chapter
stringlengths 277
60.2k
| text
stringlengths 47
20.9k
| type
stringclasses 2
values |
|---|---|---|
Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmond.
Kent. I thought the King had more affected the
Duke of Albany, then Cornwall
Glou. It did alwayes seeme so to vs: But
now in the diuision of the Kingdome, it appeares
not which of the Dukes hee valewes
most, for qualities are so weigh'd, that curiosity in neither,
can make choise of eithers moity
Kent. Is not this your Son, my Lord?
Glou. His breeding Sir, hath bin at my charge. I haue
so often blush'd to acknowledge him, that now I am
braz'd too't
Kent. I cannot conceiue you
Glou. Sir, this yong Fellowes mother could; wherevpon
she grew round womb'd, and had indeede (Sir) a
Sonne for her Cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed.
Do you smell a fault?
Kent. I cannot wish the fault vndone, the issue of it,
being so proper
Glou. But I haue a Sonne, Sir, by order of Law, some
yeere elder then this; who, yet is no deerer in my account,
though this Knaue came somthing sawcily to the
world before he was sent for: yet was his Mother fayre,
there was good sport at his making, and the horson must
be acknowledged. Doe you know this Noble Gentleman,
Edmond?
Edm. No, my Lord
Glou. My Lord of Kent:
Remember him heereafter, as my Honourable Friend
Edm. My seruices to your Lordship
Kent. I must loue you, and sue to know you better
Edm. Sir, I shall study deseruing
Glou. He hath bin out nine yeares, and away he shall
againe. The King is comming.
Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Gonerill, Regan,
Cordelia, and
attendants.
Lear. Attend the Lords of France & Burgundy, Gloster
Glou. I shall, my Lord.
Enter.
Lear. Meane time we shal expresse our darker purpose.
Giue me the Map there. Know, that we haue diuided
In three our Kingdome: and 'tis our fast intent,
To shake all Cares and Businesse from our Age,
Conferring them on yonger strengths, while we
Vnburthen'd crawle toward death. Our son of Cornwal,
And you our no lesse louing Sonne of Albany,
We haue this houre a constant will to publish
Our daughters seuerall Dowers, that future strife
May be preuented now. The Princes, France & Burgundy,
Great Riuals in our yongest daughters loue,
Long in our Court, haue made their amorous soiourne,
And heere are to be answer'd. Tell me my daughters
(Since now we will diuest vs both of Rule,
Interest of Territory, Cares of State)
Which of you shall we say doth loue vs most,
That we, our largest bountie may extend
Where Nature doth with merit challenge. Gonerill,
Our eldest borne, speake first
Gon. Sir, I loue you more then word can weild y matter,
Deerer then eye-sight, space, and libertie,
Beyond what can be valewed, rich or rare,
No lesse then life, with grace, health, beauty, honor:
As much as Childe ere lou'd, or Father found.
A loue that makes breath poore, and speech vnable,
Beyond all manner of so much I loue you
Cor. What shall Cordelia speake? Loue, and be silent
Lear. Of all these bounds euen from this Line, to this,
With shadowie Forrests, and with Champains rich'd
With plenteous Riuers, and wide-skirted Meades
We make thee Lady. To thine and Albanies issues
Be this perpetuall. What sayes our second Daughter?
Our deerest Regan, wife of Cornwall?
Reg. I am made of that selfe-mettle as my Sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart,
I finde she names my very deede of loue:
Onely she comes too short, that I professe
My selfe an enemy to all other ioyes,
Which the most precious square of sense professes,
And finde I am alone felicitate
In your deere Highnesse loue
Cor. Then poore Cordelia,
And yet not so, since I am sure my loue's
More ponderous then my tongue
Lear. To thee, and thine hereditarie euer,
Remaine this ample third of our faire Kingdome,
No lesse in space, validitie, and pleasure
Then that conferr'd on Gonerill. Now our Ioy,
Although our last and least; to whose yong loue,
The Vines of France, and Milke of Burgundie,
Striue to be interest. What can you say, to draw
A third, more opilent then your Sisters? speake
Cor. Nothing my Lord
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing
Lear. Nothing will come of nothing, speake againe
Cor. Vnhappie that I am, I cannot heaue
My heart into my mouth: I loue your Maiesty
According to my bond, no more nor lesse
Lear. How, how Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,
Least you may marre your Fortunes
Cor. Good my Lord,
You haue begot me, bred me, lou'd me.
I returne those duties backe as are right fit,
Obey you, Loue you, and most Honour you.
Why haue my Sisters Husbands, if they say
They loue you all? Happily when I shall wed,
That Lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Halfe my loue with him, halfe my Care, and Dutie,
Sure I shall neuer marry like my Sisters
Lear. But goes thy heart with this?
Cor. I my good Lord
Lear. So young, and so vntender?
Cor. So young my Lord, and true
Lear. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dowre:
For by the sacred radience of the Sunne,
The misteries of Heccat and the night:
By all the operation of the Orbes,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be,
Heere I disclaime all my Paternall care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me,
Hold thee from this for euer. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosome
Be as well neighbour'd, pittied, and releeu'd,
As thou my sometime Daughter
Kent. Good my Liege
Lear. Peace Kent,
Come not betweene the Dragon and his wrath,
I lou'd her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence and avoid my sight:
So be my graue my peace, as here I giue
Her Fathers heart from her; call France, who stirres?
Call Burgundy, Cornwall, and Albanie,
With my two Daughters Dowres, digest the third,
Let pride, which she cals plainnesse, marry her:
I doe inuest you ioyntly with my power,
Preheminence, and all the large effects
That troope with Maiesty. Our selfe by Monthly course,
With reseruation of an hundred Knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode
Make with you by due turne, onely we shall retaine
The name, and all th' addition to a King: the Sway,
Reuennew, Execution of the rest,
Beloued Sonnes be yours, which to confirme,
This Coronet part betweene you
Kent. Royall Lear,
Whom I haue euer honor'd as my King,
Lou'd as my Father, as my Master follow'd,
As my great Patron thought on in my praiers
Le. The bow is bent & drawne, make from the shaft
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the forke inuade
The region of my heart, be Kent vnmannerly,
When Lear is mad, what wouldest thou do old man?
Think'st thou that dutie shall haue dread to speake,
When power to flattery bowes?
To plainnesse honour's bound,
When Maiesty falls to folly, reserue thy state,
And in thy best consideration checke
This hideous rashnesse, answere my life, my iudgement:
Thy yongest Daughter do's not loue thee least,
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sounds
Reuerbe no hollownesse
Lear. Kent, on thy life no more
Kent. My life I neuer held but as pawne
To wage against thine enemies, nere feare to loose it,
Thy safety being motiue
Lear. Out of my sight
Kent. See better Lear, and let me still remaine
The true blanke of thine eie
Lear. Now by Apollo,
Kent. Now by Apollo, King
Thou swear'st thy Gods in vaine
Lear. O Vassall! Miscreant
Alb. Cor. Deare Sir forbeare
Kent. Kill thy Physition, and thy fee bestow
Vpon the foule disease, reuoke thy guift,
Or whil'st I can vent clamour from my throate,
Ile tell thee thou dost euill
Lea. Heare me recreant, on thine allegeance heare me;
That thou hast sought to make vs breake our vowes,
Which we durst neuer yet; and with strain'd pride,
To come betwixt our sentences, and our power,
Which, nor our nature, nor our place can beare;
Our potencie made good, take thy reward.
Fiue dayes we do allot thee for prouision,
To shield thee from disasters of the world,
And on the sixt to turne thy hated backe
Vpon our kingdome: if on the tenth day following,
Thy banisht trunke be found in our Dominions,
The moment is thy death, away. By Iupiter,
This shall not be reuok'd,
Kent. Fare thee well King, sith thus thou wilt appeare,
Freedome liues hence, and banishment is here;
The Gods to their deere shelter take thee Maid,
That iustly think'st, and hast most rightly said:
And your large speeches, may your deeds approue,
That good effects may spring from words of loue:
Thus Kent, O Princes, bids you all adew,
Hee'l shape his old course, in a Country new.
Enter.
Flourish. Enter Gloster with France, and Burgundy, Attendants.
Cor. Heere's France and Burgundy, my Noble Lord
Lear. My Lord of Burgundie,
We first addresse toward you, who with this King
Hath riuald for our Daughter; what in the least
Will you require in present Dower with her,
Or cease your quest of Loue?
Bur. Most Royall Maiesty,
I craue no more then hath your Highnesse offer'd,
Nor will you tender lesse?
Lear. Right Noble Burgundy,
When she was deare to vs, we did hold her so,
But now her price is fallen: Sir, there she stands,
If ought within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it with our displeasure piec'd,
And nothing more may fitly like your Grace,
Shee's there, and she is yours
Bur. I know no answer
Lear. Will you with those infirmities she owes,
Vnfriended, new adopted to our hate,
Dow'rd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her or, leaue her
Bur. Pardon me Royall Sir,
Election makes not vp in such conditions
Le. Then leaue her sir, for by the powre that made me,
I tell you all her wealth. For you great King,
I would not from your loue make such a stray,
To match you where I hate, therefore beseech you
T' auert your liking a more worthier way,
Then on a wretch whom Nature is asham'd
Almost t' acknowledge hers
Fra. This is most strange,
That she whom euen but now, was your obiect,
The argument of your praise, balme of your age,
The best, the deerest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of fauour: sure her offence
Must be of such vnnaturall degree,
That monsters it: Or your fore-voucht affection
Fall into taint, which to beleeue of her
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should neuer plant in me
Cor. I yet beseech your Maiesty.
