i prefer a more amicable mode of adjustment, and am willing to spare the effusion of money, i now declare my readiness to make over this house and demesne to your ladyship, and to your heirs for ever, on condition that you, on your part, will surrender to me, without delay or reservation, the title deeds of monkton castle, and all the monkton estate. this is a generous proposal. what say you? yes or no?' 'lady cherubina,' returned her ladyship, 'i cannot think of entering into terms with you, till you restore the portrait that you purloined from this house. but, in the mean time, as a proof of my desire to settle matters amicably, i request the honour of your company at dinner to-day.' 'your ladyship must excuse me,' said i, with a noble air. 'during our present dispute respecting this house, i should deem it derogatory to my honour and my dignity, were i to enter it in the capacity of guest.' 'why then, death and 'ounds!' cried jerry, 'is it to refuse so good an offer, after starving all the morning!' 'starving!' cried lady gwyn. 'we have not put a morsel inside our mouths this blessed day,' said jerry; 'and even yesterday we dined on potatoes and milk, and a sort of a contrivance of a cake that your ladyship would'nt throw to your cat.' i thought i should drop at this exposure of our poverty, and i commanded him to be silent. 'time enough for silence when one has spoken,' cried he. 'but sure, would'nt it vex a saint to hear you talking about honour and dignity, when all the time you are in a starving state!' 'sensibly remarked,' said lady gwyn. 'and pray, my good fellow, who are you?' 'my warden,' answered i quickly, lest he should speak. 'and these are my feudal vassals; and i have left my minstrel, and the rest of my faithful people, on the battlements of the eastern tower, just over the black chamber, to guard my castle.' 'and for all this fine talk,' cried jerry, 'we have not so much as a rap farthing amongst the whole set of us. so pray, your ladyship, do make her stay dinner--do. or may be,' (said he, getting closer and whispering lady gwyn), 'may be you would just lend her half-a-crown or so; and, 'pon my soul, i will pay you myself in ten days.' 'silence, traitor!' cried i, rising in the barouche, and dignifying my manner. 'i do not want a dinner: i would not accept of a dinner; but above all, of a dinner in this house, till i am mistress of it!' 'and is it true,' cried jerry to lady gwyn, 'that she is the real mistress of this house?' 'oh! certainly, certainly,' said her ladyship. 'oh! certainly, certainly,' said the guests. 'well, bad luck to me, if ever i believed it, till this moment,' cried jerry. 'and why then won't your ladyship give it up to her?' 'because,' answered she, 'the quiet surrender of an estate was never yet read of in romances.' ''tis the only rational excuse you can assign,' said i. 'dinner is on the table,' said the butler coming to the door. 'and so,' cried jerry to me, 'you won't dine in this house till you are mistress of it?' 'never, as i hope to see heaven!' answered i. 'and so,' cried he to lady gwyn, 'you won't make her mistress of it?' 'never, as i hope to see heaven!' answered she. 'why then,' cried jerry, 'since one refuses to dine in it till she is mistress of it, and since the other owns that she ought to be mistress of it, and yet won't make her mistress of it; by the powers, i will make her mistress of it in two minutes!' so saying, he shouted some words in an uncouth jargon (irish, i suppose) to my vassals, several of whom instantly darted into the house, others brandished their sticks in the faces of the guests; jerry himself ran, lifted me from the barouche, and bore me into the hall; while the rest brought up the rear, and beat back the gentlemen who were attempting to rush between us and the door. jerry set me down in the hall, where i stood motionless, while some of my domestics scudded, with merry uproar, through kitchen, parlour, drawing-room, garret; and drove footman, maid, valet, cook, scullion, and lap-dog, all out of the house. 'now then,' cried jerry, shutting the hall-door, 'your ladyship is in quiet possession for ever and ever.' 'jerry,' said i, 'there is no knowing how this will end. but come into that parlour, for some of my people are making a sad riot there.' in we went; it was the dining-room, and to my great astonishment, i found about a dozen of my domestics already round the table, eating and drinking as if nothing had happened. in vain jerry and i desired them to desist; they did not even seem to hear us. they laughed and capered, and tore whole joints with their hands, and swallowed the richest wines from the decanters. the rest soon flocked in, and then such a scene of confusion arose as struck me with utter dismay. and now, having glutted themselves, they ran to the windows, and exhibited the mangled meat and diminished wine to the dismayed eyes of poor lady gwyn. there she stood in the midst of her friends, looking like a bedlamite; and as soon as i appeared, she beckoned me, with the most frantic gesticulations, to open the window. i called the warden to my side, and flung up the sash. 'let us in, let us in!' cried she. 'my house will be destroyed by these diabolical miscreants! oh! let us in, let us in!' 'lady gwyn,' said i, 'these outrages are on my house, not on your's. but be well assured that whatever injury your personal property may sustain, it is contrary to my wishes, and will by me be amply compensated.' 'gracious powers!' exclaimed she. 'my precious cabinet, and all my furniture will be demolished! won't you save my house? won't you? dear ma'am, won't you?' '_your_ house?' cried jerry. 'why i had your own word for it just now that it was my own lady's house. so, if you told a lie, take the consequence. but we have got possession, and let me see who will dare drive us out.' 'here they are that will soon drive you out!' cried a servant. 'here they are, here they are!' echoed every one. all eyes were now directed down the avenue, and, to my horror, i perceived a large party of soldiers, in full march towards the house. 'we shall have a bloody battle of it,' whispered jerry. 'but never fear, my lady, we will fight to the last gasp. hollo, lads, here is a battle for you!' at that magic word, all the irishmen clubbed their sticks, and ran forward. 'we must surrender,' said i. 'never could i bear the dreadful contest.' 'by the mother that bore me,' cried jerry, 'i will defend the house in spite of you!' 'then i will walk out of it,' said i. 'well, surrender away!' cried jerry, 'and may all the---oh! murder, murder, to give up your own house without a bit of a battle!' by this time the soldiers had arrived, and the magistrate who was at their head, advanced, and desired me to have the door opened instantly. 'provided you pledge yourself that none of my brave fellows shall be punished,' answered i. 'you shall all be punished with the utmost rigour of the law,' said the magistrate. 'since that is the case then,' cried i, 'and since i cannot keep possession of my house, i am resolved that no one else shall. know, sir, i have, at this instant, six of my domestics, each with a lighted brand, stationed in different apartments; and the moment you order your men to advance, that moment i give the signal, and the house bursts into a blaze.' 'if you dare,' cried the magistrate. 'dare!' cried lady gwyn. 'the creature would dare any thing. dare! why she burned a house once before. she did, i protest to you; so pray, make some conditions with her, or she will burn this now. i tell you the girl is quite----' and she whispered something in the magistrate's ear. 'well,' said the magistrate to me, 'will you promise never to come here again, provided i now let you and your gang pass without detention or punishment?' 'i will,' answered i. 'but i must make some conditions too. in the first place, will your ladyship give me back my cloaths and the money that i left behind me, when i was here last?' 'i will,' answered her ladyship. 'in the next place,' said i, 'will your ladyship promise not to prevent me from inhabiting monkton castle, till such time as the law shall determine which of us has a right to the contested estates?' 'undoubtedly,' replied her ladyship. 'and now,' said i, 'i must have the distinct and solemn declaration of every individual present, that neither myself nor my people shall suffer any molestation in consequence of what we have done.' all present pledged their honours. 'now then,' said i, 'we will open the door.' accordingly, the warden opened it, and i issued forth with a majestic demeanour, while my awful band marched after their triumphant mistress. lady gwyn and her guests hastened into the house, without even wishing me good evening, and the soldiers drew up before the door. in a few minutes, a servant came out with my dresses and the money. having received them, i got into my barouche, and, drawn by my vassals, proceeded homeward. we were silent for some time, but at length i called jerry to the side of the carriage. 'well, my friend,' cried i, quite cheerful, 'i think we have come off famously.' 'yes,' said jerry. 'i flatter myself,' added i, 'we have made a good day's work of it.' 'yes,' said jerry. 'nothing but yes!' said i. 'why now, do you not think we have obtained the most decisive advantages? was it not a glorious affair?' 'since i must speak out,' cried jerry, 'i think it was the bluest business that ever was botched by poltroons.' 'it was all your own doing, however,' said i. 'so now you may walk on, sir.' jerry tossed his hat at one side, and strutted forward. 'come back, jerry,' cried i. 'here is my hand. you are a faithful fellow, and would have died for me.' 'ah, bless you!' cried he. 'you quarrel like a cat, but you make up like an angel!' it was night before we reached the castle; and as i had not tasted a morsel all day, i dispatched jerry to the village for provisions, and other matters. i then divided six guineas among my domestics, and desired them to return next morning, as i should want them to repair the fortifications, dig a mote, and excavate subterranean passages. they gave three cheers, and departed. in about an hour jerry returned with a cart containing an abundant stock of provisions;--bread, meat, potatoes, tea, sugar, &c. besides, a kettle, plates, cups and saucers, &c. after having unloaded and dismissed the cart, we made a fire in the black chamber, and supped. i then took a solitary walk, and carried some victuals to the poor cottagers. they received the donation with gratitude, and i left them to the comforts of a hearty meal. it is now probable that i may reside some time at my castle; and as to my villa, i wish lady gwyn joy of it; for in my opinion it is a fright. conceive the difference between the two. the villa mere lath and plaster; with its pretty little stucco-work, and its pretty little paintings, and its pretty little bronzes. nice, new, sweet, and charming, are the only epithets that one can apply to it; while antique, sublime, terrible, picturesque, and gothic, are the adjectives appropriate to my castello. what signify laced footmen, chinese vases, grecian tripods, and turkish sofas, in comparison with feudal vassals, ruined towers, black hangings, dampness, and ivy? and to a person of real taste, a single stone of this edifice is worth a whole cart-load of such stones as the onyx, and sardonyx, and the other barbarous baubles belonging to lady gwyn. but nothing diverts me more than the idea that poor lady gwyn is twice as old as the house she lives in. i have got a famous simile on the subject. what think you of a decayed nut in an unripe shell? the woman is sixty if she is a day. adieu. letter xxxix the moist shadows of night had fled, dawn shook the dew from his purple ringlets, and the sun, that well-known gilder of eastern turrets, arose with his usual punctuality. i too rose, and having now recovered my wardrobe, enjoyed the luxury of changing my dress; for i had worn the same cloaths several days, and consequently was become a perfect slattern. how other heroines manage, i cannot imagine; for i have read of some of them who were thrown among mountains, or into cells, and desolate chambers, and caverns; full of slime, mud, vermin, dust, and cobwebs, where they remained whole months without clean linen, soap, brush, towel, or comb; and, at last, when rescued from captivity, forth they walked, glittering like the morning star, as fragrant as a lily, and as fresh as an oyster. we breakfasted on the top of the tower; and after our repast, the minstrel told me that he had employed the day before in composing a metrical romance, called 'monkton castle;' which, with my permission, he would now repeat. i was delighted; and to give it every advantage, i placed him at the harp, flung his black garments over him, and making him sit on the battlements, endeavoured to fix him in the fine attitude of old allan bane; but his limbs were so muscular and impracticable, that i could make nothing of them. with an emphatic enunciation, he thus began. monkton castle a metrical romance awake, my harp, sweet plaintiff, wake once more, now while bedight in shadowy amice dim, eve bathes the mountains in her radiant gore, and edges ocean with a fiery rim. and while i touch, with nails ypared anew, thy parallel and quadrupedal strings, may fairies brush away the vesper dew, that else mote moist the chorded chitterlings. and ah! full oft the learned tribe, i trow, with baleful dews of cavil damp thy strain. but morning shall return, the sun shall glow, the baleful dews shall fly, the harp shall sound again. it was a castle of turrets grey, all nettles and chickweed inside; where the wind did howl the livelong day, and the livelong night beside. it had no windows or roof, i am sure, or parlour for bell-accoyle; where a belamay and a belamoure, in daynt bellgards mote moyl. 'that same parlour,' said jerry, 'has bells enough to bother the rookery of thomastown, and that is the largest in ireland.' nathlesse, to stablish her rights, i ween, came to that castle fair cherubine. nor the wind day and night could her astound, nor the nettles and chickweed that grew on the ground. she was of the house of de willoughby, and her story was long and melancholie; but her beauty never could rivalled be. glittered her tresses like beams of sun, and snake-like over her neck did run. her cheek, where dimples made beauteous breach, lovelily smiled, and the down on each was soft as fur of unfingered peach. while thro' her marble a blush did gleam, like ruddy berries, all crushed in cream. the minstrel to the castle hied, his mother's hope, his mother's pride. gramercy, how that mother cried! he was a gentle man of thought, and grave, but not ungracious aught. his face with thinking lines was wrought. and though his head was bald a space, than he who shore it will get grace. 'now that is a slap at me!' cried jerry. yet, though he sold full half his books, to lay out money on his looks; the lady had such deep disdain; that the poor minstrel, in his pain, from the hour that is natal, to the hour that is fatal, mote sing these words, and sing in vain. song _the birds are all singing, the bells are all ringing, and tidings are bringing, of peace and of joy. then let us, my treasure, in love without measure, and tenderest pleasure, our moments employ._ 'eh! what? what's all that?' cried jerry. 'why sure--body o'me, sure you ant--oh, confound me, but 'tis making love to the mistress you are!' the minstrel blushed, and more pointedly repeated; but her favourite warden, could he but sing, he not unlistened, would touch the string, tho' he was a man with unchisseled face; from eye to eye too little a space; a jester withouten one attic joke, and the greatest liar that ever spoke. 'bad luck to you, what do you mean by that?' cried jerry, running towards him. 'i will box you for a shilling!' 'you are not worth one,' exclaimed the minstrel, starting up. 'i will leave your carcase not worth one,' cried jerry. 'that would be more than your's is worth now,' returned the minstrel. 'for shame, my friends!' cried i. 'mr. higginson, i declare your conduct is that of a child.' 'because you treat me like one,' said he. 'and you treat him like a man.' 'but you should treat him like a gentleman,' said i. 'well, well, well,' cried the minstrel; 'there is my hand for you, mr. sullivan.' 'and there is mine for you,' said jerry. 'hand in hand is better than fist to fist at any time.' 