If for I want that glib and oylie Art,
To speake and purpose not, since what I will intend,
Ile do't before I speake, that you make knowne
It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulenesse,
No vnchaste action or dishonoured step
That hath depriu'd me of your Grace and fauour,
But euen for want of that, for which I am richer,
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue,
That I am glad I haue not, though not to haue it,
Hath lost me in your liking
Lear. Better thou had'st
Not beene borne, then not t'haue pleas'd me better
Fra. Is it but this? A tardinesse in nature,
Which often leaues the history vnspoke
That it intends to do: my Lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the Lady? Loue's not loue
When it is mingled with regards, that stands
Aloofe from th' intire point, will you haue her?
She is herselfe a Dowrie
Bur. Royall King,
Giue but that portion which your selfe propos'd,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Dutchesse of Burgundie
Lear. Nothing, I haue sworne, I am firme
Bur. I am sorry then you haue so lost a Father,
That you must loose a husband
Cor. Peace be with Burgundie,
Since that respect and Fortunes are his loue,
I shall not be his wife
Fra. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poore,
Most choise forsaken, and most lou'd despis'd,
Thee and thy vertues here I seize vpon,
Be it lawfull I take vp what's cast away.
Gods, Gods! 'Tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect
My Loue should kindle to enflam'd respect.
Thy dowrelesse Daughter King, throwne to my chance,
Is Queene of vs, of ours, and our faire France:
Not all the Dukes of watrish Burgundy,
Can buy this vnpriz'd precious Maid of me.
Bid them farewell Cordelia, though vnkinde,
Thou loosest here a better where to finde
Lear. Thou hast her France, let her be thine, for we
Haue no such Daughter, nor shall euer see
That face of hers againe, therfore be gone,
Without our Grace, our Loue, our Benizon:
Come Noble Burgundie.
Flourish. Exeunt.
Fra. Bid farwell to your Sisters
Cor. The Iewels of our Father, with wash'd eies
Cordelia leaues you, I know you what you are,
And like a Sister am most loth to call
Your faults as they are named. Loue well our Father:
To your professed bosomes I commit him,
But yet alas, stood I within his Grace,
I would prefer him to a better place,
So farewell to you both
Regn. Prescribe not vs our dutie
Gon. Let your study
Be to content your Lord, who hath receiu'd you
At Fortunes almes, you haue obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you haue wanted
Cor. Time shall vnfold what plighted cunning hides,
Who couers faults, at last with shame derides:
Well may you prosper
Fra. Come my faire Cordelia.
Exit France and Cor.
Gon. Sister, it is not little I haue to say,
Of what most neerely appertaines to vs both,
I thinke our Father will hence to night
Reg. That's most certaine, and with you: next moneth with vs
Gon. You see how full of changes his age is, the obseruation
we haue made of it hath beene little; he alwaies
lou'd our Sister most, and with what poore iudgement he
hath now cast her off, appeares too grossely
Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age, yet he hath euer but
slenderly knowne himselfe
Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath bin but
rash, then must we looke from his age, to receiue not alone
the imperfections of long ingraffed condition, but
therewithall the vnruly way-wardnesse, that infirme and
cholericke yeares bring with them
Reg. Such vnconstant starts are we like to haue from
him, as this of Kents banishment
Gon. There is further complement of leaue-taking betweene
France and him, pray you let vs sit together, if our
Father carry authority with such disposition as he beares,
this last surrender of his will but offend vs
Reg. We shall further thinke of it
Gon. We must do something, and i'th' heate.
Exeunt.
| There is a conversation between the Earls of Kent and Gloucester where we learn that the King plans to divide his Kingdom amongst his three daughters, two of whom are married, and the youngest has two suitors, the Duke of Burgundy and the King of France. The Kingdom is expected to be divided according to the worth of King Lear's sons-in-law. The audience also learns that Gloucester has two sons, Edgar his heir, and Edmund the younger son who is illegitimate. Gloucester reveals that both his sons share his affections. The King enters heralded by a trumpet, followed by his eldest daughter Goneril and her husband the Duke of Albany, then Regan and her husband the Duke of Cornwall, and finally Cordelia his youngest daughter. Cordelia's two suitors are also present, but they wait outside. King Lear announces that he is tired of ruling his Kingdom and because of his advanced age, he intends to divide his Kingdom into three parts based on his daughters' testimonies of love for their father. Lear's plan is for the extremities of his Kingdom to be divided equally between Goneril and Regan, for he hopes their husbands will be able to maintain law and order. He wishes to live in the central part of his Kingdom with his favorite youngest daughter Cordelia. The oldest two daughters fawn over their father exaggerating their affections for him. When it comes to Cordelia to make her testimony, she says, "You have begot me, bred me, lov’d me; I Return those duties back as are right fit, Obey you, love you and most honor you. Why have my sisters' husbands, if they say They love you all? Haply, when I shall wed, That lord whose hand must take my plight shall carry Half my love with him, half my care and duty. Sure, I shall never marry like my sisters, To love my father all." Lear asks why his daughter is untender. He fails to recognize his daughter's true affections for him and falls for the other two sisters' false declarations of love. He decides to disinherit Cordelia and split the whole Kingdom between Goneril and Regan. The Earl of Kent intercedes on Cordelia's behalf, telling the King that he is making a grave act of Foolishness, but the King will not be swayed and he banishes Kent as well. Kent departs, hoping that the gods will protect Cordelia and that Goneril and Regan's testimonies will be shown to be true. Gloucester returns with the King of France and the Duke of Burgundy and they are told that Cordelia is now destitute and without a dowry. The King of France is astonished at this news for it was well known that Cordelia was her father's favorite. Burgundy withdraws his suit, but the King of France acknowledges Cordelia's virtues and accepts her as his bride-to-be. As Cordelia leaves, she is anxious about her father's welfare, for she knows her older sisters well. The sisters are glad to see their younger sister depart, as she has been the subject of their jealousy for a long time. | summary |
Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmond.
Kent. I thought the King had more affected the
Duke of Albany, then Cornwall
Glou. It did alwayes seeme so to vs: But
now in the diuision of the Kingdome, it appeares
not which of the Dukes hee valewes
most, for qualities are so weigh'd, that curiosity in neither,
can make choise of eithers moity
Kent. Is not this your Son, my Lord?
Glou. His breeding Sir, hath bin at my charge. I haue
so often blush'd to acknowledge him, that now I am
braz'd too't
Kent. I cannot conceiue you
Glou. Sir, this yong Fellowes mother could; wherevpon
she grew round womb'd, and had indeede (Sir) a
Sonne for her Cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed.
Do you smell a fault?
Kent. I cannot wish the fault vndone, the issue of it,
being so proper
Glou. But I haue a Sonne, Sir, by order of Law, some
yeere elder then this; who, yet is no deerer in my account,
though this Knaue came somthing sawcily to the
world before he was sent for: yet was his Mother fayre,
there was good sport at his making, and the horson must
be acknowledged. Doe you know this Noble Gentleman,
Edmond?
Edm. No, my Lord
Glou. My Lord of Kent:
Remember him heereafter, as my Honourable Friend
Edm. My seruices to your Lordship
Kent. I must loue you, and sue to know you better
Edm. Sir, I shall study deseruing
Glou. He hath bin out nine yeares, and away he shall
againe. The King is comming.
Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Gonerill, Regan,
Cordelia, and
attendants.
Lear. Attend the Lords of France & Burgundy, Gloster
Glou. I shall, my Lord.
Enter.
Lear. Meane time we shal expresse our darker purpose.
Giue me the Map there. Know, that we haue diuided
In three our Kingdome: and 'tis our fast intent,
To shake all Cares and Businesse from our Age,
Conferring them on yonger strengths, while we
Vnburthen'd crawle toward death. Our son of Cornwal,
And you our no lesse louing Sonne of Albany,
We haue this houre a constant will to publish
Our daughters seuerall Dowers, that future strife
May be preuented now. The Princes, France & Burgundy,
Great Riuals in our yongest daughters loue,
Long in our Court, haue made their amorous soiourne,
And heere are to be answer'd. Tell me my daughters
(Since now we will diuest vs both of Rule,
Interest of Territory, Cares of State)
Which of you shall we say doth loue vs most,
That we, our largest bountie may extend
Where Nature doth with merit challenge. Gonerill,
Our eldest borne, speake first
Gon. Sir, I loue you more then word can weild y matter,
Deerer then eye-sight, space, and libertie,
Beyond what can be valewed, rich or rare,
No lesse then life, with grace, health, beauty, honor:
As much as Childe ere lou'd, or Father found.
A loue that makes breath poore, and speech vnable,
Beyond all manner of so much I loue you
Cor. What shall Cordelia speake? Loue, and be silent
Lear. Of all these bounds euen from this Line, to this,
With shadowie Forrests, and with Champains rich'd
With plenteous Riuers, and wide-skirted Meades
We make thee Lady. To thine and Albanies issues
Be this perpetuall. What sayes our second Daughter?
Our deerest Regan, wife of Cornwall?
Reg. I am made of that selfe-mettle as my Sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart,
I finde she names my very deede of loue:
Onely she comes too short, that I professe
My selfe an enemy to all other ioyes,
Which the most precious square of sense professes,
And finde I am alone felicitate
In your deere Highnesse loue
Cor. Then poore Cordelia,
And yet not so, since I am sure my loue's
More ponderous then my tongue
Lear. To thee, and thine hereditarie euer,
Remaine this ample third of our faire Kingdome,
No lesse in space, validitie, and pleasure
Then that conferr'd on Gonerill. Now our Ioy,
Although our last and least; to whose yong loue,
The Vines of France, and Milke of Burgundie,
Striue to be interest. What can you say, to draw
A third, more opilent then your Sisters? speake
Cor. Nothing my Lord
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing
Lear. Nothing will come of nothing, speake againe
Cor. Vnhappie that I am, I cannot heaue
My heart into my mouth: I loue your Maiesty
According to my bond, no more nor lesse
Lear. How, how Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,
Least you may marre your Fortunes
Cor. Good my Lord,
You haue begot me, bred me, lou'd me.