'i will defer hearing the remainder of your poem,' said i, 'till you have altered it. but my good friend, do not forget to tell that i inhabit the _eastern_ turret, and to give a full description of it. you might begin thus: he who would view that east turret aright, must go at rosy-finger'd morning bright.' 'rosy-fingered morning!' cried jerry. 'why, how can the morning have rosy fingers?' 'it has not,' answered i. 'the poets only say so by way of ornament.' 'and yet,' cried jerry, 'if i had said, when i was telling you my history, that i saw a set of red fingers and thumbs rising in the east every morning, i warrant you would have called me a liar, just as you did about that business of the pacific ocean.' 'why,' said the minstrel, 'we poets are permitted a peculiar latitude of language, which enables us to tell homeric falsehoods, without fear of the society for discountenancing vice. thus, when we speak of the lightning of her angel smile, we do not expect one to believe that fire comes out of her mouth, whenever it laughs.' 'not unless her teeth were flints,' said jerry. 'but if you said that fire came out of her eyes, one would believe you sooner; for this i know, that many and many a time molly has struck fire out of mine.' 'a heroine's eye,' said i, 'gives a greater scope to the poet than any thing in the world. it is all fire and water. if it is not beaming, or sparkling, it is sure to be drowned or swimming----' 'in the pacific ocean, i hope,' cried jerry. 'no, but in tears,' said the minstrel. 'and of these there is an infinite variety. there is the big tear, and the bitter tear, and the salt tear, and the scalding tear.' 'and, ah!' cried i, 'how delightful, when two lovers lay cheek to cheek, and mingle these tears; or when the tender youth kisses them from his mistress's cheek!' 'troth, then, that must be no small compliment,' said jerry, 'since they are so brackish and scalding as you say. water itself is maukish at any time, but salt water is the devil. well, if i took such a dose of a snivelling chit's tears, i would season it with a dram, or my name is not jerry.' 'and, by the by, i wish jerry were not your name,' said i. ''tis so vulgar for a warden. indeed, i have often thought of altering it to _jeronymo_; which, i fancy, is the italian of _jerry_. for, in my opinion, nothing can equal italian names ending in o.' 'except irish names beginning with o,' cried jerry. 'nay,' said i, 'what can be finer than montalto, stefano, morano, rinaldo, ubaldo, utaldo?' 'i will tell you,' said jerry. 'o'brien, o'leary, o'flaherty, o'flanigan, o'guggerty, o'shaugnassy----' 'oh, ecstasy!' exclaimed a voice just beneath the turret. i looked down, and beheld--montmorenci himself, clad in armour, and gazing up at me with an attitude that mocked mortal pencil. i waved my hand, and smiled. 'what? whom do i behold?' cried he. 'ah,'tis but a dream! yet i spoke to her, i am sure i spoke to her; and she beckoned me. merciful powers! why this terror? is it not cherubina, and would cherubina hurt her montmorenci?' 'jerry, jerry,' said i; 'run down to the black chamber, and clean it out quick. sweep the ashes into a corner, hide the pipkin and kettle, pin up the cloaks against the walls; put the leg of mutton under the bed. run, run.--my lord, the lady cherubina hastes to receive your lordship at her ever-open portal.' i then descended, and met him beneath the gateway. his greeting was frantic, but decorous; mine endearing, but reserved. several very elegant things were said on both sides. of course, he snatched my hand, and fed upon it. at last, when i supposed that jerry had regulated the room above, i conducted his lordship up the steps; while i anticipated his delight at beholding so legendary, fatal, and inconvenient a chamber. his astonishment was, indeed, excessive. he stared round and round, admired the black hangings, the bed, the bell, and the horn. 'i see,' said he, advancing to the ashes, 'that you are even classical enough to burn a fire of wood. but ha! (and he started,) what do mine eyes behold beneath these embers? a bone, by all that is horrible! perhaps part of the skeleton of some hysterical innocent, or some pathetic count, who was murdered centuries ago in the haunted apartment of this mysterious castle. interesting relic! speak, lady cherubina. is it as i suspect?' 'why,' said i, 'i believe--that is to say--for aught i can tell----' ''pon my conscience,' cried jerry, 'her ladyship knows just as well as i do that 'tis nothing but the blade-bone of mutton which she got broiled for her supper last night.' 'impossible, sir!' exclaimed his lordship. 'a heroine never eats of a four-footed animal. 'tis always the leg of a lark, or the wing of a chicken.' and so saying, he began divesting himself of his spear, shield, and helmet. 'pray, mr. blunderer,' whispered i to jerry, 'did i not desire you to clean out the room?' 'you did not say a word about the blade-bone,' said jerry. 'but did i not bid you clean out the room?' repeated i. 'don't i tell you----' cried jerry. 'can't you speak low?' said i. 'don't i tell you that not one syllable about the blade-bone ever came outside your lips?' 'grant me patience!' said i. 'answer me yes or no. did i, or did i not, order you to clean out the room?' 'now bad luck to me,' said he, 'if you ant all this time confounding the blade-bone of mutton with the leg of mutton that you bade me put under the bed. and accordingly----' 'gracious goodness!' said i, 'can't you speak within your breath?' 'and accordingly,' whispered he, 'i put it under the velvet pall, because i thought it might be seen under the bed.' 'well, that shewed _some_ discretion,' said i. 'though after all my pains,' said jerry, 'there is the man in the tin cloaths has just stripped down that same pall, and discovered the mutton, and the parsnips, and the bag of salt, and the pewter spoons, and----' 'oh, jerry, jerry!' said i, dropping my arms lifeless at my sides; 'after that, i give you up!' i then called to his lordship, and drew off his attention, by beginning an account of all that had happened since our parting. he listened with great eagerness; and, after my recital, begged of the warden to retire with him, that they might consult on the best line of policy to be adopted in the present state of my affairs. they descended the steps; i remained alone. montmorenci had left his helmet, shield, and spear behind. i pressed each of them to my heart, heaved several sighs, and paced the chamber. still i felt that i was not half fervent or tender enough; something was still wanting, and i had just asked myself if that something could be love, when i heard a sudden disturbance below; his lordship crying out, 'oh, what shall i do?' and jerry bidding him 'grin and bear it.' down i hastened, and beheld jerry belabouring him without mercy. 'wretch,' cried i, rushing between them: 'forbear.' 'not till i beat him to a paste,' cried jerry. 'the villain, to go and offer me a bribe if i would help him in forcing you to marry him.' ''tis false as hell!' cried his lordship. 'i would stake my life that it is,' said i. 'so now, mr. sullivan, down on your knees this moment, and ask pardon, or quit my service.' 'but can that restore the teeth he has knocked out?' exclaimed his lordship, with a finger in his mouth. 'teeth!' cried i, shuddering. 'two teeth,' said he. 'two teeth!' exclaimed i, faintly. 'two front teeth,' said he. 'then all is over!' muttered i. 'matters have taken a dreadful turn.' 'what do you mean?' cried he. 'my lord,' said i, 'are you quite, quite certain that you have lost them?' 'see yourself,' cried he, lifting his lip. 'they are gone, gone for ever!' 'they are indeed,' said i. 'and now you may be gone too.' 'ha! what mean you?' cried he. 'my lord,' said i, 'of this you must be conscious, that a complete set of teeth are absolutely indispensible to a hero.' 'well?' cried he, starting. 'well,' said i, 'having lost two of your's, you must be conscious that you are no longer a hero.' 'you stretch my heart-strings!' cried he. 'speak! what hideous whim is this?' 'no whim, my lord,' answered i; 'but principle, and founded on law heroic; founded on that law, which rejects as heroes, the maimed, the blind, the deformed, and the crippled. trust me, my good lord, teeth are just as necessary in the formation of a hero as a comb.' 'by heaven!' cried he; 'i can get other teeth at a dentist's; a composition of paste that would amaze you. i can by all that is just.' 'that you may, my lord,' said i, 'and be happy with them; for never can you be happy with me.' 'i am wilder than madness itself!' cried he; 'i am more desperate than despair! i will fly to the ends of the earth, hide in a cavern, and throw my ideas into a sonnet. on a fine summer's evening, when you walk towards the mountains, sometimes think of me.' 'never as a lover, my lord,' said i: 'so put that out of your head at once. oh! it shocks me to think i should ever have received you as one!' he began a tremendous imprecation; but was interrupted by the sudden arrival of a gentleman on horseback with a servant after him. the gentleman stopped, alighted, approached. 'mr. betterton!' cried i; 'can it be possible?' 'nothing is impossible,' said he, with his obsequious bow and confirmed smile, 'when the charming cherubina prompts our efforts. you remember you left me in a ridiculous dilemma, which your friend stuart contrived;--masterpiece of ingenuity, faith, and for which i freely forgive him: he's an excellent young fellow; excellent, 'pon my soul; and i have made my friends so merry with an account of that affair. well, i remained in limbo till the sessions, when none appearing to prosecute, the judge discharged me; so the first use i made of my liberty was to visit lady gwyn, who told me that i should find you here; here therefore i am to pay you my devoirs.' i thanked him, and then bade jerry run towards the village, and hurry my vassals; as the castle lost much of its pomp without them. jerry went: my visitors recognized each other; and already their hostile feelings and opposite interests had began to manifest themselves, when, to my great surprise, three men turned short round the western tower, and stood before me. 'that is she!' cried one of them. i looked at the speaker, and recognized in him the postilion who had brought down the barouche. 'your name is cherry wilkinson,' said another of them to me. 'sir,' said i, haughtily: 'my name is lady cherubina de willoughby.' 'that is your _travelling_ name,' rejoined he: 'but your real name i discovered at your lodgings in drury-lane; which lodgings i found out from the wife of one jerry sullivan, the man that conspired with you to swindle mr. perrot, the coach-maker, out of the barouche yonder. you see, i have the whole story; so you need not deny it; and now, miss, look at this warrant. i arrest you, in the king's name, for the most audacious piece of swindling that ever came in my way to know.' with these words he seized me, and was dragging me from the castle, while i screamed for help. 'a rescue! a rescue!' cried betterton, and collared the man who held me. montmorenci laid hold of the other, and the servant felled the postilion to the ground. and now a furious fight began. the man whom betterton had seized drew a pistol and fired it: at this moment, down came the minstrel from the turret; i got loose and ran into the castle, nor ventured to look again, till, after much uproar, i heard a shout of victory from my friends: then venturing to the gateway, i saw the three wretches limping from the place, in piteous plight. it now appeared that the ball aimed at betterton had just grazed the fleshy part of his servant's arm, which was bleeding a good deal. i felt much shocked, and assisted him in binding the wound. this matter employed some minutes, and during that time, i could perceive betterton and montmorenci whispering earnestly together. at last betterton addressed me thus: 'now, lady cherubina, should we remain here much longer, we shall certainly be seized and imprisoned for having assaulted his majesty's officers in the discharge of their duty. we have, therefore, nothing for it but flight. my house is but a few miles distant, and as these officers could not have known me, we shall be perfectly safe there. what says your ladyship? shall we repair thither?' 'sir,' answered i; 'as i was not concerned in that assault, and as i am innocent of the crime for which they came to take me, nothing shall induce me to quit my castle: if they chuse to make another attempt, i shall go with them, establish my innocence, and return triumphant. but if i am to act on the skulking system, how can i reside here at all?' montmorenci now joined his entreaties, but i remained immoveable. again they retired to consult, and again came forward. 'lady cherubina,' said betterton, 'you must excuse me when i say that both lord montmorenci (for his lordship has just disclosed to me his noble lineage) and myself conceive ourselves fully warranted in compelling, if we cannot persuade your ladyship, to leave this castle (where we cannot remain to protect you), and in conveying you to my mansion, where you will be safe.' 'compel me?' cried i. 'compel me? but i disdain to hold farther parley with you. farewell for ever. minstrel, follow me to the black chamber.' 'stop them!' cried betterton. his lordship placed himself between us and the gateway: the minstrel, brandishing his collected knuckles, struck him to the ground. betterton assailed my brave defender behind, the servant before; but he fought with desperation, and his blow was like the kick of a horse. still numbers appeared about to prevail; and now his breathing grew shorter, and his blow slower, when, transport to my sight! i beheld jerry, with several of my vassals, come running towards us. they reached us: the tide of battle turns, and his lordship and the servant are well beaten with bludgeons; while jerry himself does the honours to betterton, in a kicking. nobody could bear it more gently than he did; and after it was over, he mounted his horse and vociferated: 'now, by all that is sacred, i will go this moment, raise the neighbourhood, and have you driven from your nest, you set of vipers;--you common nuisances, you! lady gwyn's castle shall no longer be made the receptacle of ragged and marauding irishmen.' so saying, off he gallopped on one horse, and his lordship on another; while the servant trudged on foot. we now held a grand council of war, for affairs began to wear an alarming aspect. if betterton should put his threat of raising the neighbourhood into execution, a most formidable force might be collected against us. after much deliberation, therefore, it was decided, that some of the vassals should be dispatched to collect more of their countrymen, who, they said, slept in several adjoining villages. i too wrote a note to susan, begging that she would raise a counterposse in my favour, and rescue me from an implacable enemy, as i had rescued her from a criminal and fatal attachment. this note i sent to her cottage by one of my vassals. during this awful interval, the remainder of those who had been with me yesterday arrived. i planted sentinels and outposts, and employed the rest in filling up the windows with stones, repairing the breaches, and searching amidst the rubbish for the mouth of some subterranean cavern, where i might conceal myself in the last emergency. as i had not a white and azure standard, like beatrice, i directed jerry to stain a large piece of muslin with the blood of the wounded servant, which still besprinkled the grass; then to fasten it on a long pole, and hoist it, as my banner, at an angle of the eastern turret. susan's cottage being only half a mile from the castle, the messenger soon returned with an answer, that she would certainly assemble her friends, and come to me. just as he had announced these happy tidings, another came back, with a fresh accession of ten irishmen; and in a short time more arrived; till at length we mustered to the amount of fifty. i stood, and gloried in my strength. already i beheld the foundation of a feudal settlement. already i considered myself the restorer of that chivalric age, when neighbouring barons were deadly foes, and their sons and daughters clandestine lovers. ah! what times for a heroine! it was then that the lady buccleugh and the duchess of cleves flourished. 'and these,' cried i, in an ecstasy of enthusiasm, 'these shall again revive in the person of lady cherubina de willoughby!' as i spoke, jerry came to tell me that one of the scouts had just returned with information of his having seen a large party of lady gwyn's tenants assembling about a quarter of a mile off; in order, as he found on inquiry, to drive us from the castle. now then was approaching the most important moment of my life, and i resolved to support my part with dignity. as the first step, i dressed myself in a style of magnificence suited to the occasion. having flung the drapery of embroidered gauze over my white muslin, i next (in imitation of ancient heroines, who wore armour in the day of battle), put montmorenci's helmet on my head; then, with his shield in the one hand, and his spear in the other, never did i look so lovely. i now called up the warden, and constituted him commander of the forces; then ordered him to send six picked men, and the minstrel, as my body-guards, up to the black chamber. they came; i equipped them in black cloaks and feathers, and made them mount to the top of the tower. in a few minutes afterwards i myself ascended with a beating heart. there i found the preparations for battle almost completed. the bloody standard was streaming to the gale; the body-guards were collecting a heap of stones from the broken parapet; while beneath the turret i beheld the whole of my troops, with oaken staffs, marshalled in awful array. the spectacle was grand and imposing. lightly i leaned on my spear; and while my feathered casque pressed my ringlets, and my purfled drapery floated and glistened in the sun, i stood on the battlements, mildly sublime, sweetly stern, amiable in arms, and adorned with all the terrible graces of beauty belligerent. i now resolved to harangue my men for the purpose of encouraging them, and of attaching them to my person; but as i knew nothing of political orations, i had nothing for it but to copy the speech of beatrice in the knights of the swan; and those that i had read in the daily prints. a profound silence prevailed; i waved my spear, and thus began. 'my brave associates, partners of my toil, my feelings and my fame! two days have i now been sovereign of this castle, and i hope i may flatter myself that i have added to its prosperity. young, and without experience, i merely claim the merit of blameless sentiments and intentions. 'threatened with a barbarous incursion from my deadliest enemies, i have deemed it indispensible to collect a faithful band of vassals for my defence. they have come at my call, and i thank them. 'i promise to them all such laws and institutions as shall secure their happiness. i will acknowledge the majesty of the people. (_applause._) i will give to them a full, fair, and free representation. (_applause._) and i will grant to them a radical reform; or in other words, a revival of the feudal system. (_shouts of applause._) i will assume no monarchial prerogatives that are unjust; if i should, do not forget that the people have always the power and the right to depose a tyrant. 'i promise that there shall be no dilapidated hopes and resources; no army of mercenaries, no army of spies, no inquisition of private property, no degraded aristocracy, no oppressed people, no confiding parliament, no irresponsible minister. (_acclamation._) in short, i promise every thing. (_thunders of acclamation._) 'each man shall have an acre of ground, a cottage, and an annual salary. (_long life to you! cried the troops. that is the best thing you have said!_) such is the constitution, such are the privileges that i propound to you. now then, my brave fellows, will you consent on these conditions to rally round my standard, to live in my service, and to die in my defence? (_we will! we will! cried they._) 'thank you, my generous followers; and the crisis is just approaching when i shall have occasion for your most strenuous exertions. already my mortal foe prepares to storm my castle, and drive me from my hereditary domain. already he has excited my own tenantry to sedition against me. should he succeed in his atrocious object, i must return to my tears, and you to your sickles. but should we repel him, my government will be secured, my territory perhaps enlarged, my castle rebuilt; and the cause of liberty will triumph. what heart but throbs, what voice but shouts, at the name of liberty? (_huzza!_) is there a man amongst you who would refuse to lay down his life for liberty? (_huzza!_) and if, on an important occasion like the present, i might take the liberty--(_huzza!_) to dictate, i would demand of you this day to sacrifice every earthly consideration in her sacred cause. i do demand it of you, my friends. i call upon your feelings, your principles, and your policy, to discard family, property, and life, in a cause so just, so wise, and so glorious. let eye, foot, heart, hand, be firm, be stern, be valiant, be invincible!' i ceased, the soldiery tore the blue air with acclamations, and the ravens overhead flew swifter at the sound. i now found that it was not difficult to make a popular speech; and i judged that the same qualities which have made me so good a heroine, would, if i were a man, have made me just as illustrious a patriot. after much entreaty, i persuaded the minstrel to deliver an address; as he, being learned, might expound constitutions and political economy better than i. he therefore leaned over the battlements, and began. 'gentlemen, 'unaccustomed as i am to public speaking, i feel that words are inadequate to express my high sense of the honour you have conferred upon us. gentlemen, i will institute an apt comparison between the foundation of this little settlement, and that of the ancient romans; in order to prove, that this, though small at present, may, like that, terminate in an extensive empire. gentlemen, rome took its rise from a set of the greatest beggars and reprobates that ever crawled upon earth----' 'throw him over, throw him over!' burst from the troops. the minstrel shrunk back in consternation. 'silence, lads,' cried jerry, 'and i will make a bit of a speech for you; but instead of sending you to rome, i will send you no farther than ballinasloe. (_laughter and bravo!_) eh, my boys, don't you remember the good old fun at the fair there? to be sure, how we used to break each other's heads, without the least anger or mercy; and to be sure, 'tis the finest feel in the world, when one gives a fellow a neat, clean, bothering blow over the skull, and down he drops like a sack; then rises, and shakes himself like a wet dog, and begins again. (_much laughter._) ay, my boys, fighting may be an englishman's or a frenchman's business, but by the lord harry, 'tis an irishman's amusement! (_shouts._) so now, hearties, all you have to do is to club your sticks, and fancy yourselves at ballinasloe; and never heed me if we havn't a nice comfortable fight of it.' rude as was this rhetoric, it touched the domestic spring of their hearts, and my patriotic promises did not produce half such a roar of delight as followed it. silence was but just restored, when i beheld, from my turret, our enemies advancing in vast numbers across the common. i confess my heart sank at the sight; but i soon called to mind the courage of the feudal heroines, and recollected that i was in no personal danger myself. then, the greatness of the cause animating me with ardour, i exclaimed: 'lo! yonder come our enemies. to arms, to arms! sound the tocsin; blow, blow the horn!' a vassal blew the horn. the warden then stationed his men in front of the gate-way, which was the only vulnerable entrance into the castle; and my body-guards, holding huge stones, stood forward on the battlements. all was ready. i trembled with agitation. and now the foe, having approached within fifty paces, halted to reconnoitre. the traitor montmorenci, divested of his armour, commanded them in person. betterton was seen on horseback at a distance; and the troops themselves, about sixty in number, stood brandishing stakes, bludgeons, and poles. as my men were not more than fifty in all, i looked round, with anxious expectation, for the succours promised by susan; but no sign of them appeared. montmorenci now began to form his troops into a compact phalanx, with the poles and stakes in front; evidently for the purpose of piercing our line, and forcing the gateway. jerry, therefore, called in his wings, and strengthened the centre. he then desired those in the turret to direct all their stones against the foremost rank of the foe. 'soldiers,' cried i, 'listen to my last commands. the moment you shall hear the horn sound again, whether in the midst of conquest, or of defeat, hurry back to the gateway, and draw up just as you stand at present; for while you are fighting at a distance, my castle may be taken by surprise, unless i secure prompt assistance. and now, my brave fellows, success attend your arms!' as i spoke, the foe began advancing at a rapid rate: my troops awaited them with firmness; and when they had approached within fifteen paces of the castle, i gave the word to my body-guards, who hurled several vollies of stones in quick succession. some of the foremost rank were staggered by them; two behind fell, and amidst the confusion, in rushed my troops with a tremendous shout. thick pressed the throng of waving heads, and loud grew the clamour of voices, and the clatter of staffs; while the wielded weapons appeared and disappeared, like fragments of a wreck on the tossing surges. for some moments both armies fought in one unbroken mass; those struggling to gain the gateway, these to prevent them. but soon, as two streams rushing from opposite mountains, and meeting in the valley, broaden into a lake, and run off in little rivulets; so the contending ranks, after the first encounter, began to spread by degrees, and scatter over the plain. and now they were seen intermingled with each other, and fighting man to man. here a small wing of my brave troops, hemmed in on all sides, were defending themselves with incredible fury. there a larger division of them were maintaining a doubtful contest: while a few straggling vassals, engaged in single combat, at a distance, were driving their antagonists before them. at this juncture, montmorenci, with a chosen band that he kept round his person, had attacked the warden, and a few who fought by his side. these performed prodigies of valour; but at last, overpowered by numbers, they were beginning to retire, covered with glory, when i dispatched four of my body-guards, as a corps of reserve, to their assistance. they rushed upon the chosen band, and checked its career. it soon received reinforcements, and again pressed forward. i sent out the minstrel and another vassal; and again its progress was checked. but now my castle had but a single defender: our foes were drawing frightfully near; and if they could once turn our flank, they would gain the turret, and make me their prisoner. this was the great crisis. a moment more, and all might be lost. 'blow, blow the horn!' cried i. the vassal blew the horn. at the signal, i see my dispersed troops come pouring from all quarters towards the castle. they reach the gateway, halt, and form a front before it. the foe, who had followed them in a confused manner, seeing them on a sudden so formidable, stop short. 'let the body-guards come into the castle!' cried i. the body-guards obeyed. 'now, soldiers,' cried i to the rest, 'if you rush upon the foe before they can collect again, and keep in a body with your captain, the day is our own.' 'spring on them like lions! away, away!' the whole army shouted, and burst forward in a mass. jerry led the van. montmorenci with his sacred squadron fled before them. they pursued, overtook the fugitives, and after a short skirmish, made the whole detachment prisoners; while the remainder, scattered in all directions, stood at a distance, and dared not advance. never was a more decisive victory. my brave veterans marched back in triumph with eight captives; and then halting at the gateway, gave three cheers. palpitating with transport, i commanded that the prisoners' hands should be tied behind their backs, and that they should be confined in the northern tower, with sentinels over them. as for lord montmorenci, his rank entitled him to more respect; so i ordered the warden to conduct him up to the black chamber. i stood in the midst of my guards to receive him; and if ever grandeur and suavity were blended in one countenance, it was in mine, at that glorious moment. 'my lord,' said i, 'victory, which so long hovered over the field with doubtful wing, has at last descended on my legions, and crowned the scale of justice with the laurel of triumph. but though it has also put the person and the fate of the hostile chieftain in my hands, think not i mean to use my power with harshness. within these walls your lordship shall experience the kindest treatment; but beyond them you must not be permitted to go, till my rights are re-established and my rebellious vassals restored to their allegiance.' 'fal lal la, lal lal la,' said his lordship, stepping a minuet. 'pinion him hand and foot!' cried i, quite disgusted and enraged. 'i will have no minuets in this castle.' 'that i will do,' cried jerry, 'for his feet are nimble enough at making off. though he talks big, he runs fast. the creature is all voice and legs, like a grasshopper.' just as the minstrel and warden had secured his wrists and ankles with a handkerchief, a vassal came to tell me that a number of men, and a girl at their head, were running towards the castle. 'i thought she would not disappoint me!' cried i, as i hastened down to meet her. it was, indeed, susan herself, and a train of youths. i stood at the gateway ready to receive her, and trembling with terror, lest betterton and the routed remains of his army, who were now consulting together at some distance, should intercept her. these fears were not at all lessened when i saw her stop, as she arrived amongst them, and converse with them some time. i made my men hold themselves in readiness to support her, and we shouted to her with all our might. but just judge of my consternation, when i beheld her and her party enrolling themselves in the hostile ranks, and the whole allied force preparing to pour down upon us! i stood horror-struck. her ingratitude, her perfidy, were incredible. but i had no time for moral reflection. my own glory and the interests of my people demanded all my thoughts. what was i to do? we had taken but eight prisoners, and these too would require a strong guard; while the traiterous susan had brought a reinforcement of twenty men to the foe; so that to contend against such superior numbers in the field would be madness. i determined therefore to draw all my troops and all my prisoners into the eastern turret, and to stand a regular siege; for, as we had a large stock of provisions, we might hold out several days. in the mean time our enemies, tired of such a protracted mode of warfare, and having other occupations of more importance, would probably retire and leave us in quiet possession. this plan was put into instant execution. i had the prisoners placed in the black chamber, with a numerous guard; and i made the remainder of my soldiery man the battlements. these arrangements were but just completed, when i beheld our formidable opponents advancing in line, with betterton, on horseback, at their head. again my men armed themselves with stones; again the horn was sounded; again three cheers were given. when the besiegers had arrived within forty paces of us, they halted. then betterton, waving a white handkerchief, advanced under the walls, and spoke thus: 'lady cherubina de willoughby, i demand of you to surrender at discretion. refuse, and i pledge myself that in five minutes i will drive the leopard into the sea, and plant my standard on the towers of monkton.' 'sir, i both refuse, and defy you. my castle is impregnable.' 'not to hunger, at least,' cried betterton; 'for we will turn the siege into a blockade.' 'yes, to hunger!' exclaimed the minstrel, flinging down half a loaf of bread, that had remained since breakfast. 'there, sir, is a proof of it, deduced from the roman history!' 'as i perceive that war is inevitable,' said betterton, 'i shall stand acquitted both here and hereafter for all its consequences by my now just going through the form of proposing a general pacification.' 'pacific ocean!' cried jerry. 'no, thank you; i have got a surfeit of that word already.' 