I returne those duties backe as are right fit,
Obey you, Loue you, and most Honour you.
Why haue my Sisters Husbands, if they say
They loue you all? Happily when I shall wed,
That Lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Halfe my loue with him, halfe my Care, and Dutie,
Sure I shall neuer marry like my Sisters
Lear. But goes thy heart with this?
Cor. I my good Lord
Lear. So young, and so vntender?
Cor. So young my Lord, and true
Lear. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dowre:
For by the sacred radience of the Sunne,
The misteries of Heccat and the night:
By all the operation of the Orbes,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be,
Heere I disclaime all my Paternall care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me,
Hold thee from this for euer. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosome
Be as well neighbour'd, pittied, and releeu'd,
As thou my sometime Daughter
Kent. Good my Liege
Lear. Peace Kent,
Come not betweene the Dragon and his wrath,
I lou'd her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence and avoid my sight:
So be my graue my peace, as here I giue
Her Fathers heart from her; call France, who stirres?
Call Burgundy, Cornwall, and Albanie,
With my two Daughters Dowres, digest the third,
Let pride, which she cals plainnesse, marry her:
I doe inuest you ioyntly with my power,
Preheminence, and all the large effects
That troope with Maiesty. Our selfe by Monthly course,
With reseruation of an hundred Knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode
Make with you by due turne, onely we shall retaine
The name, and all th' addition to a King: the Sway,
Reuennew, Execution of the rest,
Beloued Sonnes be yours, which to confirme,
This Coronet part betweene you
Kent. Royall Lear,
Whom I haue euer honor'd as my King,
Lou'd as my Father, as my Master follow'd,
As my great Patron thought on in my praiers
Le. The bow is bent & drawne, make from the shaft
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the forke inuade
The region of my heart, be Kent vnmannerly,
When Lear is mad, what wouldest thou do old man?
Think'st thou that dutie shall haue dread to speake,
When power to flattery bowes?
To plainnesse honour's bound,
When Maiesty falls to folly, reserue thy state,
And in thy best consideration checke
This hideous rashnesse, answere my life, my iudgement:
Thy yongest Daughter do's not loue thee least,
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sounds
Reuerbe no hollownesse
Lear. Kent, on thy life no more
Kent. My life I neuer held but as pawne
To wage against thine enemies, nere feare to loose it,
Thy safety being motiue
Lear. Out of my sight
Kent. See better Lear, and let me still remaine
The true blanke of thine eie
Lear. Now by Apollo,
Kent. Now by Apollo, King
Thou swear'st thy Gods in vaine
Lear. O Vassall! Miscreant
Alb. Cor. Deare Sir forbeare
Kent. Kill thy Physition, and thy fee bestow
Vpon the foule disease, reuoke thy guift,
Or whil'st I can vent clamour from my throate,
Ile tell thee thou dost euill
Lea. Heare me recreant, on thine allegeance heare me;
That thou hast sought to make vs breake our vowes,
Which we durst neuer yet; and with strain'd pride,
To come betwixt our sentences, and our power,
Which, nor our nature, nor our place can beare;
Our potencie made good, take thy reward.
Fiue dayes we do allot thee for prouision,
To shield thee from disasters of the world,
And on the sixt to turne thy hated backe
Vpon our kingdome: if on the tenth day following,
Thy banisht trunke be found in our Dominions,
The moment is thy death, away. By Iupiter,
This shall not be reuok'd,
Kent. Fare thee well King, sith thus thou wilt appeare,
Freedome liues hence, and banishment is here;
The Gods to their deere shelter take thee Maid,
That iustly think'st, and hast most rightly said:
And your large speeches, may your deeds approue,
That good effects may spring from words of loue:
Thus Kent, O Princes, bids you all adew,
Hee'l shape his old course, in a Country new.
Enter.
Flourish. Enter Gloster with France, and Burgundy, Attendants.
Cor. Heere's France and Burgundy, my Noble Lord
Lear. My Lord of Burgundie,
We first addresse toward you, who with this King
Hath riuald for our Daughter; what in the least
Will you require in present Dower with her,
Or cease your quest of Loue?
Bur. Most Royall Maiesty,
I craue no more then hath your Highnesse offer'd,
Nor will you tender lesse?
Lear. Right Noble Burgundy,
When she was deare to vs, we did hold her so,
But now her price is fallen: Sir, there she stands,
If ought within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it with our displeasure piec'd,
And nothing more may fitly like your Grace,
Shee's there, and she is yours
Bur. I know no answer
Lear. Will you with those infirmities she owes,
Vnfriended, new adopted to our hate,
Dow'rd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her or, leaue her
Bur. Pardon me Royall Sir,
Election makes not vp in such conditions
Le. Then leaue her sir, for by the powre that made me,
I tell you all her wealth. For you great King,
I would not from your loue make such a stray,
To match you where I hate, therefore beseech you
T' auert your liking a more worthier way,
Then on a wretch whom Nature is asham'd
Almost t' acknowledge hers
Fra. This is most strange,
That she whom euen but now, was your obiect,
The argument of your praise, balme of your age,
The best, the deerest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of fauour: sure her offence
Must be of such vnnaturall degree,
That monsters it: Or your fore-voucht affection
Fall into taint, which to beleeue of her
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should neuer plant in me
Cor. I yet beseech your Maiesty.
If for I want that glib and oylie Art,
To speake and purpose not, since what I will intend,
Ile do't before I speake, that you make knowne
It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulenesse,
No vnchaste action or dishonoured step
That hath depriu'd me of your Grace and fauour,
But euen for want of that, for which I am richer,
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue,
That I am glad I haue not, though not to haue it,
Hath lost me in your liking
Lear. Better thou had'st
Not beene borne, then not t'haue pleas'd me better
Fra. Is it but this? A tardinesse in nature,
Which often leaues the history vnspoke
That it intends to do: my Lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the Lady? Loue's not loue
When it is mingled with regards, that stands
Aloofe from th' intire point, will you haue her?
She is herselfe a Dowrie
Bur. Royall King,
Giue but that portion which your selfe propos'd,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Dutchesse of Burgundie
Lear. Nothing, I haue sworne, I am firme
Bur. I am sorry then you haue so lost a Father,
That you must loose a husband
Cor. Peace be with Burgundie,
Since that respect and Fortunes are his loue,
I shall not be his wife
Fra. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poore,
Most choise forsaken, and most lou'd despis'd,
Thee and thy vertues here I seize vpon,
Be it lawfull I take vp what's cast away.
Gods, Gods! 'Tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect
My Loue should kindle to enflam'd respect.
Thy dowrelesse Daughter King, throwne to my chance,
Is Queene of vs, of ours, and our faire France:
Not all the Dukes of watrish Burgundy,
Can buy this vnpriz'd precious Maid of me.
Bid them farewell Cordelia, though vnkinde,
Thou loosest here a better where to finde
Lear. Thou hast her France, let her be thine, for we
Haue no such Daughter, nor shall euer see
That face of hers againe, therfore be gone,
Without our Grace, our Loue, our Benizon:
Come Noble Burgundie.
Flourish. Exeunt.
Fra. Bid farwell to your Sisters
Cor. The Iewels of our Father, with wash'd eies
Cordelia leaues you, I know you what you are,
And like a Sister am most loth to call
Your faults as they are named. Loue well our Father:
To your professed bosomes I commit him,
But yet alas, stood I within his Grace,
I would prefer him to a better place,
So farewell to you both
Regn. Prescribe not vs our dutie
Gon. Let your study
Be to content your Lord, who hath receiu'd you
At Fortunes almes, you haue obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you haue wanted
Cor. Time shall vnfold what plighted cunning hides,
Who couers faults, at last with shame derides:
Well may you prosper
Fra. Come my faire Cordelia.
Exit France and Cor.
Gon. Sister, it is not little I haue to say,
Of what most neerely appertaines to vs both,
I thinke our Father will hence to night
Reg. That's most certaine, and with you: next moneth with vs
Gon. You see how full of changes his age is, the obseruation
we haue made of it hath beene little; he alwaies
lou'd our Sister most, and with what poore iudgement he
hath now cast her off, appeares too grossely
Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age, yet he hath euer but
slenderly knowne himselfe
Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath bin but
rash, then must we looke from his age, to receiue not alone
the imperfections of long ingraffed condition, but
therewithall the vnruly way-wardnesse, that infirme and
cholericke yeares bring with them
Reg. Such vnconstant starts are we like to haue from
him, as this of Kents banishment
Gon. There is further complement of leaue-taking betweene
France and him, pray you let vs sit together, if our
Father carry authority with such disposition as he beares,
this last surrender of his will but offend vs
Reg. We shall further thinke of it
Gon. We must do something, and i'th' heate.
Exeunt.
| InterpretationMost of the primary characters of the play are introduced in this first scene. We are given information concerning the three players that make up the sub-plot, the Earl of Gloucester and his heir Edgar, and his illegitimate son Edmund. The initial conversation between Kent and Gloucester is somewhat bawdy. We read, Gloucester: But I have a son, sir, by order of law, some year elder than this, who yet is no dearer in my account. Though this knave came something saucily into the world before he was sent for, yet was his mother fair; there was good sport at his making, and the whore son must be acknowledged. Do you know this noble gentleman, Edmund?" Although Gloucester considers his two sons to be equal, Elizabethan society does not. Bastards were much discriminated against and had no rights to wealth and property. Edmund will be fully aware that he will not receive an equal inheritance, and his father's estate will go to Edgar, his legitimate heir. The sub-plot deals with Edmund's determination to obtain fortune and position. Elizabethan society would also be shocked at King Lear's plans to divide up his Kingdom. This is a path to chaos, and English history is full of power struggles when there have been different factions with claims to the throne. We are then introduced to the remaining main characters and we learn how Lear intends to divide his Kingdom. His daughters will be required to provide a testimony of their love for their father and depending on their replies; the Kingdom will be divided accordingly. This aspect of the story is probably one of the original elements of the early Pagan tale. It is thought that the events mirror similar happenings in Britain around 800 B.C. The aged Lear is still a physically vibrant man, but we suspect that his hold on reason is diminishing and we view him as a Foolish man who doesn't recognize the true feelings of his three daughters. His ego is flattered by the false declarations made by Goneril and Regan, which are purely based on material factors. When Cordelia makes her response, she realizes that she stands to have control over the choicest part of the Kingdom, but her love for her father has no price and so she resists the temptation to flatter Lear's ego. It is no coincidence that Cordelia's two suitors are both French, England's old enemy. Perhaps the Shakespearean audience at this stage of the play may consider that Cordelia poses the greatest threat to her father, rather than the other two daughters. The symbolism here is of course, that these foreign suitors are Roman Catholic as opposed to the Protestant England. The inference, therefore, is that Lear is providing a recipe for political, social and religious chaos, which will only result in the weakening of the country. As we will learn, Lear is surrounded by many who love and honor him, so we can assume that up until now he has ruled wisely, but the Earl of Kent recognizes Lear's folly and tries to advise his King to spare Cordelia the banishment, but he is also banished for his pains. Kent makes his testimony to the King by saying, "Royal Lear, whom I have ever honour’d as my King, | analysis |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Bastard.
Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law
My seruices are bound, wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custome, and permit
The curiosity of Nations, to depriue me?
For that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines
Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base?
When my Dimensions are as well compact,
My minde as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs
With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?
Who in the lustie stealth of Nature, take
More composition, and fierce qualitie,
Then doth within a dull stale tyred bed
Goe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops
Got 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must haue your land,
Our Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond,
As to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.
Well, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed,
And my inuention thriue, Edmond the base
Shall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper:
Now Gods, stand vp for Bastards.
Enter Gloucester.
Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted?
And the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre,
Confin'd to exhibition? All this done
Vpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes?
Bast. So please your Lordship, none
Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter?
Bast. I know no newes, my Lord
Glou. What Paper were you reading?
Bast. Nothing my Lord
Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of
it into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not
such neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing,
I shall not neede Spectacles
Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter
from my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so
much as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking
Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir
Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it:
The Contents, as in part I vnderstand them,
Are too blame
Glou. Let's see, let's see
Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote
this but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue
Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the
world bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from
vs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle
and fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes
not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of
this I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd
him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the
beloued of your Brother. Edgar.
Hum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should
enioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a
hand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in?
When came you to this? Who brought it?
Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the
cunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of
my Closset
Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers?
Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear
it were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it
were not
Glou. It is his
Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is
not in the Contents
Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines?
Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine
it to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers
declin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and
the Sonne manage his Reuennew
Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter.
Abhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish
Villaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile
apprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he?
Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to
suspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can
deriue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold
run a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of
his obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that
he hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, &
to no other pretence of danger
Glou. Thinke you so?
Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you
where you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular
assurance haue your satisfaction, and that without
any further delay, then this very Euening
Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke
him out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse
after your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my
selfe, to be in a due resolution
Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse
as I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall
Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend
no good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can
reason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd
by the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off,
Brothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord;
in Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt
Sonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the
prediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from
byas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue
seene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse,
treacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly
to our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose
thee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted
Kent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange.
Exit
Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that
when we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own
behauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the
Moone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie,
Fooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and
Treachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars,
and Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary
influence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting
on. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man,
to lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre,
My father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons
taile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so
that it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should
haue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
Enter Edgar.
Pat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie:
my Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom
o' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions.
Fa, Sol, La, Me
Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation
are you in?
Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this
other day, what should follow these Eclipses
Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that?
Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede
vnhappily.
When saw you my Father last?
Edg. The night gone by
Bast. Spake you with him?
Edg. I, two houres together
Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure
in him, by word, nor countenance?
Edg. None at all,
Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended
him: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill
some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure,
which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe
of your person, it would scarsely alay
Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong
Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent
forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as
I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will
fitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe,
there's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd
Edg. Arm'd, Brother?
Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest
man, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told
you what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing
like the image, and horror of it, pray you away
Edg. Shall I heare from you anon?
Enter.
Edm. I do serue you in this businesse:
A Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble,
Whose nature is so farre from doing harmes,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie
My practises ride easie: I see the businesse.
Let me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit,
All with me's meete, that I can fashion fit.
Enter.
| The action switches to the Earl of Gloucester's castle where Edmund delivers a soliloquy where he appeals to nature to help him undo the laws that inhibit his prospects. He sets in motion his plan to steal Edgar's inheritance and when his father enters, he pretends to be distraught over the contents of a letter he has forged, which he tells his father is from Edgar. The letter urges Edmund to join Edgar in a conspiracy against their father where they would assassinate the Earl and split his estate. Gloucester is easily duped by Edmund's story, which is no doubt partly due to the scenes he has witnessed at King Lear's court. Left alone again, Edmund ridicules his father's stupidity. He is joined by Edgar and warns him that his father is in a rage, suggesting that he should carry a sword in order to protect himself. The reason that Edmund gives to Edgar for his father's rage has a supernatural basis. Edmund's clear skills of persuasion also work on Edgar and he believes the story. | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Bastard.
Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law
My seruices are bound, wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custome, and permit
The curiosity of Nations, to depriue me?
For that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines
Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base?
When my Dimensions are as well compact,
My minde as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs
With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?
Who in the lustie stealth of Nature, take
More composition, and fierce qualitie,
Then doth within a dull stale tyred bed
Goe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops
Got 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must haue your land,
Our Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond,
As to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.
Well, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed,
And my inuention thriue, Edmond the base
Shall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper:
Now Gods, stand vp for Bastards.
Enter Gloucester.
Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted?
And the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre,
Confin'd to exhibition? All this done
Vpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes?
Bast. So please your Lordship, none
Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter?
Bast. I know no newes, my Lord
Glou. What Paper were you reading?
Bast. Nothing my Lord
Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of
it into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not
such neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing,
I shall not neede Spectacles
Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter
from my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so
much as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking
Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir
Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it:
The Contents, as in part I vnderstand them,
Are too blame
Glou. Let's see, let's see
Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote
this but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue
Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the
world bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from
vs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle
and fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes
not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of
this I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd
him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the
beloued of your Brother. Edgar.
Hum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should
enioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a
hand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in?
When came you to this? Who brought it?
Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the
cunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of
my Closset
Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers?
Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear
it were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it
were not
Glou. It is his
Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is
not in the Contents
Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines?
Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine
it to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers
declin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and
the Sonne manage his Reuennew
Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter.
Abhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish
Villaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile
apprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he?
Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to
suspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can
deriue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold
run a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of
his obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that
he hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, &
to no other pretence of danger
Glou. Thinke you so?
Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you
where you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular
assurance haue your satisfaction, and that without
any further delay, then this very Euening
Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke
him out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse
after your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my
selfe, to be in a due resolution
Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse
as I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall
Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend
no good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can
reason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd
by the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off,
Brothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord;
in Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt
Sonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the
prediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from
byas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue
seene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse,
treacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly
to our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose
thee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted
Kent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange.
Exit
Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that
when we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own
behauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the
Moone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie,
Fooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and
Treachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars,
and Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary
influence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting
on. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man,
to lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre,
My father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons
taile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so
that it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should
haue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
Enter Edgar.
Pat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie:
my Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom
o' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions.
Fa, Sol, La, Me
Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation
are you in?
Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this
other day, what should follow these Eclipses
Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that?
Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede
vnhappily.
When saw you my Father last?
Edg. The night gone by
Bast. Spake you with him?
Edg. I, two houres together
Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure
in him, by word, nor countenance?
Edg. None at all,
Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended
him: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill
some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure,
which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe
of your person, it would scarsely alay
Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong
Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent
forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as
I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will
fitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe,
there's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd
Edg. Arm'd, Brother?
Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest
man, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told
you what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing
like the image, and horror of it, pray you away
Edg. Shall I heare from you anon?
Enter.
Edm. I do serue you in this businesse:
A Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble,
Whose nature is so farre from doing harmes,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie
My practises ride easie: I see the businesse.
Let me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit,
All with me's meete, that I can fashion fit.
Enter.
| Interpretation As in so many of Shakespeare's plays, he uses a soliloquy in order to reveal to the audience the direction of the plot and the character of the orator. Edmund's soliloquy starts, "Thou, Nature, art my goddess; to thy law My services are bound. Wherefore should I Stand in the plague of custom, and permit The curiosity of nations to deprive me, For that I am some twelve or fourteen moonshines Lag of my brother? Why bastard? Wherefore base? '' Legitimate Edgar, I must have your land: Our father's love is to the bastard Edmund '' Now, gods, stand up for bastards!" It is perhaps difficult for the modern audience to appreciate the position that Edmund finds himself in as the illegitimate child of Gloucester. We must assume, knowing Edmund's character that he perhaps overheard the conversation between Kent and Gloucester in the previous scene where Gloucester declared his love for both his sons, but the love he has for Edmund is tainted. The sleight he has suffered is similar to that of Iago in 'Othello'. It is similar in intensity and causes him much pain. He is determined to have vengeance on his half-brother and father and he calls on the god of Nature to help him in his quest. Edmund possesses great powers of persuasion and he is able to convince both his father and brother of the dangers they face from each other. He is already growing in stature in both their eyes. We note his reluctance to show his father the forged letter, feigning to protect his brother from his father's anger. Shakespeare cleverly instills curiosity and horror in the audience as regards the character of Edmund. There is a supernatural element. We note in the quotation above that Edmund refers to the age gap between himself and his older brother in terms of the moon, rather than in days. Edmund calls on the gods of nature to rescind the laws of religion and society so that his 'race' of bastards might usurp those that subjugate them. The scene is framed by soliloquies and closes with Edmund saying, "I do serve you in this business. A credulous father, and a brother noble, Whose nature is so far from doing harms That he suspects none; on whose Foolish honesty My practices ride easy! I see the business. Let me, if not by birth, have lands by wit: All with me's meet that I can fashion fit." He mocks his father and brother for their Foolish honesty, which makes his task easy and he will gain their rank, not by birth, but by his wit. | analysis |
Scena Tertia.