'nay, my honest fellow----' 'never honest-fellow me,' cried jerry: 'it won't take, old boy. so bad manners to you, and that is worse than bad luck, go boil your tongue hard, like a calve's, and then it won't wag so glib and smooth;--ay, and go boil your nose white like veal too. but this i can tell you, that you will neither beat us out, nor starve us out; for we have sticks and stones, and meat and good liquor; and we will eat together, and drink together, and----' 'and sleep together, i suppose,' cried betterton: 'for of course, her ladyship will think nothing of sleeping in the same apartment with twenty or thirty men.' the fatal words fell upon me like a thunderbolt! it was, indeed, too true, that a large portion of my troops must remain all night in the black chamber, as there would be no room for them elsewhere: so how in the name of wonder could i contrive to sleep? certain it is, that ellena di rosalba travelled a whole day and night in a carriage with two ruffians, who never left her for a moment; and it was not till after luxima and the missionary had journeyed together several entire days, that (to quote the very words) _for the first time since the commencement of their pilgrimage she was hidden from his view_. how these heroines managed i know not; but this i know, that i could not abide the idea of sleeping in the presence of men. and yet, to surrender my sweet, my beloved, my venerable castle, the hereditary seat of my proud progenitors, at the moment of an immortal victory, ere the laurel was yet warmed on the throbbings of my forehead;--and all for what? for the most pitiful and unclassical reason that ever disgraced a human creature. why, i should be pointed at, scouted at. 'look, look, there is the heroine who surrendered her castle, because----' and then a whisper and a titter, and a ''tis fact 'pon my honour.' oh, my friend, my friend, the thought was madness! i considered, and reconsidered, but every moment only strengthened me more and more in the conviction that there was no remedy. 'jerry,' said i, 'dear jerry, we must surrender.' 'surrender!' exclaimed jerry, 'why then, death alive, for what?' 'because,' answered i, 'my modesty would prevent me from sleeping before so many men.' 'poo,' cried he, 'do as i do. have too much modesty to shew your modesty. sleep? by my soul you shall sleep, and snore too, if you have a mind. sleep? sure, can't you pin the curtains round, so that we shan't see you? sleep? sure, how did the ladies manage on board the packet that i came over in? sleep--sleep--sleep? o murder. i believe we must surrender, sure enough. o murder, murder, 'tis all over with us? for now that i think of it, we shan't have even room to lie down you know.' 'this is a sad affair,' said i to the minstrel. 'can you devise no remedy?' 'none,' said the minstrel, blushing through his very eyeballs. 'well,' cried betterton, 'is the council of war over?' 'yes, sir,' said i, 'and i consent to conclude a peace.' 'i thought you would,' cried betterton; 'so now for the terms.' after much altercation, these articles (written by betterton, with his pencil, and signed by him and the warden, who went down for the purpose) were agreed upon by the contending powers. art. 1. all the prisoners, at present in the castle, shall be forthwith released. art. 2. the troops of the contending powers shall consign their arms into the hands of the respective leaders. art. 3. the commandant of the besieged army shall evacuate the castle, at the head of his men, and take a northerly direction; and at the same moment the commandant of the besieging army shall lead his forces in a southerly direction. art. 4. the lady cherubina de willoughby shall depart from the castle as soon as both armies are out of sight; and she shall not hold communication, direct or indirect, with the warden, for the space of twenty-four hours. art. 5. the minstrel, higginson, shall be permitted to remain with the lady cherubina, as her escort. (signed) betterton. sullivan. while betterton returned to his army, for the purpose of announcing the peace, i fixed with jerry to meet him in london at the expiration of twenty-four hours. i now perceived susan running towards the castle, with all her men; and as soon as she got under the walls, she cried: 'no peace; no peace; but bloody, bloody war! come down here, you wretch with the steel bonnet, till i tear your eyes out;--you special babe of hell, that robbed me of the only friend i had on earth!' and she ran on with the most horrible imprecations, and vows of vengeance. 'arrah, and is that susy?' cried one of my men, leaning over the battlements. 'patrick o'brien!' exclaimed she. 'oh! patrick, patrick, are you so faithless as to be taking part with my mortal enemy?' 'i am taking part with my countrymen,' cried patrick; 'and we have just made a peace; so by gog, if you break it, 'tis yourself will be my mortual innimy!' 'dear, dear patrick!' said she, 'don't let that vile woman decoy you from me, and i will do whatever you desire.' 'then i desires you to go back this moment,' said patrick. susan retired to the main body, without uttering a word. the several articles were then executed in due form. the prisoners were liberated: the soldiers on both sides laid down their arms. i distributed all my remaining money amongst my men: they thanked me with a shout; and then, headed by the warden, issued from the castle. at the same time, betterton and his party marched off the field. when jerry had got almost out of sight, he halted his men, faced them towards the castle, and all gave three last cheers. i waved my handkerchief, and cried like a child. i then took a tender leave of my dear black chamber; and with a heavy heart, and a tardy step, departed from my castle, till better days should enable me to revisit it. i proceeded with the minstrel to the poor woman's cottage, whence i now write; and i have just dispatched him for a chaise, as i shall return to london immediately. my heart is almost broken. adieu. letter xl ms. o ye, whoever ye are, whom chance or misfortune may hereafter conduct to this spot, to you i speak, to you reveal the story of my wrongs, and ask you to revenge them. vain hope! yet it imparts some comfort to believe, that what i now write may one day meet the eye of a fellow-creature; that the words which tell my sufferings may one day draw pity from the feeling heart. know then, that on the night of the fatal day which saw me driven from my castle, by ruthless foes, four men in black visages, rushed into the cottage where i had taken shelter, bore me from it, and forced me and my minstrel into a carriage. we travelled miles in impenetrable silence. at length they stopped, cast a cloak over my face, and carried me in their arms, along winding passages, and up and down flights of steps. they then took off the cloak, and i found myself in an antique and gothic apartment. my conductors laid down a lamp, and disappeared. i heard the door barred upon me. o sound of despair! o moment of unutterable anguish! shut out from day, from friends, from life--in the prime of my years, in the height of my transgressions,--i sink under the--- * * * * * almost an hour has now passed in solitude and silence. why am i brought hither? why confined thus rigorously? the horrors of death are before my eyes. o dire extremity! o state of living death! is this a vision? are these things real? alas, i am bewildered. * * * * * such, biddy, was the manuscript that i scribbled last night, after the mysterious event which it relates. you shall now hear the particulars of all that has occurred to me since. after the ruffians had departed, and i had rallied my spirits, i took up the lamp, and began examining the chamber. it was spacious, and the feeble light that i carried could but just penetrate it. part of the walls were hidden with historical arras, worked in colourless and rotten worsted, which depicted scenes from the provenã§al romances; the deeds of charlemagne and his twelve peers; the crusaders, troubadours, and saracens; and the necromantic feats of the magician jurl. the walls were wainscotted with black larchwood; and over the painted and escutcheoned windows hung iron visors, tattered pennons, and broken shields. an antique bed of decayed damask, with a lofty tester, stood in a corner; and a few grand moth-eaten chairs, tissued and fringed with threads of tarnished gold, were round the room. at the farther end, a picture of a soldier on horseback, darting his spear upon a man, who held up his hands in a supplicating attitude, was enclosed in a frame of uncommon size, that reached down to the ground. an old harp, which occupied one corner, proved imprisonment, and some clots of blood upon the floor proved murder. i gazed with delight at this admirable apartment. it was a perfect treasure: nothing could be more complete: all was in the best style of horror; and now, for the first time, i felt the full consciousness of being as real a heroine as ever existed. i then indulged myself with imagining the frightful scenes i should undergo here. such attempts to murder me, such ghosts, such mysteries! figures flitting in the dusty perspective, quick steps along the corridor, groans, and an ill-minded lord of the castle. in the midst of this pleasing reverie, methought i heard a step approaching. it stopped at the door, the bolts were undrawn, and an antiquated waiting-woman, in fardingale, ruffles, flounces, and flowered silk, bustled into the room. 'my lord,' said she, 'desires me to let your ladyship know that he will do himself the honour of waiting on you in half-an-hour.' 'tell your lord,' said i, 'that i shall be ready to receive him: but pray, my good woman,' said i, 'what is the name of your lord?' 'good woman!' cried she, bridling up; 'no more good woman than yourself: dame ursulina, if you please.' 'well then, dame ursulina, what is his name?' 'the baron hildebrand,' answered she. 'the only feudal chieftain left in england.' 'and what is the name of his castle?' 'gogmagog,' answered she: 'and it is situated in the black forest of grodolphon, whose oaks are coeval with the reign of brute.' 'and, alas!' cried i, 'why have i been seized? why thus imprisoned? why----' the dame laid her finger across her lips, and grinned volumes of mystery. 'at least, tell me,' said i, with a searching look, 'how comes that blood on the floor; for it appears but just spilt?' 'lauk!' cried she, 'that blood is there these fifty years. sure your ladyship has often read in romances of blood on floors, and daggers, that looked as fresh as a daisy at the end of centuries. but, alas-o-day! modern blood won't keep like the good old blood. ay, ay, ay; the times have degenerated in every thing;--even in harps. look at that harp yonder: i warrant 'tis in excellent tune at this moment, albeit no human finger has touched it these ten years: and your ladyship must remember reading of other cobwebbed harps in old castles, that required no tuning-hammer, after lying by whole ages. but, indeed, they do say, that the ghost keeps this harp in order, by playing on it o' nights.' 'the ghost!' exclaimed i. 'ay, by my fackins,' said she; 'sure this is the haunted chamber of the northern tower; and such sights and noises--santa catharina of sienna, and st. bridget, and san pietro, and santa benedicta, and st. radagunda, defend me!' then, aspirating an ejaculation, she hastily hobbled out of the room, and locked the door after her, without giving me farther satisfaction. however, the visit from baron hildebrand occupied my mind more than the ghost; and i sat expecting it with great anxiety. at last, i heard a heavy tread along the corridor: the door was unbarred, and a huge, but majestic figure, strode into the chamber. the black plume towering on his cap, the armorial coat, persian sash, and spanish cloak, conspiring with the most muscular frown imaginable, made him look truly tremendous. as he flung himself into a chair, he cast a schedoniac scowl at me; while i felt, that one glance from the corner of a villain's eye is worth twenty straight-forward looks from an honest man. my heart throbbed audible, my bosom heaved like billows: i threw into my features a conventual smile, and stood before him, in all the silence of despair, something between niobe, patience, and a broken lily. 'lady!' cried he, with a voice that vibrated through my brain; 'i am the baron hildebrand, that celebrated ruffian. my plans are terrible and unsearchable. hear me. 'my daughter, the lady sympathina, though long betrothed to the marquis de furioso, has long been enamoured of the lord montmorenci. in vain have i tried entreaties and imprecations: nothing will induce her to relinquish him; even though he has himself confessed to her that you reign sole tormentress of his heart. 'while doubtful what course to take, i heard, from my vassals, of your having seized on a neighbouring castle, and of montmorenci's being there with you. the moment was too precious to be lost. i planted armed spies about the castle, with orders to make you and him prisoners the first opportunity. these orders are executed, and his lordship is a captive in the western turret. 'now, madam, you must already guess my motive for having taken this step. it is to secure your immediate marriage with his lordship, and thus to terminate for ever my daughter's hopes, and my own inquietude. in two days, therefore, be prepared to give him your hand, or to suffer imprisonment for life.' 'my lord,' said i, 'i am a poor, weak, timid girl, but yet not unmindful of my noble lineage. i cannot consent to disgrace it. my lord, i will not wed montmorenci.' 'you will not?' cried he, starting from his seat. 'i will not,' said i, in a tone of the sweetest obstinacy. 'insolent!' exclaimed he, and began to pace the chamber with prodigious strides. conceive the scene;--the tall figure of hildebrand passing along, with folded arms; the hideous desolation of the room, and my shrinking figure. it was great, very great. it resembled a pandemonium, where an angel of light was tormented by a fiend. yet insult and oppression had but added to my charms, as the rose throws forth fresh fragrance by being mutilated. on a sudden he stopped short before me. 'what is your reason for refusing to marry him?' said he. 'my lord,' answered i, 'i do not feel for his lordship the passion of love.' 'love!' cried he, with yells of laughter. 'why this is sympathina's silly rhodomontade. love! there is no such passion. but mark me, madam: soon shall you learn that there is such a passion as revenge!' and with these words he rushed out of the chamber. nothing could be better than my conduct on this occasion. i was delighted with it, and with the castle, and with every thing. i therefore knelt and chaunted a vesper hymn, so soft, and so solemn; while my eyes, like a magdalen's, were cast to the planets. adieu. letter xli i had flung myself on the bed: my lamp was extinguished; and now sleep began to pour its opiate over me, when, (terrible to tell!) methought i heard steps stealing through my very chamber. 'she sleeps,' whispered a voice. 'then poniard her at once,' said another. 'remember, i must have five ducats,' said the first. 'four,' said the second: 'grufflan, the tormentor of innocents, would charge but two.' 'then i will betray the murder.' 'i will take good care you shall not.' 'how so?' 'i will assassinate you after it.' 'diavolo! 'tis prudent, however. but by st. jago, i will not consent to be assassinated under a ducat a-piece to my children.' 'well, you shall have them.' 'then, maestro mio illustrissimo, the bravo abellino is your povero devotissimo!' the next instant my strained eyeballs saw a figure half starting from behind the tattered arras, in a long cloak, and flat cap. his right hand held a dagger, and his left a dark lantern, that cast a yellow glare on the ruffianly sculpture of his visage. i screamed;--but sorry am i to say, less like a heroine than a sea-gull;--and the bravo advanced. on a sudden, the door of the chamber was burst open, and montmorenci rushed forward, with a brandished sword. at the same moment, baron hildebrand sprang from behind the tapestry. 'turn, villain!' cried montmorenci; and a desperate battle began. my life was the stake. i hung upon every blow, winced as the steel descended on montmorenci, and moved as he moved, with agonised mimicry. at length, victory declared in his favour. the bandit lay lifeless, and the baron was disarmed; but escaped out of the chamber. 'let us fly!' cried my preserver, snatching me to his heart. 'i have bribed a domestic.--a horse is in waiting.--let us fly!' 'let us, let us!' said i, disengaging myself. 'yet hold!' cried he. 'i have saved your life. save mine, by consenting to an immediate union.' 'ay, my lord----' 'what?' 'i cannot.' 'cannot!' 'come, my lord; do come!' 