Enter Gonerill, and Steward.
Gon. Did my Father strike my Gentleman for chiding
of his Foole?
Ste. I Madam
Gon. By day and night, he wrongs me, euery howre
He flashes into one grosse crime, or other,
That sets vs all at ods: Ile not endure it;
His Knights grow riotous, and himselfe vpbraides vs
On euery trifle. When he returnes from hunting,
I will not speake with him, say I am sicke,
If you come slacke of former seruices,
You shall do well, the fault of it Ile answer
Ste. He's comming Madam, I heare him
Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your Fellowes: I'de haue it come to question;
If he distaste it, let him to my Sister,
Whose mind and mine I know in that are one,
Remember what I haue said
Ste. Well Madam
Gon. And let his Knights haue colder lookes among
you: what growes of it no matter, aduise your fellowes
so, Ile write straight to my Sister to hold my course; prepare
for dinner.
Exeunt.
| Goneril asks her steward, Oswald, if it is true that her father struck him because he was ridiculing the King's Fool. Oswald confirms this, and the angry Goneril tells Oswald to be unhelpful when dealing with her father and his entourage. She indicates that if her father does not like this treatment, he should move and stay with Regan. Goneril instructs all her servants to treat the King's company with coldness. | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter Gonerill, and Steward.
Gon. Did my Father strike my Gentleman for chiding
of his Foole?
Ste. I Madam
Gon. By day and night, he wrongs me, euery howre
He flashes into one grosse crime, or other,
That sets vs all at ods: Ile not endure it;
His Knights grow riotous, and himselfe vpbraides vs
On euery trifle. When he returnes from hunting,
I will not speake with him, say I am sicke,
If you come slacke of former seruices,
You shall do well, the fault of it Ile answer
Ste. He's comming Madam, I heare him
Gon. Put on what weary negligence you please,
You and your Fellowes: I'de haue it come to question;
If he distaste it, let him to my Sister,
Whose mind and mine I know in that are one,
Remember what I haue said
Ste. Well Madam
Gon. And let his Knights haue colder lookes among
you: what growes of it no matter, aduise your fellowes
so, Ile write straight to my Sister to hold my course; prepare
for dinner.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation There is an indication at the end of Scene.i that Goneril will not stand for any annoyance from her father, and this is now confirmed by her actions in this scene. It should be borne in mind that the stewards of great households were important people. They normally came from noble families and have much influence over their masters. This is reinforced by the fact that Goneril gives her steward permission to be rude to her father. Again, we see an indication that nature has taken over from the normal rules of family life. She shows no respect for her father. We note that she instructs her servants to show little hospitality to the King and his followers. The King still regards himself as possessing all his authority, but his daughter views him as a Foolish old man and encourages her servants to do the same. The extent to which she is cruel and callous to her father comes as a surprise to the audience. The plot is developing at speed, and again these short scenes emphasize the pace of the action. Reference is also made to the fact that Lear has been hunting, so although his actions have been Foolish, he still has the ability to participate in the exacting chase of the hunt. | analysis |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Kent.
Kent. If but as will I other accents borrow,
That can my speech defuse, my good intent
May carry through it selfe to that full issue
For which I raiz'd my likenesse. Now banisht Kent,
If thou canst serue where thou dost stand condemn'd,
So may it come, thy Master whom thou lou'st,
Shall find thee full of labours.
Hornes within. Enter Lear and Attendants.
Lear. Let me not stay a iot for dinner, go get it ready:
how now, what art thou?
Kent. A man Sir
Lear. What dost thou professe? What would'st thou
with vs?
Kent. I do professe to be no lesse then I seeme; to serue
him truely that will put me in trust, to loue him that is
honest, to conuerse with him that is wise and saies little, to
feare iudgement, to fight when I cannot choose, and to
eate no fish
Lear. What art thou?
Kent. A very honest hearted Fellow, and as poore as
the King
Lear. If thou be'st as poore for a subiect, as hee's for a
King, thou art poore enough. What wouldst thou?
Kent. Seruice
Lear. Who wouldst thou serue?
Kent. You
Lear. Do'st thou know me fellow?
Kent. No Sir, but you haue that in your countenance,
which I would faine call Master
Lear. What's that?
Kent. Authority
Lear. What seruices canst thou do?
Kent. I can keepe honest counsaile, ride, run, marre a
curious tale in telling it, and deliuer a plaine message
bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am quallified
in, and the best of me, is Dilligence
Lear. How old art thou?
Kent. Not so young Sir to loue a woman for singing,
nor so old to dote on her for any thing. I haue yeares on
my backe forty eight
Lear. Follow me, thou shalt serue me, if I like thee no
worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner
ho, dinner, where's my knaue? my Foole? Go you and call
my Foole hither. You you Sirrah, where's my Daughter?
Enter Steward.
Ste. So please you-
Enter.
Lear. What saies the Fellow there? Call the Clotpole
backe: wher's my Foole? Ho, I thinke the world's
asleepe, how now? Where's that Mungrell?
Knigh. He saies my Lord, your Daughters is not well
Lear. Why came not the slaue backe to me when I
call'd him?
Knigh. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he
would not
Lear. He would not?
Knight. My Lord, I know not what the matter is,
but to my iudgement your Highnesse is not entertain'd
with that Ceremonious affection as you were wont,
theres a great abatement of kindnesse appeares as well in
the generall dependants, as in the Duke himselfe also, and
your Daughter
Lear. Ha? Saist thou so?
Knigh. I beseech you pardon me my Lord, if I bee
mistaken, for my duty cannot be silent, when I thinke
your Highnesse wrong'd
Lear. Thou but remembrest me of mine owne Conception,
I haue perceiued a most faint neglect of late,
which I haue rather blamed as mine owne iealous curiositie,
then as a very pretence and purpose of vnkindnesse;
I will looke further intoo't: but where's my Foole? I
haue not seene him this two daies
Knight. Since my young Ladies going into France
Sir, the Foole hath much pined away
Lear. No more of that, I haue noted it well, goe you
and tell my Daughter, I would speake with her. Goe you
call hither my Foole; Oh you Sir, you, come you hither
Sir, who am I Sir?
Enter Steward.
Ste. My Ladies Father
Lear. My Ladies Father? my Lords knaue, you whorson
dog, you slaue, you curre
Ste. I am none of these my Lord,
I beseech your pardon
Lear. Do you bandy lookes with me, you Rascall?
Ste. Ile not be strucken my Lord
Kent. Nor tript neither, you base Foot-ball plaier
Lear. I thanke thee fellow.
Thou seru'st me, and Ile loue thee
Kent. Come sir, arise, away, Ile teach you differences:
away, away, if you will measure your lubbers length againe,
tarry, but away, goe too, haue you wisedome, so
Lear. Now my friendly knaue I thanke thee, there's
earnest of thy seruice.
Enter Foole.
Foole. Let me hire him too, here's my Coxcombe
Lear. How now my pretty knaue, how dost thou?
Foole. Sirrah, you were best take my Coxcombe
Lear. Why my Boy?
Foole. Why? for taking ones part that's out of fauour,
nay, & thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch
colde shortly, there take my Coxcombe; why this fellow
ha's banish'd two on's Daughters, and did the third a
blessing against his will, if thou follow him, thou must
needs weare my Coxcombe. How now Nunckle? would
I had two Coxcombes and two Daughters
Lear. Why my Boy?
Fool. If I gaue them all my liuing, I'ld keepe my Coxcombes
my selfe, there's mine, beg another of thy
Daughters
Lear. Take heed Sirrah, the whip
Foole. Truth's a dog must to kennell, hee must bee
whipt out, when the Lady Brach may stand by'th' fire
and stinke
Lear. A pestilent gall to me
Foole. Sirha, Ile teach thee a speech
Lear. Do
Foole. Marke it Nuncle;
Haue more then thou showest,
Speake lesse then thou knowest,
Lend lesse then thou owest,
Ride more then thou goest,
Learne more then thou trowest,
Set lesse then thou throwest;
Leaue thy drinke and thy whore,
And keepe in a dore,
And thou shalt haue more,
Then two tens to a score
Kent. This is nothing Foole
Foole. Then 'tis like the breath of an vnfeed Lawyer,
you gaue me nothing for't, can you make no vse of nothing
Nuncle?
Lear. Why no Boy,
Nothing can be made out of nothing
Foole. Prythee tell him, so much the rent of his land
comes to, he will not beleeue a Foole
Lear. A bitter Foole
Foole. Do'st thou know the difference my Boy, betweene
a bitter Foole, and a sweet one
Lear. No Lad, teach me
Foole. Nunckle, giue me an egge, and Ile giue thee
two Crownes
Lear. What two Crownes shall they be?
Foole. Why after I haue cut the egge i'th' middle and
eate vp the meate, the two Crownes of the egge: when
thou clouest thy Crownes i'th' middle, and gau'st away
both parts, thou boar'st thine Asse on thy backe o're the
durt, thou hadst little wit in thy bald crowne, when thou
gau'st thy golden one away; if I speake like my selfe in
this, let him be whipt that first findes it so.