'on my knees, lady----' 'seize the villain, and immure him in the deepest dungeon!' exclaimed the baron, rushing into the room with his domestics. some of them laid hold on montmorenci, the rest bore off the body of the bandit. the baron and i were left alone. 'my lord,' said i, flinging myself at his feet (for alas, i had now lost all my magnanimity), 'that man is my horror and detestation. but only promise to spare my life for one day more, and indeed, indeed, i will try if i can make up my mind to marry him.' ''tis well,' said the baron. 'to-night you sleep secure: to-morrow decides your fate.' he spoke, and stalked out of the chamber. this horrid castle--would i had never set foot in it. i will escape if i can, i am resolved. i have already tried the walls, for a sliding pannel or a concealed door; but nothing of the kind can i discover. and yet something of the kind there must be, else how could the baron and bravo have entered my chamber? i protest this facility of intrusion in antique apartments is extremely distressing. for besides its exposing one to be murdered, just think how it exposes one to be peeped at. i declare i dare not even undress, lest some menial should be leering through a secret crevice. oh, that i were once more in the mud cottage! i am sick of castles. adieu. letter xlii this morning, after a maid had cleaned out the room, dame ursulina brought breakfast. 'graciousnessosity!' cried she, 'here is the whole castle in such a fluster; hammering and clamouring, and paddling at all manner of possets, to make much of the fine company that is coming down to the baron to-day.' 'heavens!' exclaimed i, 'when will my troubles cease? doubtless they are a most dissolute set. an amorous verezzi, an insinuating cavigni, and an abandoned orsino; besides some lovely voluptuary, some fascinating desperado, who plays the harp, and poisons by the hour.' 'la, not at all,' said the dame. 'we shall have none but old sir charles grandison, and his lady, miss harriet byron, that was;--old mr. mortimer delville, and his lady, miss cecilia, that was;--and old lord mortimer, and his lady, miss amanda, that was.' 'can it be possible?' cried i. 'why these are all heroes and heroines!' 'pon my conversation, and by my fig, and as i am a true maiden, so they are,' said she; 'for my lord scorns any other sort of varment. and we shall have such tickling and pinching; and fircumdandying, and cherrybrandying, and the genteel poison of bad wine; and the warder blowing his horn, and the baron in his scowered armour, and i in a coif plaited high with ribbons all about it, and in the most rustling silk i have. and philip, the butler, meets me in the dark. "oddsboddikins," says he (for that is his pet oath), "mayhap i should know the voice of that silk?" "oddspittikins," says i, "peradventure thou should'st;" and then he catches me round the neck, and----' 'there, there!' cried i, 'you distract me.' 'marry come up!' muttered she. 'some people think some people--marry come up, quotha!' and she flounced out of the room. i sat down to breakfast, astonished at what i had just heard. harriet byron, cecilia, amanda, and their respective consorts, all alive and well! oh, could i get but one glimpse of them, speak ten words with them, i should die content. i pictured them to myself, adorned with all the venerable loveliness of a virtuous old age,--even in greyness engaging, even in wrinkles interesting. hand in hand they walk down the gentle slope of life, and often pause to look back upon the scenes that they have passed--the happy vale of their childhood, the turretted castle, the cloistered monastery. this reverie was interrupted by the return of dame ursulina. 'the baron,' said she, 'has just gone off to london; we think either for the purpose of consulting physicians about his periodical madness, or of advising government to propose a peace with france. so my young mistress, the lady sympathina, is anxious to visit you during his absence,--as he prohibited her;--and she has sent me to request that you will honor her with your permission.' 'tell her i shall be most happy to see and to solace a lady of her miseries,' answered i. 'and i trust we shall swear an eternal friendship when we meet.' 'friendship,' said the dame, 'is the soft soother of human cares. o, to see two fair females sobbing respondent, while their blue eyes shine through their tears like hyacinths bathed in the dews of the morning!' 'why, dame,' cried i, 'how did you manage to pick up such a charming sentiment, and such elegant language?' 'marry come up!' said she, 'i havn't lived, not i, not with heroines, not for nothing. marry come up, quotha!' and this frumpish old woman sailed out of the chamber in a great fume. i now prepared for an interview of congenial souls; not was i long kept in suspense. hardly had the dame disappeared, when the door opened again, and a tall, thin, lovely girl, flew into the room. she stopped opposite me. her yellow ringlets hung round her pale face like a mist round the moon. again she advanced, took both my hands, and stood gazing on my features. 'ah, what wonder,' said she, 'that montmorenci should be captivated by these charms! no, i will not, cannot take him from you. he is your's, my friend. marry him, and leave me to the solitude of a cloister.' 'never!' cried i. 'ah, madam, ah, sympathina, your magnanimity amazes, transports me. no, my friend; your's he shall, he must be; for you love him, and i hate him.' 'hate him!' cried she; 'and wherefore? ah, what a form is his, and ah, what a face! locks like the spicy cinnamon; eyes half dew, half lightning; lips like a casket of jewels, loveliest when open----' 'and teeth like the sybil's books,' said i; 'for two of them are wanting.' 'ah,' cried she, 'this i am informed is your reason for not marrying him; as if his charms lay in his teeth, like sampson's strength in his hair.' 'upon my honor,' said i, 'i would not marry him, if he had five hundred teeth. but you, my friend, you shall marry him, in spite of his teeth.' 'ah,' cried she, 'and see my father torture you to death?' 'it were not torture,' said i, 'to save you from it.' 'it were double torture,' cried she, 'to be saved by your's.' 'justice,' said i, 'demands the sacrifice.' 'generosity,' said she, 'would spare the victim.' 'is it generosity,' said i, 'to wed me with one i hate?' 'is it justice,' said she, 'to wed me with one who hates me?' 'ah, my friend,' cried i, 'you may vanquish me in antithetical and gallican repartee, but never shall you conquer me in sentimental magnanimity.' 'let us then swear an eternal friendship,' cried she. 'i swear!' said i. 'i swear!' said she. we rushed into each other's arms. 'and now,' cried she, when the first transports had subsided, 'how do you like being a heroine?' 'above all things in the world,' said i. 'and how do you get on at the profession?' asked she. 'it is not for me to say,' replied i. 'only this, that ardor and assiduity are not wanting on my part.' 'of course then,' said she, 'you shine in all the requisite qualities. do you blush well?' 'as well as can be expected,' said i. 'because,' said she, 'blushing is my chief beauty. i blush one tint and three-fourths with joy; two tints, including forehead and bosom, with modesty; and four with love, to the points of my fingers. my father once blushed me against the dawn for a tattered banner to a rusty poniard.' 'and who won?' said i. 'it was play or pay,' replied she; 'and the morning happened to be misty, so there was no sport in that way; but i fainted, which was just as good, if not better. are you much addicted to fainting?' 'a little,' said i. ''pon honor?' 'well, ma'am, to be honest with you, i am afraid i have never fainted yet; but at a proper opportunity i flatter myself----' 'nay, love,' said she, 'do not be distressed about the matter. if you weep well, 'tis a good substitute. do you weep well?' 'extremely well, indeed,' said i. 'come then,' cried she, 'we will weep on each other's necks.' and she flung her arms about me. we remained some moments in motionless endearment. 'are you weeping?' said she, at length. 'no, ma'am,' answered i. 'ah, why don't you?' said she. 'i can't, ma'am,' said i; 'i can't.' 'ah, do,' said she. 'upon my word, i can't,' said i: 'sure i am trying all i can. but, bless me, how desperately you are crying. your tears are running down my bosom like a torrent, and boiling hot too. excuse me, ma'am, but you will give me my death of cold.' 'ah, my fondling,' said she, raising herself from my neck; 'tears are my sole consolation. ofttimes i sit and weep, i know not why; and then i weep to find myself weeping. then, when i can weep, i weep at having nothing to weep at; and then, when i have something to weep at, i weep that i cannot weep at it. this very morning i bumpered a tulip with my tears, while reading a dainty ditty that i must now repeat to you. '_the moon had just risen, as a maid parted from her lover. a sylph was pursuing her sigh through the deserts of air, bathing in its warmth, and enhaling its odours. as he flew over the ocean, he saw a sea-nymph sitting on the shore, and singing the fate of a shipwreck, that appeared at a distance, with broken masts, and floating rudder. her instrument was her own long and blue tresses, which she had strung across rocks of coral. the sparkling spray struck them, and made sweet music. he saw, he loved, he hovered over her. but invisible, how could he attract her eyes? incorporeal, how could he touch her? even his voice could not be heard by her amidst the dashing of the waves, and the melody of her ringlets. the sylphs, pitying his miserable state, exiled him to a bower of woodbine. there he sits, dips his pen of moonshine in the subtle dew ere it falls, and writes his love on the bell of a silver lily._' this charming tale led us to talk of moonshine. we moralized on the uncertainty of it, and of life; discussed sighs, and agreed that they were charming things; enumerated the various kinds of tresses--flaxen, golden, chesnut, amber, sunny, jetty, carroty; and i suggested two new epithets,--sorrel hair and narcissine hair. such a flow of soul never was. at last she rose to depart. 'now, my love,' said she, 'i am in momentary expectation of sir charles grandison, mortimer delville, and lord mortimer, with their amiable wives. will you permit them, during the baron's absence, to spend an hour with you this evening? they will not betray us. i shall be proud of showing you to them, and you will receive much delight and edification from their society.' i grasped at the proposal with eagerness; she flitted out of the chamber with a promissory smile; and i was so charmed, that i began frisking about, and snapping my fingers, in a most indecorous manner. what an angel is this sympathina! her face has the contour of a madona, with the sensibility of a magdalen. her voice is soft as the last accents of a dying maid. her language is engaging, her oh is sublime, and her ah is beautiful. adieu. letter xliii towards night i heard the sound of several steps approaching the chamber. the bolts were undrawn, and lady sympathina, at the head of the company, entered, and announced their names. 'bless me!' said i, involuntarily; for such a set of objects never were seen. sir charles grandison came forward the first. he was an emaciated old oddity in flannels and a flowing wig. he bowed over my hand, and kissed it--his old custom, you know. lady grandison leaned on his arm, bursting with fat and laughter, and so unlike what i had conceived of harriet byron, that i turned from her in disgust. mortimer delville came next; and my disappointment at finding him a plain, sturdy, hard-featured fellow, was soon absorbed in my still greater regret at seeing his cecilia,--once the blue-eyed, sun-tressed cecilia,--now flaunting in all the reverend graces of a painted grandmother, and leering most roguishly. after them, lord mortimer and his amanda advanced; but he had fallen into flesh; and she, with a face like scorched parchment, appeared both broken-hearted and broken-winded; such a perpetual sighing and wheezing did she keep. i was too much shocked and disappointed to speak; but sir charles soon broke silence; and after the most tedious sentence of compliment that i had ever heard, he thus continued: 'your ladyship may recollect i have always been celebrated for giving advice. let me then advise you to relieve yourself from your present embarrassment, by marrying lord montmorenci. it seems you do not love him. for that very reason marry him. trust me, love before marriage is the surest preventive of love after it. heroes and heroines exemplify the proposition. why do their biographers always conclude the book just at their wedding? simply because all beyond it is unhappiness and hatred.' 'surely, sir charles,' said i, 'you must be mistaken. their biographers (who have such admirable information, that they can even tell the thoughts and actions of dying personages, when not a soul is near them), these always end the book with declaring that the connubial lives of their heroes and heroines are like unclouded skies, or unruffled streams, or summer all the year through, or some gentle simile or other.' 'that is all irony,' replied sir charles. 'but i know most of these heroes and heroines myself; and i know that nothing can equal their misery.' 'do you know lord orville and his evelina?' said i; 'and are not they happy?' 'happy!' cried he, laughing. 'have you really never heard of their notorious miffs? why it was but yesterday that she flogged him with a boiled leg of mutton, because he had sent home no turnips.' 'astonishment!' exclaimed i. 'and she, when a girl, so meek.' 'ay, there it is,' said he. 'one has never seen a white foal or a cross girl; but often white horses and cross wives. let me advise you against white horses.' 'but pray,' said i, addressing amanda, 'is not your brother oscar happy with his adela?' 'alas, no,' cried she. 'oscar became infatuated with the charms of evelina's old governess, madam duval; so poor adela absconded; and she, who was once the soul of mirth, has now grown a confirmed methodist; curls a sacred sneer at gaiety, loves canting and decanting, piety and _eau de vie_. in short, the devil is very busy about her, though she sometimes drives him away with a thump of the bible.' 'well, rosa, the gentle beggar-girl,--what of her?' said i. 'eloped with one corporal trim,' answered sir charles. 'how shocking!' cried i. 'but pamela, the virtuous pamela?'---'made somewhat a better choice,' said sir charles; 'for she ran off with rasselas, prince of abyssinia, when he returned to the happy valley.' 'dreadful accounts, indeed!' said i. 'so dreadful,' said sir charles, bowing over my hand, 'that i trust they will determine you to marry montmorenci. 'tis true, he has lost two teeth, and you do not love him; but was not walstein a cripple? and did not caroline of lichfield fall in love with him after their marriage, though she had hated him before it?' 'recollect,' cried cecilia, 'what perils environ you here. the baron is the first murderer of the age.' 'look at yonder blood,' cried old mortimer delville. 'remember the bandit last night,' cried old lord mortimer. 'think of the tremendous spectre that haunts this apartment,' cried lady grandison. 'and above all,' cried the lady sympathina, 'bear in mind that this chamber may be the means of your waking some morning with a face like a pumpkin.' 'heavens!' exclaimed i, 'what do you mean? my face like a pumpkin?' 'yes,' said she. 'the dampness of the room would swell it up like a pumpkin in a single night.' 'oh! ladies and gentlemen,' cried i, dropping on my knees, 'you see what shocking horrors surround me here. oh! let me beseech of you to pity and to rescue me. surely, surely you might aid me in escaping!' 'it is out of the nature of possibilities,' said lady sympathina. 'at least, then,' cried i, 'you might use your influence to have me removed from this vile room, that feels like a well.' 'fly!' cried dame ursulina, running in breathless. 