Fooles had nere lesse grace in a yeere,
For wisemen are growne foppish,
And know not how their wits to weare,
Their manners are so apish
Le. When were you wont to be so full of Songs sirrah?
Foole. I haue vsed it Nunckle, ere since thou mad'st
thy Daughters thy Mothers, for when thou gau'st them
the rod, and put'st downe thine owne breeches, then they
For sodaine ioy did weepe,
And I for sorrow sung,
That such a King should play bo-peepe,
And goe the Foole among.
Pry'thy Nunckle keepe a Schoolemaster that can teach
thy Foole to lie, I would faine learne to lie
Lear. And you lie sirrah, wee'l haue you whipt
Foole. I maruell what kin thou and thy daughters are,
they'l haue me whipt for speaking true: thou'lt haue me
whipt for lying, and sometimes I am whipt for holding
my peace. I had rather be any kind o' thing then a foole,
and yet I would not be thee Nunckle, thou hast pared thy
wit o' both sides, and left nothing i'th' middle; heere
comes one o'the parings.
Enter Gonerill.
Lear. How now Daughter? what makes that Frontlet
on? You are too much of late i'th' frowne
Foole. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no
need to care for her frowning, now thou art an O without
a figure, I am better then thou art now, I am a Foole,
thou art nothing. Yes forsooth I will hold my tongue, so
your face bids me, though you say nothing.
Mum, mum, he that keepes nor crust, nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some. That's a sheal'd Pescod
Gon. Not only Sir this, your all-lycenc'd Foole,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourely Carpe and Quarrell, breaking forth
In ranke, and (not to be endur'd) riots Sir.
I had thought by making this well knowne vnto you,
To haue found a safe redresse, but now grow fearefull
By what your selfe too late haue spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance, which if you should, the fault
Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleepe,
Which in the tender of a wholesome weale,
Mighty in their working do you that offence,
Which else were shame, that then necessitie
Will call discreet proceeding
Foole. For you know Nunckle, the Hedge-Sparrow
fed the Cuckoo so long, that it's had it head bit off by it
young, so out went the Candle, and we were left darkling
Lear. Are you our Daughter?
Gon. I would you would make vse of your good wisedome
(Whereof I know you are fraught), and put away
These dispositions, which of late transport you
From what you rightly are
Foole. May not an Asse know, when the Cart drawes
the Horse?
Whoop Iugge I loue thee
Lear. Do's any heere know me?
This is not Lear:
Do's Lear walke thus? Speake thus? Where are his eies?
Either his Notion weakens, his Discernings
Are Lethargied. Ha! Waking? 'Tis not so?
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Foole. Lears shadow
Lear. Your name, faire Gentlewoman?
Gon. This admiration Sir, is much o'th' sauour
Of other your new prankes. I do beseech you
To vnderstand my purposes aright:
As you are Old, and Reuerend, should be Wise.
Heere do you keepe a hundred Knights and Squires,
Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd and bold,
That this our Court infected with their manners,
Shewes like a riotous Inne; Epicurisme and Lust
Makes it more like a Tauerne, or a Brothell,
Then a grac'd Pallace. The shame it selfe doth speake
For instant remedy. Be then desir'd
By her, that else will take the thing she begges,
A little to disquantity your Traine,
And the remainders that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your Age,
Which know themselues, and you
Lear. Darknesse, and Diuels.
Saddle my horses: call my Traine together.
Degenerate Bastard, Ile not trouble thee;
Yet haue I left a daughter
Gon. You strike my people, and your disorder'd rable,
make Seruants of their Betters.
Enter Albany.
Lear. Woe, that too late repents:
Is it your will, speake Sir? Prepare my Horses.
Ingratitude! thou Marble-hearted Fiend,
More hideous when thou shew'st thee in a Child,
Then the Sea-monster
Alb. Pray Sir be patient
Lear. Detested Kite, thou lyest.
My Traine are men of choice, and rarest parts,
That all particulars of dutie know,
And in the most exact regard, support
The worships of their name. O most small fault,
How vgly did'st thou in Cordelia shew?
Which like an Engine, wrencht my frame of Nature
From the fixt place: drew from my heart all loue,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beate at this gate that let thy Folly in,
And thy deere Iudgement out. Go, go, my people
Alb. My Lord, I am guiltlesse, as I am ignorant
Of what hath moued you
Lear. It may be so, my Lord.
Heare Nature, heare deere Goddesse, heare:
Suspend thy purpose, if thou did'st intend
To make this Creature fruitfull:
Into her Wombe conuey stirrility,
Drie vp in her the Organs of increase,
And from her derogate body, neuer spring
A Babe to honor her. If she must teeme,
Create her childe of Spleene, that it may liue
And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her.
Let it stampe wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent Teares fret Channels in her cheekes,
Turne all her Mothers paines, and benefits
To laughter, and contempt: That she may feele,
How sharper then a Serpents tooth it is,
To haue a thanklesse Childe. Away, away.
Enter.
Alb. Now Gods that we adore,
Whereof comes this?
Gon. Neuer afflict your selfe to know more of it:
But let his disposition haue that scope
As dotage giues it.
Enter Lear.
Lear. What fiftie of my Followers at a clap?
Within a fortnight?
Alb. What's the matter, Sir?
Lear. Ile tell thee:
Life and death, I am asham'd
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus,
That these hot teares, which breake from me perforce
Should make thee worth them.
Blastes and Fogges vpon thee:
Th' vntented woundings of a Fathers curse
Pierce euerie sense about thee. Old fond eyes,
Beweepe this cause againe, Ile plucke ye out,
And cast you with the waters that you loose
To temper Clay. Ha? Let it be so.
I haue another daughter,
Who I am sure is kinde and comfortable:
When she shall heare this of thee, with her nailes
Shee'l flea thy Woluish visage. Thou shalt finde,
That Ile resume the shape which thou dost thinke
I haue cast off for euer.
Exit
Gon. Do you marke that?
Alb. I cannot be so partiall Gonerill,
To the great loue I beare you
Gon. Pray you content. What Oswald, hoa?
You Sir, more Knaue then Foole, after your Master
Foole. Nunkle Lear, Nunkle Lear,
Tarry, take the Foole with thee:
A Fox, when one has caught her,
And such a Daughter,
Should sure to the Slaughter,
If my Cap would buy a Halter,
So the Foole followes after.
Exit
Gon. This man hath had good Counsell,
A hundred Knights?
'Tis politike, and safe to let him keepe
At point a hundred Knights: yes, that on euerie dreame,
Each buz, each fancie, each complaint, dislike,
He may enguard his dotage with their powres,
And hold our liues in mercy. Oswald, I say
Alb. Well, you may feare too farre
Gon. Safer then trust too farre;
Let me still take away the harmes I feare,
Not feare still to be taken. I know his heart,
What he hath vtter'd I haue writ my Sister:
If she sustaine him, and his hundred Knights
When I haue shew'd th' vnfitnesse.
Enter Steward.
How now Oswald?
What haue you writ that Letter to my Sister?
Stew. I Madam
Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse,
Informe her full of my particular feare,
And thereto adde such reasons of your owne,
As may compact it more. Get you gone,
And hasten your returne; no, no, my Lord,
This milky gentlenesse, and course of yours
Though I condemne not, yet vnder pardon
You are much more at task for want of wisedome,
Then prais'd for harmefull mildnesse
Alb. How farre your eies may pierce I cannot tell;
Striuing to better, oft we marre what's well
Gon. Nay then-
Alb. Well, well, th' euent.
Exeunt.
| The Earl of Kent arrives at the palace in disguise and using the name Caius. He seeks a place in service for the King to whom he remains loyal. The King questions Kent and he is so impressed by his answers that he agrees to hire him. The King has a large entourage and they are already beginning to annoy Goneril and her steward Oswald. The steward makes a point of ignoring Lear's questions and he is becoming increasingly angered by the lack of respect he is shown by both his daughter and her household. He is also disturbed that he is unable to find his Fool, who is pining over the dismissal of Cordelia. The Fool loves both his master the King, and Cordelia. Lear orders one of his attendants to inform both Goneril and the Fool that he wishes to see them without delay. Oswald reappears and continues his insolence towards the King who loses his temper and strikes him. When Oswald protests at his treatment, Kent bundles him out of the hall. Lear thanks the disguised Earl and gives him some money, which is a final acknowledgement that Kent is now in the King's service. The Fool arrives and provides a series of jests and comic rhymes, some of which provide a commentary on Lear's folly in splitting his Kingdom between his daughters. Goneril arrives and scolds her father calling him all-licensed Fool" and also shows impatience concerning the King's boisterous knights. She demands that he reduces his followers and this only fuels Lear's anger, but he is unable to influence his daughter. He has lost his power. Goneril's husband, the Duke of Albany enters and he asks Lear to be patient with his daughter, but the King cannot be placated. He curses his daughter, calling upon the gods to make her sterile, but if she should bear a child he hopes it will only bring her misery. When Albany is alone with his wife he expresses his amazement at the worsening of relations between Goneril and her father. The King re-enters having learnt that his daughter has already dismissed fifty of his followers. He tells Goneril that he has another child who, hopefully, remains kind and he will go and stay with Regan. Albany goes to protest about Lear's departure, but Goneril silences him. She instructs Oswald to deliver a letter to Regan warning her of their father's impending arrival. | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Kent.
Kent. If but as will I other accents borrow,
That can my speech defuse, my good intent
May carry through it selfe to that full issue
For which I raiz'd my likenesse. Now banisht Kent,
If thou canst serue where thou dost stand condemn'd,
So may it come, thy Master whom thou lou'st,
Shall find thee full of labours.
Hornes within. Enter Lear and Attendants.
Lear. Let me not stay a iot for dinner, go get it ready:
how now, what art thou?
Kent. A man Sir
Lear. What dost thou professe? What would'st thou
with vs?
Kent. I do professe to be no lesse then I seeme; to serue
him truely that will put me in trust, to loue him that is
honest, to conuerse with him that is wise and saies little, to
feare iudgement, to fight when I cannot choose, and to
eate no fish
Lear. What art thou?
Kent. A very honest hearted Fellow, and as poore as
the King
Lear. If thou be'st as poore for a subiect, as hee's for a
King, thou art poore enough. What wouldst thou?
Kent. Seruice
Lear. Who wouldst thou serue?
Kent. You
Lear. Do'st thou know me fellow?
Kent. No Sir, but you haue that in your countenance,
which I would faine call Master
Lear. What's that?
Kent. Authority
Lear. What seruices canst thou do?
Kent. I can keepe honest counsaile, ride, run, marre a
curious tale in telling it, and deliuer a plaine message
bluntly: that which ordinary men are fit for, I am quallified
in, and the best of me, is Dilligence
Lear. How old art thou?
Kent. Not so young Sir to loue a woman for singing,
nor so old to dote on her for any thing. I haue yeares on
my backe forty eight
Lear. Follow me, thou shalt serue me, if I like thee no
worse after dinner, I will not part from thee yet. Dinner
ho, dinner, where's my knaue? my Foole? Go you and call
my Foole hither. You you Sirrah, where's my Daughter?
Enter Steward.
Ste. So please you-
Enter.
Lear. What saies the Fellow there? Call the Clotpole
backe: wher's my Foole? Ho, I thinke the world's
asleepe, how now? Where's that Mungrell?
Knigh. He saies my Lord, your Daughters is not well
Lear. Why came not the slaue backe to me when I
call'd him?
Knigh. Sir, he answered me in the roundest manner, he
would not
Lear. He would not?
Knight. My Lord, I know not what the matter is,
but to my iudgement your Highnesse is not entertain'd
with that Ceremonious affection as you were wont,
theres a great abatement of kindnesse appeares as well in
the generall dependants, as in the Duke himselfe also, and
your Daughter
Lear. Ha? Saist thou so?
Knigh. I beseech you pardon me my Lord, if I bee
mistaken, for my duty cannot be silent, when I thinke
your Highnesse wrong'd
Lear. Thou but remembrest me of mine owne Conception,
I haue perceiued a most faint neglect of late,
which I haue rather blamed as mine owne iealous curiositie,
then as a very pretence and purpose of vnkindnesse;
I will looke further intoo't: but where's my Foole? I
haue not seene him this two daies
Knight. Since my young Ladies going into France
Sir, the Foole hath much pined away
Lear. No more of that, I haue noted it well, goe you
and tell my Daughter, I would speake with her. Goe you
call hither my Foole; Oh you Sir, you, come you hither
Sir, who am I Sir?
Enter Steward.
Ste. My Ladies Father
Lear. My Ladies Father? my Lords knaue, you whorson
dog, you slaue, you curre
Ste. I am none of these my Lord,
I beseech your pardon
Lear. Do you bandy lookes with me, you Rascall?
Ste. Ile not be strucken my Lord
Kent. Nor tript neither, you base Foot-ball plaier
Lear. I thanke thee fellow.
Thou seru'st me, and Ile loue thee
Kent. Come sir, arise, away, Ile teach you differences:
away, away, if you will measure your lubbers length againe,
tarry, but away, goe too, haue you wisedome, so
Lear. Now my friendly knaue I thanke thee, there's
earnest of thy seruice.
Enter Foole.
Foole. Let me hire him too, here's my Coxcombe
Lear. How now my pretty knaue, how dost thou?
Foole. Sirrah, you were best take my Coxcombe
Lear. Why my Boy?
Foole. Why? for taking ones part that's out of fauour,
nay, & thou canst not smile as the wind sits, thou'lt catch
colde shortly, there take my Coxcombe; why this fellow
ha's banish'd two on's Daughters, and did the third a
blessing against his will, if thou follow him, thou must
needs weare my Coxcombe. How now Nunckle? would
I had two Coxcombes and two Daughters
Lear. Why my Boy?
Fool. If I gaue them all my liuing, I'ld keepe my Coxcombes
my selfe, there's mine, beg another of thy
Daughters
Lear. Take heed Sirrah, the whip
Foole. Truth's a dog must to kennell, hee must bee
whipt out, when the Lady Brach may stand by'th' fire
and stinke
Lear. A pestilent gall to me
Foole. Sirha, Ile teach thee a speech
Lear. Do
Foole. Marke it Nuncle;
Haue more then thou showest,
Speake lesse then thou knowest,
Lend lesse then thou owest,
Ride more then thou goest,
Learne more then thou trowest,
Set lesse then thou throwest;
Leaue thy drinke and thy whore,
And keepe in a dore,
And thou shalt haue more,
Then two tens to a score
Kent. This is nothing Foole
Foole. Then 'tis like the breath of an vnfeed Lawyer,
you gaue me nothing for't, can you make no vse of nothing
Nuncle?
Lear. Why no Boy,
Nothing can be made out of nothing
Foole. Prythee tell him, so much the rent of his land
comes to, he will not beleeue a Foole
Lear. A bitter Foole
Foole. Do'st thou know the difference my Boy, betweene
a bitter Foole, and a sweet one
Lear. No Lad, teach me
Foole. Nunckle, giue me an egge, and Ile giue thee
two Crownes
Lear. What two Crownes shall they be?
Foole. Why after I haue cut the egge i'th' middle and
eate vp the meate, the two Crownes of the egge: when
thou clouest thy Crownes i'th' middle, and gau'st away
both parts, thou boar'st thine Asse on thy backe o're the
durt, thou hadst little wit in thy bald crowne, when thou
gau'st thy golden one away; if I speake like my selfe in
this, let him be whipt that first findes it so.
Fooles had nere lesse grace in a yeere,
For wisemen are growne foppish,
And know not how their wits to weare,
Their manners are so apish
Le. When were you wont to be so full of Songs sirrah?
Foole. I haue vsed it Nunckle, ere since thou mad'st
thy Daughters thy Mothers, for when thou gau'st them
the rod, and put'st downe thine owne breeches, then they
For sodaine ioy did weepe,
And I for sorrow sung,
That such a King should play bo-peepe,
And goe the Foole among.
Pry'thy Nunckle keepe a Schoolemaster that can teach
thy Foole to lie, I would faine learne to lie
Lear. And you lie sirrah, wee'l haue you whipt
Foole. I maruell what kin thou and thy daughters are,
they'l haue me whipt for speaking true: thou'lt haue me
whipt for lying, and sometimes I am whipt for holding
my peace. I had rather be any kind o' thing then a foole,
and yet I would not be thee Nunckle, thou hast pared thy
wit o' both sides, and left nothing i'th' middle; heere
comes one o'the parings.
Enter Gonerill.
Lear. How now Daughter? what makes that Frontlet
on? You are too much of late i'th' frowne
Foole. Thou wast a pretty fellow when thou hadst no
need to care for her frowning, now thou art an O without
a figure, I am better then thou art now, I am a Foole,
thou art nothing. Yes forsooth I will hold my tongue, so
your face bids me, though you say nothing.
Mum, mum, he that keepes nor crust, nor crum,
Weary of all, shall want some. That's a sheal'd Pescod
Gon. Not only Sir this, your all-lycenc'd Foole,
But other of your insolent retinue
Do hourely Carpe and Quarrell, breaking forth
In ranke, and (not to be endur'd) riots Sir.
I had thought by making this well knowne vnto you,
To haue found a safe redresse, but now grow fearefull
By what your selfe too late haue spoke and done,
That you protect this course, and put it on
By your allowance, which if you should, the fault
Would not scape censure, nor the redresses sleepe,
Which in the tender of a wholesome weale,
Mighty in their working do you that offence,
Which else were shame, that then necessitie
Will call discreet proceeding
Foole. For you know Nunckle, the Hedge-Sparrow
fed the Cuckoo so long, that it's had it head bit off by it
young, so out went the Candle, and we were left darkling
Lear. Are you our Daughter?
Gon. I would you would make vse of your good wisedome
(Whereof I know you are fraught), and put away
These dispositions, which of late transport you
From what you rightly are
Foole. May not an Asse know, when the Cart drawes
the Horse?
Whoop Iugge I loue thee
Lear. Do's any heere know me?
This is not Lear:
Do's Lear walke thus? Speake thus? Where are his eies?
Either his Notion weakens, his Discernings
Are Lethargied. Ha! Waking? 'Tis not so?
Who is it that can tell me who I am?
Foole. Lears shadow
Lear. Your name, faire Gentlewoman?
Gon. This admiration Sir, is much o'th' sauour
Of other your new prankes. I do beseech you
To vnderstand my purposes aright:
As you are Old, and Reuerend, should be Wise.
Heere do you keepe a hundred Knights and Squires,
Men so disorder'd, so debosh'd and bold,
That this our Court infected with their manners,
Shewes like a riotous Inne; Epicurisme and Lust
Makes it more like a Tauerne, or a Brothell,
Then a grac'd Pallace. The shame it selfe doth speake
For instant remedy. Be then desir'd
By her, that else will take the thing she begges,
A little to disquantity your Traine,
And the remainders that shall still depend,
To be such men as may besort your Age,
Which know themselues, and you
Lear. Darknesse, and Diuels.
Saddle my horses: call my Traine together.
Degenerate Bastard, Ile not trouble thee;
Yet haue I left a daughter
Gon. You strike my people, and your disorder'd rable,
make Seruants of their Betters.
Enter Albany.
Lear. Woe, that too late repents:
Is it your will, speake Sir? Prepare my Horses.
Ingratitude! thou Marble-hearted Fiend,
More hideous when thou shew'st thee in a Child,
Then the Sea-monster
Alb. Pray Sir be patient
Lear. Detested Kite, thou lyest.