'the baron has just returned, and is searching for you all. and he has already been through the chapel, and armoury, and gallery; and the west tower, and east tower, and south tower; and the cedar chamber, and oaken chamber, and black chamber, and grey, brown, yellow, green, pale pink, sky blue; and every shade, tinge, and tint of chamber in the whole castle. benedicite, santa maria; how the times have degenerated! come, come, come.' the guests vanished, the door was barred, and i remained alone. i sat ruminating in sad earnest, on the necessity for my consenting to this hateful match; when (and i protest to you, i had not thought it was more than nine o'clock), a terrible bell, which i never heard before, tolled, with an appalling reverberation, that rang through my whole frame, the frightful hour of one! at the same moment i heard a noise; and looking towards the opposite end of the chamber, i beheld the great picture on a sudden disappear; and, standing in its stead, a tall figure, cased in blood-stained steel, and with a spectral visage, the perfect counterpart of the baron's. i sat gasping. it uttered these sepulchral intonations. '_i am the spirit of the murdered alphonso. lord montmorenci deserves thee. wed him, or in two days thou liest a corpse. to-morrow night i come again._' the superhuman appearance spoke; and (oh, soothing sound) uttered a human sneeze! 'damnation!' it muttered. 'all is blown!' and immediately the picture flew back to its place. well, i had never heard of a ghost's sneezing before: so you may judge i soon got rid of my terror, and felt pretty certain that this was no bloodless and marrowless apparition, but the baron himself, who had adopted the ghosting system, so common in romances, for the purpose of frightening me into his schemes. however, i had now discovered a concealed door, and with it a chance of escape. i must tell you, that escape by the public door is utterly impracticable, as a maid always opens it for those that enter, and remains outside till they return. however, i have a plan about the private door; which, if the ghost should appear again, as it promised, is likely to succeed. i was pondering upon this plan, when in came dame ursulina, taking snuff, and sneezing at a furious rate. 'by the mass,' said she, 'it rejoiceth the old cockles of my heart to see your ladyship safe; for as i passed your door just now, methought i heard the ghost.' 'you might well have heard it,' said i, pretending infinite faintness, 'for i have seen it; and it entered through yonder picture.' 'benedicite!' cried she, 'but it was a true spectre!' 'a real, downright apparition,' said i, 'uncontaminated with the smallest mixture of mortality.' 'and didn't your ladyship hear me sneeze at the door?' said she. 'i was too much alarmed to hear anything,' answered i. 'but pray have the goodness to lend me that snuff-box, as a pinch or two may revive me from my faintness.' i had my reasons for this request. 'a heroine take snuff!' cried she, laying the box on the table. 'lack-a-daisy, how the times are changed! but now, my lady, don't be trying to move or cut that great picture; for though the ghost comes into the chamber through it, no mortal can. i know better than to let you give me the slip; and i will tell a story to prove my knowledge of bolts and bars. when i was a girl, a young man lodged in the house; and one night he stole the stick that i used to fasten the hasp and staple of my door with. well, my mother bade me put a carrot (as there was nothing else) in its place. so i put in a carrot--for i was a dutiful daughter; but i put in a boiled carrot--for i was a love-sick maiden. eh, don't i understand the doctrine of bolts and bars?' 'you understand a great deal too much,' said i, as the withered wanton went chuckling out of the chamber. i must now retire to rest. i do not fear being disturbed by a bravo to-night; but i am uneasy, lest i should wake in the morning with a face like a pumpkin. adieu. letter xliv about noon the baron hildebrand paid me a visit, to hear, as he said, my final determination respecting my marriage with montmorenci. i had prepared my lesson, and i told him that my mind was not yet entirely reconciled to such an event; but that it was much swayed by a most extraordinary circumstance which had occurred the night before. he desired me to relate it; and i then, with apparent agitation, recounted the particulars of the apparition, and declared that if it should come again i would endeavour to preserve my presence of mind, and enter into conversation with it; in order (as it appeared quite well informed of the picture) to learn whether my marriage with his lordship would prove fortunate or otherwise. i then added, that if its answer should be favourable, i would not hesitate another moment to give him my hand. the baron, while he could not suppress a smile, protested himself highly delighted with my determination of speaking to the spectre, and encouraged me not to fear it, as it was the most harmless creature of its kind ever known. he then took his leave. i spent the remainder of the day reflecting on the desperate enterprise that i had planned for the night, and fortifying my mind by recalling all the hazardous escapes of other heroines. at last the momentous hour was at hand. the lamp and snuff-box lay on the table. i sat anxious, and kept a watchful eye upon the picture. the bell tolled one, again the picture vanished, and again the spectre stood there. its left thumb rested upon its hip, and its right hand was held to the heavens. i sent forth a well-executed shriek, and hid my face in my hands, while it spoke these words: '_i come to thee for the last time. wilt thou wed montmorenci, or wilt thou not?--speak._' 'oh!' cried i, 'if you would only promise not to do me a mischief, i have something particular to ask of you.' 'a spirit cannot harm a mortal,' drawled out the spectre. 'well then,' said i, faltering and trembling.--'perhaps--pardon me--perhaps you would first have the goodness to walk in.' the spectre advanced a few paces, and paused. 'this is so kind, so condescending,' said i, 'that really--do take a chair.' the spectre shook its head mournfully. 'pray do,' said i, 'you will oblige me.' the spectre seated itself in a chair; but atoned for the mortal act by an immortal majesty of manner. 'as you are of another world,' said i, ''tis but fair to do the honours of this; and in truth, i am not at all astonished that you apparitions should speak so harshly as you usually do, we mortals always shew such evident aversion and horror at your appearance.' 'there is a prejudice gone forth against us,' said the spectre, with a hollow voice, 'in consequence of our coming at night, like thieves.' 'yes,' said i, 'at one precisely. and it has often struck me how well the clocks of old castles were kept, for they regularly struck just as the ghost appeared. indeed, ghosts keep such late hours, that 'tis no wonder they look pale and thin. i do not recollect ever to have heard or read of a fat or a fresh-coloured phantom.' 'nor of a ghost wanting a limb or an eye,' said the spectre. 'nor of an ugly ghost,' said i bowing. the spectre took the compliment, and bowed in return. 'and therefore,' said the spectre, 'as spirits are always accurate resemblances of the bodies that they once inhabited, none but thin and pale persons can ever become ghosts.' 'and by the same rule,' said i, 'none but blue-eyed and golden-haired persons can go to heaven; for our painters always represent angels so. i have never heard of a hazel-eyed angel, or a black-haired cherub.' 'i know,' said the spectre, 'if angels are, as painters depict them, always sitting naked on cold clouds, i would rather live the life of a ghost, to the end of the chapter.' 'and pray,' cried i, 'where, and how do ghosts live?' 'within this very globe,' said the spectre. 'for this globe is not, as most mortals imagine, a solid body, but a round crust about ten miles thick; and the concave inside is furnished just like the convex outside, with wood, water, vale and mountain. in the centre stands a nice little golden sun, about the size of a pippin, and lights our internal world; where, whatever enjoyments we loved as men, we retain as ghosts. we banquet on visionary turtle, or play at aã«rial marbles, or drive a phantasmagoric four in hand. the young renew their amours, and the more aged sit yawning for the day of judgment.--but i scent the rosy air of dawn. speak, lady; what question art thou anxious that i should expound?' 'whether,' said i, 'if i marry lord montmorenci, i shall be happy with him or not?' 'blissful as eden,' replied the spectre. 'your lives will be congenial, and your deaths simultaneous.' 'and now,' said i, walking closer to it, 'will you do me the favour to take a pinch of snuff?' 'avant!' it cried, motioning me from it with its hand. but quick as thought, i flung the whole contents of the box full into its eyes. 'blood and thunder!' exclaimed the astonished apparition. i snatched the lamp, sprang through the frame of the picture, shut the concealed door, bolted it; while all the time i heard the phantom within, dancing in agony at its eyes, and sending mine to as many devils as could well be called together on so short a notice. thus far my venturous enterprise had prospered. i now found myself in a narrow passage, with another door at the farther end of it; and i prepared to traverse winding stairs, subterranean passages, and suites of tapestried apartments. i therefore advanced, and opened the door; but in an instant started back; for i had beheld a lighted hall, of modern architecture, with gilded balustrades, ceiling painted in fresco, etruscan lamps, and stucco-work! yes, it was a villa, or a casino, or a pallazo, or any thing you please but a castello. amazement! horror! what should i do? whither turn? delay would be fatal. again i peeped. the hall was empty; so, putting down my lamp, i stole across it to an open door, and looked through the chink. i had just time to see a persian saloon, and in the centre a table laid for supper, when i heard several steps entering the hall. it was too late to retreat, so i sprang into the room; and recollecting that a curtain had befriended me once before, i ran behind one which i saw there. instantly afterwards the persons entered. they were spruce footmen, bringing in supper. not a scowl, not a mustachio amongst them. as soon as the covers were laid, a crowd of company came laughing into the room; but, friend of my bosom, fancy, just fancy my revulsion of soul, my dismay, my disgust, my bitter indignation--oh! how shall i describe to you half what i felt, when i recognised these wretches, as they entered one by one, to be the identical gang who had visited me the day before, as heroes and heroines! i knew them instantly, though they looked twice as young; and in the midst of them all, as blithe as larks, came betterton himself and lord altamont mortimer montmorenci! my heart died at the sight. after they had seated themselves, betterton (who sat at the head, and therefore was master) desired one of the servants to bring in 'the crazed poet.' and now two footmen appeared, carrying between them a large meal-bag, filled with higginson; which they placed to the table, on a vacant seat. the bag was fastened at the top, and a slit was on the side of it. the wretches then began to banter him, and bade him put forth his head; but he would neither move nor speak. at last they turned the conversation to me. 'i wonder can he be ghosting her all this time?' said betterton. 'well,' cried the fellow who had personated sir charles grandison, 'i ought to have played the ghost, i am so much taller than he.' 'not unless you could act it better than you did grandison,' said the late lady sympathina. 'no, no, i was the person who performed my part well;--pouring a vial of hot water down her neck, by way of tears; and frightening her out of her senses by talking of a face like a pumpkin!' 'nay,' cried my lord montmorenci, 'the best piece of acting you ever saw was when i first met her at the theatre, and persuaded her that abraham grundy was lord altamont mortimer montmorenci.' 'except,' said betterton, 'when i played old whylome eftsoones, at the masquerade, and made her believe that cherry wilkinson was lady cherubina de willoughby.' i turned quite sick; but i had no time for thought, the thunderclaps came so thick upon me. 'she had some mad notion of the kind before,' said grundy (i have done with calling him montmorenci), 'for she fancied that an old piece of parchment, part of a lease of lives, was an irrefragable proof of her being lady de willoughby.' 'ay,' cried betterton, 'and of poor wilkinson's being her persecutor, instead of her father; on the strength of which vagary he lies at this moment in a madhouse.' 'but,' said grundy, 'her setting up for a heroine, and her affectation while imitating the manners and language that authors chuse to give their heroines, would make a tiger laugh. i vow and protest, our amorous interview, where she first told her love, was the most burlesque exhibition in nature. i am thine, and thou art mine! whimpered the silly girl, sinking on my bosom. she now says she does not love me. don't believe a syllable of it. why, the poor creature could not even bridle her passion in my presence. such hugging and kissing as she went on with, that, as i hope to be saved, i sometimes thought she would suffocate me outright.' ''tis false as hell!' cried i, bursting into tears, and running from behind the curtain. 'upon my sacred honour, ladies and gentlemen, 'tis every word of it a vile, malicious, execrable falsehood! oh, what shall i do? what shall i do?' and i wrung my hands with agony. the guests had risen from their seats in amaze; and i now made a spring towards the door, but was intercepted by betterton, who held me fast. 'in the name of wonder,' cried he, 'how came you here?' 'no matter,' cried i, struggling. 'i know all. what have i ever done to you, you base, you cruel people?' 'keep yourself cool, my little lady,' said he. 'i won't, i can't!' cried i. 'to use me so. you vile set; you horrid, horrid set!' 'go for another meal-bag,' said he, to the servant. 'now, madam, you shall keep company with the bagged poet.' 'mercy, mercy!' cried i, 'what, will no one help me?' 'i will if i can!' exclaimed higginson, with his head thrust out of the bag, like a snail; and down he slided from his seat, and began rolling, and tumbling, and struggling on the floor, till he got upon his feet; and then he came jumping towards me, now falling now rising, while his face and bald forehead were all over meal, his eyes blaring, and his mouth wide open. the company, wherever he moved, kept in a circle round him, and clapped their hands and shouted. as i stood, with betterton still holding me fast, he was suddenly flung from me by some one, and my hand seized. i turned, and beheld--stuart. 'oh! bless you, bless you!' cried i, catching his arm, 'for you have come to save me from destruction!' he pressed my hand, and pointing to betterton and grundy, who stood thunderstruck, cried, 'there are your men!' a large posse of constables immediately rushed forward, and arrested them. 'heydey! what is all this?' cried betterton. ''tis for the beating you gave us when we were doing our duty,' said a man, and i recognised in the speaker one of the police-men who had arrested me about the barouche. 'this is government all over,' cried betterton. 'this is the minister. this is the law!' 'and let me tell you, sir,' said stuart, 'that nothing but my respect for the law deters me at this moment from chastising you as you deserve.' 'what do you mean, sirrah?' cried betterton. 'that you are a ruffian,' said stuart, 'and the same cowardice which made you offer insult to a woman will make you bear it from a man. now, sir, i leave you to your fate.' and we were quitting the room. 'what thing is that?' said stuart, stopping short before the poet; who, with one arm and his face out of the bag, lay on his back, gasping and unable to stir. 'cut it, cut it!' cried the poor man, in choaking accents. 'higginson i protest!' exclaimed stuart, as he snatched a knife from the table, and laid open the bag. up rose the poet, resurrectionary from his hempen coffin, and was beginning to clench his fist; but stuart caught his arm, and hurried him and me out of the room. stuart, with great eagerness, now began asking me the particulars of all that had occurred at betterton's; and his rage, as i related it, was extreme. he then proceeded to tell me how he had discovered my being there. after his departure from lady gwyn's, he set off for london, to prosecute his inquiries about my father; and spent some days in this way, to no purpose. at length he returned to lady gwyn's, but was much shocked at learning from her that i had robbed her, and absconded; and had afterwards made an assault on her house, at the head of a set of irishmen. by the description she gave, he judged that jerry sullivan was one of them; and not finding us at monkton castle, whither she directed him, he posted back to london, in order to make inquiries at jerry's house. jerry, who had just returned, related the whole history of the castle; adding that i was to call upon him the moment i should arrive in town. stuart, therefore, waited some time; but as i did not appear, he began to suspect that betterton had entrapped me; so he hastened to the coachmaker, and having explained to him that i was no swindler, and having paid him for the barouche, he told him (as he learned from jerry) that betterton was one of those who had assaulted the postilion and constables. the coachmaker, therefore, applied at the police-office; and a party was dispatched to apprehend betterton. stuart accompanied them, and thus gained admission (which he could not otherwise have done) into the house. higginson now told a lamentable tale of the pranks that betterton had played on him; and amongst the rest, mentioned, that a servant had seduced him into the bag, by pretending to be his friend, and to smuggle him out of the house, in the character of meal. he could gather, from several things said while the company were tormenting him, that grundy had agreed to marry me; and then, for a stipulated sum, to give betterton opportunities of prosecuting his infamous designs. thus both of them would escape the penalties of the law. he likewise informed me, that the female guests were (to use his own words) ladies whom the male guests loved better than they ought to do; and he then explained that the several rooms were furnished according to the fashions of different countries; grecian, persian, chinese, italian; and that mine was the gothic chamber. by this time, having reached the village, and stopped at an inn, where we meant to sleep, i desired a room, and bade stuart a hasty good night. shocked, astonished, and ashamed at all that had passed, i threw myself on the bed, and unburdened my full heart in a bitter fit of crying. what! thought i, not the lady cherubina de willoughby after all;--the tale fabricated by betterton himself;--the parchment that i had built the hope of my noble birth upon a mere lease of lives;--could these things be? alas, there was no doubt of the fatal fact! i had overheard the wretches boasting of it, and i had discovered their other impositions with my own eyes. to be thus upset in my favourite speculation, in the business of my whole life; to have to begin all over again,--to have to search the wide world anew for my real name, my real family--or was wilkinson indeed my father? oh! if so, what a fall! and how horridly had i treated him! but i would not suffer myself to think of it. then to be laughed at, despised, insulted by dissolute creatures calling themselves lords and barons, and bravos, and heroes and heroines; and i declared to be no heroine! am i a heroine? i caught myself constantly repeating; and then i walked about wildly, then sat on the bed, then cast my body across it. once i fell into a doze, and dreamed frightful dreams of monsters pursuing me swifter than the wind, while my bending limbs could only creep; and my voice, calling for help, could not rise above a whisper. then i woke, repeating, am i a heroine? i believe i was quite delirious; for notwithstanding all that i could do to prevent myself, i ran on rapidly, am i a heroine? am i? am i? am i? am i? till my brain reeled from its poise, and my hands were clenched with perturbation. thus passed the night, and towards morning i fell into a slumber. adieu. letter xlv this morning my head felt rather better, and i appeared before stuart with the sprightliest air imaginable; not that my mind was at ease;--far from it;--but that i could not endure to betray my mortification at having proved such a dupe to buffoons and villains. after breakfast, we began arranging our plans, and decided on proceeding to london; but did not determine on my place of residence there. i had my own projects, however. as higginson had assisted in rescuing me from the police, stuart advised him to remain concealed somewhere, till after the trials of betterton and grundy; for though the poor man did not know that they were officers of justice whom he was assaulting (he having been in the turret when the fray commenced), yet this fact might be difficult to prove. stuart, therefore, gave him some money, and i a letter; and he set off, in extreme tribulation, for the cottage of the poor woman; there to stay till the business should be decided. stuart and i then took our departure in a chaise. unable to counterfeit gaiety long, i relapsed into languor; nor could my companion, by any effort, withdraw me from the contemplation of my late disgrace. as we drew near lady gwyn's, he represented the propriety of my restoring her portrait, lest she should have recourse to an arrest. disheartened by the past, and terrified for the future, i soon consented; and on our arriving at the avenue of the gentleman who had the portrait in his possession, stuart, by my desire, went to the house without me. he was absent some time, but at last came back with it in his hand. we then drove to lady gwyn's; and while i remained at the gate, he proceeded to execute the commission for me. presently, however, i saw him return accompanied by lady gwyn herself, who welcomed me with much kindness, begged i would forget the past, and prevailed on me to go into the house. but it was only to suffer new mortifications. for now, at the instance of stuart, she began to relate all the pranks which she had practised upon me while i was with her. she confessed that the crowning ceremony was merely to amuse her guests at my expence; and that my great mother was her own nephew! think of that, biddy! she said that stuart, who had known her for some years, begged of her when i paid her my first visit to let me remain under her care, till his return from town; and to humour my pretty caprices, as she called them. but he did not desire her to go so far with the jest; and she had now just begun an apology for her conduct, when i rose, overwhelmed with shame and indignation, dropped a hasty courtesy, and fairly ran out of the house. we proceeded some miles silent and uncomfortable. my heart was bursting, and my head felt as if billows were tossing through it. at last i found myself in sight of the village where william, whom i had separated from his mistress a few weeks before, used to live. as this was a favourable opportunity for reconciling the lovers, i now made stuart acquainted with the real origin of their quarrel, which i had concealed from him at the time it happened, lest he should mar it. he shook his head at the recital, and desired the driver to find out william's house, and stop there. this was done, and in a few moments william made his appearance. he betrayed some agitation at seeing me, but saluted me with respect. 'well, william,' said i, sportively, 'how goes on your little quarrel with mary? is it made up?' 'no, ma'am,' answered he, with a doleful look, 'and i fear never will.' 'yes, william,' cried i, with an assuring nod, 'i have the happiness to tell you that it will.' 'ah, ma'am,' said he, 'i suppose you do not know what a sad calamity has fallen upon her since you were here. the poor creature has quite lost her senses.' 'for shame!' cried i, 'what are you saying? lost her senses! well, i am sure it was not my fault, however.' 'your's?' said he. 'oh, no, ma'am. but she has never been in her reason since the day you left her.' 'let us be gone,' whispered i to stuart, as i sank back in the carriage. 'surely not,' said he. 'tis at least your duty to repair the mischief you have done.' 'i should die before i could disclose it!' cried i. 'then i will disclose it for you,' said he, leaping out of the chaise. he went with william into the house, and i remained in such a state of mind, that i was several times on the point of quitting the chaise, and escaping i knew not whither; but any where from the horrid scene awaiting me. at last, stuart appeared without william; and getting in, gave the driver directions to mary's cottage. i wanted him to go without me: but he declared that no effectual explanation could take place, unless from myself. he then said every thing to re-assure me. he told me that the poor girl was quite harmless, and had only temporary fits of wandering; and that, were the circumstances of the fatal letter once explained to her, and a reconciliation effected, she might eventually recover from her derangement; for william, it seems, had never divulged the contents of that letter, as it enjoined him not; but now stuart brought it with him. having arrived near the cottage, we got out, and walked towards it. with a faltering step i crossed the threshold, and found the father in the parlour. 'dear miss,' said he, 'welcome here once more. i suppose you have come to see poor mary. oh! 'tis a piteous, piteous sight. there she does nothing but walk about, and sigh, and talk so wild; and nobody can tell the cause but that william; and he will not, for he says she forbade him.' 'come with me,' said stuart, 'and i will tell you the cause.' he then led the miserable old man out of the room, and i remained at the window weeping. but in a few minutes i heard a step; and on turning round, saw the father, running towards me with a face haggard and ghastly; and crying out, 'cruel, cruel, cruel!' then grasping my shoulder, and lifting his tremulous hand to heaven: 'now,' said he, 'may the lightning of a just and good providence----' 'oh! pray,' cried i, snatching down his hand--'oh! pray do not curse me! do not curse a poor, silly, mad creature. it was a horrid affair; very horrid; but, indeed, indeed, i meant no harm.' 'be calm, my good man,' said stuart, 'and let us go to the garden where your daughter is walking. i am sure this young lady will not refuse to accompany us, and do her utmost in this critical moment.' 'i will do any thing,' cried i, 'come along.' we now passed into the garden; and i shuddered as i beheld the beautiful wreck at a distance. she had just stopt short in a stepping posture: her cloak had half fallen from her shoulders, and as her head hung down, her forefinger was lightly laid on her lip. panting to tell her all, i flew towards her, and caught her hand. 'do you remember me, mary?' said i softly. she looked at me some moments with a faint smile; and at last she coloured. 'ah! yes, i remember you,' said she. 'you were with us that very evening when i was so wretched. but i don't care about him now;--i don't indeed; and if i could only see him once more, i would tell him so. and then i would frown and turn from him; and then he would follow, so sad and so pale: don't you think he would? and i am keeping his presents to give back to him, as he did mine; and see how i have my hair parted on my forehead, just as he used to like it, ready the moment i see him to rumple it all about; and then he will cry so. don't you think he will? and then i will run, run, run away like the wind, and never see him again; never, never again.' 'my dear mary,' said i, 'you shall see him again, and be friends with him too. your william is still faithful to you;--most faithful, and still loves you better than his life. i have seen him myself this moment.' 'you have?' cried she, reddening. 'oh! and what did he say? but hush, not a word before my father and that man:' and she put one hand upon my mouth, and with the other round my waist, hurried me into a little arbour, where we sat down. 'and now,' whispered she, stealing her arms about my neck, and looking earnestly into my eyes, while her whole frame shook, 'and now what did he say?' 'mary,' said i, with a serious tone and aspect, 'you must collect your ideas, and listen attentively, for i have much to disclose. do you recollect a letter that i got you to write for me when i was here last?' 'letter--' muttered she. 'letter.--yes, i believe i do. oh! yes, i recollect it well; for it was a sad letter to your sweetheart, telling him that you had married another; and your sweetheart's name was william; and i thought, at the time, i would never write such a letter to my own william.' 'and yet, mary,' said i, 'your own william got that letter, by some mistake,' (for i could not bear to tell the real fact) 'that very evening; and seeing it in your hand-writing, and addressed to william, he thought it was from you to him; and so he gave you back your presents, and----' 'what is all that?' cried mary, starting up. 'merciful powers! say all that over again!' i made her sit down, and i shewed her the letter. as she read it, her colour changed, her lip quivered, her hand shook; and at the conclusion, she dropped it with a dreadful groan, and remained quite motionless. 'mary!' cried i, 'dear mary, do not look so. speak, mary,' and i stirred her shoulder; but she still sat motionless with a fixed smile. 'i shall, i will see her!' cried the voice of william at a distance; and the next instant he was seated breathless by her side. 'mary, my mary!' cried he in the most touching accents. at the well-known voice, she started, and turned towards him; but in a moment averted her face, and rose as pale as ashes. then drawing some letters and baubles from her bosom, she threw them into his lap, and began gently disarranging her hair, all the time looking sideways at him, with an air of pretty dignity. 'come,' said she, taking my hand, and leading me out of the arbour. 'well, was not that glorious? now i shall die content.' 'yes,' said i, 'after having first killed your william. have i not explained all about the letter; and how can you now treat him so cruelly?' 'the letter,' said she. 'ay, true, the letter. let me consider a moment. he thought it was mine, do you say?' 'he did indeed, mary; and yet you will not be friends with him.' 'but you see he won't follow me,' said she. 'he would have followed me once. is he following me?' 'he cannot,' answered i. 'the poor young man is lying on the ground, and sobbing ready to break his heart.' mary stopped. 'shall i call him?' said i. 'why now,' said she, 'how can i prevent you?' 'william!' cried i. 'mary calls you.' william came flying towards her. at the sound of his steps she turned, stretched forth her hands, uttered a long and piercing cry;--and they were locked in each other's arms. but the poor girl, quite overpowered by the sudden change, fell back insensible; while william, kissing her, and weeping over her, bore her into the house, and laid her on a bed. it was so long before she shewed any symptoms of animation, that we began to feel serious alarm; and william ran to the village for an apothecary. by degrees she came to herself, and appeared somewhat more composed; but still wandering. at last, with her hand clasped in her lover's, she fell asleep; and then, as our presence could be no farther useful, we took leave of the venerable peasant; who, generous with recent hope, freely gave me his forgiveness and his blessing. in my first transports of anguish at this scene, i disclosed to stuart, what i had all day determined, but dreaded to tell--the situation of my father in the madhouse. at the horrid account, the good young man turned pale, but said not a word. i saw that i was undone, and i burst into tears. 'be comforted, my dear girl,' said he, laying his hand on mine. 'you have long been acting under the delusion of a dreadful dream, but this confession, and these tears, are, i trust, the prognostics of a total renunciation of error. so now let us hasten to your father and release him. he shall forgive you; past follies shall be forgotten, past pleasures renewed; you shall return to your real home, and cherry wilkinson shall again be the daughter of an honest squire.' 'mr. stuart,' said i, 'as to my past follies, i know of none but two;--mary's and my father's matters. and as to that father, he may not be what you suppose him. i fancy, sir, there are such things as men who begin life with plain names, and end it with the most italian in the world.' 'well?' cried stuart. 'well,' said i, 'that honest squire, as you call him, may yet come out to be a marquis.' stuart groaned, and put his head out at the window. we have reached london, and i take the opportunity to write while stuart is procuring from grundy, who now lies in prison, such a statement as cannot fail to make the doctor release my poor father without hesitation. how shall i support this approaching interview? i shall sink, i shall die under it. indeed i wish to die; and i feel an irresistible presentiment that my prayer will shortly be granted. all day long i have a horrid gloom hanging over me, besides a frequent wildness of ideas, and an unusual irritability. i have a chilliness, and yet a burning through my skin; and i am unwilling even to move. if i could lock myself up in a room, with heaps of romances, and shut out all the world, i sometimes fancy that i should be happy. but no, my friend; the grave will soon be my chamber, the worms my books; and if ever i write again, i shall write from the bed of death. i know it; i feel it. i shall be reconciled to my dear parent, acknowledge my follies, and die. adieu. letter xlvi agitated beyond measure, i found myself at the madhouse, without well knowing how i had got there; and stuart, after a long altercation with the doctor, supported me to the room where my father was confined. he had to push me gently before him, and as i stopped breathless inside the door, i saw by the dusky twilight a miserable object, shivering, and sitting on a bed. a few rags and a blanket were cast about it: the face was haggard, and the chin overgrown with a grisly beard. yet, amidst all this disfigurement, i could not mistake my father. i ran, prostrated myself at his feet, and clasping his knees, exclaimed, 'father, dear father!' he started, and gazed at me for a moment; then flung me from him, and threw himself with his face downward on the bed. i cast my body across his, and endeavoured, with both my hands, to turn round his head, that i might embrace him; but he resisted every effort. 'father!' cried i, clasping his neck, 'will you break my heart? will you drive me to distraction? speak, father! oh! one word, one little word, to save me from death!' still he lay mute and immoveable. 'you are cold, father,' said i. 'you shiver. shall i put something about you? shall i, father? ah! i can be so kind and so tender when i love one; and i love you dearly--heaven knows i do.' i stole my hand on one of his, and lay caressing his forehead, and murmuring words of fondness in his ear. but nothing could avail. he withdrew his hand by degrees, and buried his forehead deeper in the cloaths. and now half frantic, i began to wring my hands, and beat the pillow, and moan, and utter the most deplorable lamentations. at last i thought i saw him a little convulsed, as if with smothered tears. 'ah,' cried i, 'you are relenting, you are weeping. bless you for that. dear, dear father, look up, and see with what joy a daughter can embrace you.' 'my child, my child!' cried he, turning, and throwing himself upon my bosom. 'a heart of stone could not withstand this! there, there, there, i forgive you all!' fast and fondly did we cling round each other, and sweet were the sighs that we breathed, and the tears that we shed. but i suffered too much: the disorder which had some time been engendering in my frame now burst forth with alarming vehemence, and i was conveyed raving into a carriage. on our arrival at the hotel, they sent for a physician, who pronounced me in a violent fever of a nervous nature. for a fortnight i was not expected to recover; and i myself felt so convinced of my speedy dissolution, that i requested the presence of a clergyman. he came; and his conversations, by composing my mind, contributed in a great degree to my recovery. at my request, he paid me daily visits. our subject was religion,--not those theological controversies which excite so much irreligious feeling, and teach men to hate each other for the love of god; but those plain and simple truths which convince without confounding, and which avoid the bigotry that would worship error, because it is hereditary; and the fanaticism that would lay rash hands on the holy temple, because some of its smaller pillars appear unsound. after several days of discussion on this important topic, he led me, by degrees, to give him an account of my late adventures; and as i related, he made comments. affected by his previous precepts, and by my own awful approach to eternity, which had suppressed in my heart the passions of ambition and pride, i now became as desirous of conviction as i had heretofore been sophistical in support of my folly. to be predisposed is to be half converted; and soon this exemplary pastor convinced my understanding of the impious and immoral tendency of my past life. he shewed me, that to the inordinate gratification of a particular caprice, i had sacrificed my duty towards my natural protectors, myself, and my god. that my ruling passion, though harmless in its nature, was injurious in its effects; that it gave me a distaste for all sober occupations, perverted my judgment, and even threatened me with the deprivation of my reason. religion itself, he said, if indulged with immoderate enthusiasm, at last degenerates into zealotry, and leaves the poor devotee too rapturous to be rational, and too virulent to be religious. in a word, i have risen from my bed, an altered being; and i now look back on my past delusions with abhorrence and disgust. though the new principles of conduct which i have adopted are not yet rooted or methodized in my mind, and though the prejudices of a whole life are not (and indeed could not be) entirely eradicated in a few days; still, as i am resolved on endeavouring to get rid of them, i trust that my reason will second my desire, and that the final consequence of my perceiving what is erroneous will be my learning what is correct. adieu. letter xlvii my health is now so far re-established, that i am no longer confined to my room. stuart pays us constant visits, and his lively advice and witty reasoning, more complimentary than reproachful, and more insinuated than expressed, have tended to perfect my reformation. he had put don quixote (a work which i never read before) into my hands; and on my returning it to him, with a confession of the benefit that i derived from it, the conversation naturally ran upon romances in general. he thus delivered his sentiments. 'i do not protest against the perusal of fictitious biography altogether; for many works of this kind may be read without injury, and some with profit. novels such as the vicar of wakefield, the fashionable tales, and coelebs, which draw man as he is, imperfect, instead of man as he cannot be, superhuman, are both instructive and entertaining. romances such as the mysteries of udolpho, the italian, and the bravo of venice, which address themselves to the imagination alone, are often captivating, and seldom detrimental. but unfortunately so seductive are the latter class of composition, that one is apt to neglect more useful books for them; besides, when indulged in extreme, they tend to incapacitate us from encountering the turmoils of active life. they present us with incidents and characters which we can never meet in the world; and act upon the mind like intoxicating stimulants; first elevate, and at last enervate it. they teach us to revel in ideal scenes of transport and distraction; and harden our hearts against living misery, by making us so refined as to feel disgust at its unpoetical accompaniments. 'in a country where morals are on the decline, novels always fall several degrees below the standard of national virtue: and the contrary holds in an opposite state of things. for as these works are an exaggerated picture of the times, they represent the prevalent opinions and manners with a gigantic pencil. thus, since france became depraved, her novels have become dissolute; and since her social system arrived at its extreme of vicious refinement, they too have adopted that last master-stroke of refined vice, which wins the heart by the chastest aphorisms, and then corrupts it by the most alluring pictures of villainy. take rousseau for instance. what st. preux is to heloise, the book is to the reader. the lover so fascinates his mistress by his honourable sentiments, that she cannot resist his criminal advances. the book infatuates the reader, till, in his admiration of its morality, he loses all recollection of its licentiousness; for as virtue is more captivating, so vice is less disgusting when adorned with the graces. it may be said that an author ought to portray vice in its seductive colours, for the purpose of unmasking its arts, and thus warning the young and inexperienced. but let it be recollected, that though familiarity with enchanting descriptions of vice may add to prudence, it must diminish virtue; and that while it teaches the reason to resist, it entices the passions to yield. it was rousseau's system, however, to paint the scenes of a brothel, in order to speak the cant of a monastery; and thus has he undone many an imitating miss or wife, who began by listening to the language of love, that she might talk sentiment, and act virtue; and ended by falling a victim to it, because her heart had become entangled, her head bewildered, and her principles depraved. 'now, though we seldom see such publications in this country, yet there is a strain of well-meaning, but false morality prevalent in some. i will add (for why should i conceal it from you?) that your principles, which have hitherto been formed upon such books alone, appear, at times, a little perverted by their influence. it should now, therefore, be your object to counteract these bad effects by some more rational line of reading; and, as your ideas of real life are drawn from novels; and as even your manners and language are vitiated by them, i would recommend to you to mix in the world, to copy living instead of imaginary beings, and to study the customs of actual, not ideal society.' with this opinion my father perfectly coincided: the system has already been begun, and i now pass my time in an alternation of instruction and amusement. morality, history, languages, and music, occupy my mornings; and my evenings are sometimes enlivened by balls, operas, and familiar parties. as, therefore, we shall remain some time in town, my father has taken a house. stuart, my counsellor and my companion, sits by my side, directs my studies, re-assures my timidity, and corrects my mistakes. indeed he has to correct them often; for i still retain some taints of my former follies and affectations. my postures are sometimes too picturesque, my phrases too flowery, and my sentiments too sublime. this having been the day fixed for the trials of betterton and grundy, the prisoners were brought to the bar, and the names of the prosecutors called. but these did not appear, and of consequence the culprits were discharged. it is supposed that betterton, the great declaimer against bribery and corruption, had tampered with the postilion and the police, and thus escaped the fate which awaited him. adieu. letter xlviii in ridding ourselves of a particular fault, we are apt, at first, to run too far into its opposite virtue. i had poured forth my tender feelings to you with such sentimental absurdity, when i fancied myself enamoured of one man, that as soon as i began to reform, and found myself actually attached to another, i determined on concealing my fondness from you, with the most scrupulous discretion of pen. perhaps, therefore, i should beg your forgiveness for never having hinted to you before, what i am now about disclosing to you without any reserve. even at the very time when i thought i was bound in duty to be devotedly in love with the hateful grundy, i felt an unconscious partiality for stuart. but after my reformation, that partiality became too decisive to be misinterpreted or concealed. and indeed he was so constantly with me, and so kind a comforter and friend; and then so fascinating are his manners, and so good his disposition; for i am certain there is no such young man at all--you see in his eyes what he is; you see instantly that his heart is all gentleness and benevolence, and yet he has a fire in them, a fire that would delight you: and i could tell you a thousand anecdotes of him that would astonish you.--but what have i done with my sentence? go back, good pen, and restore it to the grammar it deserves: or rather leave it as it is--a cripple for life, and hasten to the happy catastrophe. with a secret transport which i cannot describe, i began of late to perceive that stuart had become more assiduous than usual in his visits to me; that his manners betrayed more tenderness, and his language more regard. these attentions increased daily; nor did he omit opportunities of hinting his passion, in terms which i could not mistake. this morning, however, put the matter beyond a doubt. i was alone when he came to pay his accustomed visit. at first he made some faint attempts at conversing upon indifferent topics; but all the time i could perceive an uneasiness and perturbation in his manner that surprised me. 'pray,' said i, at length, 'what makes you so dull and absent to-day?' 'you,' replied he, with a smile. 'and what have i done?' said i. ''tis not what you have done,' answered he; 'but what you will do.' 'and what is that?' said i. he changed to a nearer chair, and looked at me with much agitation. i guessed what was coming; i had expected it some time; but now, when the moment arrived, i felt my heart fail; so i suddenly moved towards the door, saying that i was sure i heard my father call. stuart sprang after me, and led me back by the hand. 'when i tell you,' said he, 'that on the possession of this hand depends my happiness, may i flatter myself with the hope that my happiness would not contribute to your misery?' 'as i am no longer a heroine,' said i, smiling, 'i do not intend to get up a scene. you happen to have my hand now; and i am afraid--very much afraid, that----' 'that what?' cried he, holding it faster. 'that it is not worth withdrawing,' said i. but in this effort to shun a romance eclaircissement, i had, i feared, run into the contrary extreme, and betrayed an undue boldness; so i got sentimental in good earnest, and burst into tears. stuart led me to my chair, and soon dissipated my uneasiness by his eloquent expressions of gratitude and delight, and his glowing pictures of our future happiness. i told him, that i wondered how he, who knew my failings so well, would venture to stake his happiness upon me. 'it was by my knowledge of your failings,' said he, 'that i discovered your perfections. those embarrassments of your life which i witnessed have enabled me to judge of you more justly in a few months, than had i been acquainted with you whole years, in the common routine of intercourse. they have shewn me, that if you had weakness enough to court danger, you had firmness enough to withstand temptation; and that while the faulty part of your character was factitious and superinduced, all the pure and generous impulses came from your heart.' our conversation was interrupted by the sudden entrance of my father; and on his hearing from stuart (who, it seems had made him a confidant) the favourable issue of our interview, the good old man hugged both of us in his arms. to detain you no longer, a week hence is fixed for our wedding. i have just received a letter from mary, mentioning her perfect restoration to health, and her union with william. i shall offer no observation on your late marriage with the butler; but i must remark, that your reason for having never given me advice, during my follies--namely, because my father had deprived you of the right to do so, evinced more anger towards him than love for me. however, i shall always be happy to hear of your welfare. adieu. letter xlix i have just time to tell you, before i leave town, that my fate was sealed this morning, and that i am a wife. on my return to the house, after the ceremony, i found an epithalamium, addressed to me by poor higginson; but it was more filled with hints at his own misery than congratulations upon my happiness. honest jerry sullivan met me at the door, and shook my hand, and danced round me in a fury of outrageous joy. 'well,' cried he, 'often and often i thought your freaks would get you hanged; but may i be hanged if ever i thought they would get you married!' 'you see,' said i to stuart, 'after all your pains to prevent me from imitating romances, you have made me terminate my adventures like a true romance--in a wedding. pray with what moral will you now conclude the book?' 'i will say,' returned he, 'that virtue--no. that calamity--no. that fortitude and resignation--oh, no! i will say, then, that tommy horner was a bad boy, and would not get plumcake; and that king pepin was a good boy, and rode in a golden coach.' adieu. * * * * * transcriber's note: minor typographical errors have been corrected without note. irregularities and inconsistencies in the text have been retained as printed. 