My Traine are men of choice, and rarest parts,
That all particulars of dutie know,
And in the most exact regard, support
The worships of their name. O most small fault,
How vgly did'st thou in Cordelia shew?
Which like an Engine, wrencht my frame of Nature
From the fixt place: drew from my heart all loue,
And added to the gall. O Lear, Lear, Lear!
Beate at this gate that let thy Folly in,
And thy deere Iudgement out. Go, go, my people
Alb. My Lord, I am guiltlesse, as I am ignorant
Of what hath moued you
Lear. It may be so, my Lord.
Heare Nature, heare deere Goddesse, heare:
Suspend thy purpose, if thou did'st intend
To make this Creature fruitfull:
Into her Wombe conuey stirrility,
Drie vp in her the Organs of increase,
And from her derogate body, neuer spring
A Babe to honor her. If she must teeme,
Create her childe of Spleene, that it may liue
And be a thwart disnatur'd torment to her.
Let it stampe wrinkles in her brow of youth,
With cadent Teares fret Channels in her cheekes,
Turne all her Mothers paines, and benefits
To laughter, and contempt: That she may feele,
How sharper then a Serpents tooth it is,
To haue a thanklesse Childe. Away, away.
Enter.
Alb. Now Gods that we adore,
Whereof comes this?
Gon. Neuer afflict your selfe to know more of it:
But let his disposition haue that scope
As dotage giues it.
Enter Lear.
Lear. What fiftie of my Followers at a clap?
Within a fortnight?
Alb. What's the matter, Sir?
Lear. Ile tell thee:
Life and death, I am asham'd
That thou hast power to shake my manhood thus,
That these hot teares, which breake from me perforce
Should make thee worth them.
Blastes and Fogges vpon thee:
Th' vntented woundings of a Fathers curse
Pierce euerie sense about thee. Old fond eyes,
Beweepe this cause againe, Ile plucke ye out,
And cast you with the waters that you loose
To temper Clay. Ha? Let it be so.
I haue another daughter,
Who I am sure is kinde and comfortable:
When she shall heare this of thee, with her nailes
Shee'l flea thy Woluish visage. Thou shalt finde,
That Ile resume the shape which thou dost thinke
I haue cast off for euer.
Exit
Gon. Do you marke that?
Alb. I cannot be so partiall Gonerill,
To the great loue I beare you
Gon. Pray you content. What Oswald, hoa?
You Sir, more Knaue then Foole, after your Master
Foole. Nunkle Lear, Nunkle Lear,
Tarry, take the Foole with thee:
A Fox, when one has caught her,
And such a Daughter,
Should sure to the Slaughter,
If my Cap would buy a Halter,
So the Foole followes after.
Exit
Gon. This man hath had good Counsell,
A hundred Knights?
'Tis politike, and safe to let him keepe
At point a hundred Knights: yes, that on euerie dreame,
Each buz, each fancie, each complaint, dislike,
He may enguard his dotage with their powres,
And hold our liues in mercy. Oswald, I say
Alb. Well, you may feare too farre
Gon. Safer then trust too farre;
Let me still take away the harmes I feare,
Not feare still to be taken. I know his heart,
What he hath vtter'd I haue writ my Sister:
If she sustaine him, and his hundred Knights
When I haue shew'd th' vnfitnesse.
Enter Steward.
How now Oswald?
What haue you writ that Letter to my Sister?
Stew. I Madam
Gon. Take you some company, and away to horse,
Informe her full of my particular feare,
And thereto adde such reasons of your owne,
As may compact it more. Get you gone,
And hasten your returne; no, no, my Lord,
This milky gentlenesse, and course of yours
Though I condemne not, yet vnder pardon
You are much more at task for want of wisedome,
Then prais'd for harmefull mildnesse
Alb. How farre your eies may pierce I cannot tell;
Striuing to better, oft we marre what's well
Gon. Nay then-
Alb. Well, well, th' euent.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation The scene opens with Kent still trying to serve his King and protect him, and to do this he takes on a disguise so that he can obtain a position close to the King. The audience can clearly see that he is unselfishly concerned for the King's welfare. The King questions Kent whose answers are at first ambiguous. When asked who he is, he replies that he is simply a man, in other words a human being as opposed to an evil beast. Although others around the King no longer consider him as the King of Britain, Kent still shows due respect to him even though he has made a foolish mistake. This is demonstrated by the fact that he chastises Oswald for his lack of respect when addressing the King. We will note that Kent was not deceived by Goneril and Regan at the start of the play, and that he also recognised Cordelia's virtue. He perhaps realizes the danger his master may be in now that he is left to the devices of Goneril and Regan. Although we are not aware of the extent of Goneril's evil at this stage, we suspect that she is already scheming to oust him and his knights from her castle. There may be a tendency to sympathies with her. It appears that the King intends to take no responsibility for governing his land, and to engage in frivolous behavior with his large band of unruly knights. However, as the scene progresses, we note that it is more than intolerance for Goneril is intent on bringing her father low, and she instructs her servants to act coldly towards Lear and his party. It is an indication of Lear's own willfulness and lack of control that his knights behave in an unruly fashion. Lear's personality seems to be made up of extremes. Despite his age, he still enjoys revelry. He is quick to lose his temper and become violent, and the curse he lays on his daughter of sterility appears to the audience to be an over-reaction. He has to come to terms with his change in status. Up until now he has been accustomed to giving orders and having them carried out. He is now treated like a child having tantrums and is openly ignored. He starts to wonder about his own identity. We are introduced to the Fool in this scene, and we are immediately intrigued by this odd jester. We warm to him as we sympathize with his loss of Cordelia, but we are soon aware that he has a sharp tongue and he appears to be able to say things to the King that others would fear to do. The Fool is King Lear's conscience and he is also a means for the reader to see King Lear's true character, undiminished by age and eccentricity. Although the Fool makes hardly any contribution to the plot, he is a key character of the play. Less enlightened generations were unable to come to terms with the complexity of the Fool and some productions deleted his part altogether. The Fool's main purpose is to enable the audience to understand King Lear's original nature. Like Kent, the Fool will remain loyal to his master, but he cannot stand silently by without commenting on the King's Foolishness. So, in addition to providing a fuller picture of Lear, the Fool also provides us with a commentary on the events as they unfold in the play. Ironically, the Fool is very wise and probably Lear's most experienced counselor. Shakespeare clearly delighted in introducing this character to his play. He has all the best lines and as you might expect, provides comic relief to the tragic events that are told. The Fool refers to Lear as nuncle. When the Fool enters he offers Kent his coxcomb or jester's hat, indicating that he thinks Kent is a Fool in wanting to serve the King who has no kingdom. We note the King's affection for the Fool as he says to him, "How now, my pretty knave! How dost thou?" The Fool gives Lear this advice, "Have more than thou showest, Speak less than thou knowest, Lend less than thou owest, Ride more than thou goest, Learn more than thou trowest, Set less than thou throwest; Leave thy drink and thy whore, And keep in-a-door, And thou shalt have more Than two tens to a score." Lear asks the Fool to teach him more, and the Fool asks the King who told him to give away his Kingdom so that he can find him and get him to sit at his side - a jester beside a jester. Lear's misfortune is that he does not listen to the advice given by his Fool or the predictions that he makes. The Fool goes on to say, "The hedge-sparrow fed the cuckoo so long that it had it head bit off by it young. So, out went the candle, and we were left darkling." The punishment for the Fool, if he stepped over the mark, was usually a whipping, but these were rare and it was one of the occupational hazards of being a court jester. Other comments that the Fool makes concern the upheavals in their world where traditional values count for nothing, and respect for elders and betters is evaporating. Despite all his jibes and criticisms of his master, the underlying devotion and affection that the Fool has for Lear shines through. The student should study carefully all the Fool's lines, for they have great relevance to the play. Towards the end of the scene, there are indications that Albany is uncomfortable with his wife's treatment of her father. He is clearly dominated by his wife, but not totally subservient. Right at the end of the scene he says to his wife, "How far your eyes may pierce I cannot tell: Striving to better, oft we mar what's well." On the face of it, this quotation has little significance, but it has relevance to several events in the play. Firstly, we know that Lear is unable to see through the false testimonies of love made by his daughters, and he is unable to see the virtue of Cordelia. Although he cannot see how clearly Goneril views the situation, the observer can well guess what she has her sights on. This quotation also symbolizes the fate that Gloucester will suffer when he loses his sight by having his eyes gouged. Shakespeare wishes to stress the ferocity of what will happen later in the play. | analysis |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Lear, Kent, Gentleman, and Foole.
Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these Letters;
acquaint my Daughter no further with any thing you
know, then comes from her demand out of the Letter,
if your Dilligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore
you
Kent. I will not sleepe my Lord, till I haue deliuered
your Letter.
Enter.
Foole. If a mans braines were in's heeles, wert not in
danger of kybes?
Lear. I Boy
Foole. Then I prythee be merry, thy wit shall not go
slip-shod
Lear. Ha, ha, ha
Fool. Shalt see thy other Daughter will vse thee kindly,
for though she's as like this, as a Crabbe's like an
Apple, yet I can tell what I can tell
Lear. What can'st tell Boy?
Foole. She will taste as like this as, a Crabbe do's to a
Crab: thou canst, tell why ones nose stands i'th' middle
on's face?
Lear. No
Foole. Why to keepe ones eyes of either side 's nose,
that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into
Lear. I did her wrong
Foole. Can'st tell how an Oyster makes his shell?
Lear. No
Foole. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a Snaile ha's
a house
Lear. Why?
Foole. Why to put's head in, not to giue it away to his
daughters, and leaue his hornes without a case
Lear. I will forget my Nature, so kind a Father? Be
my Horsses ready?
Foole. Thy Asses are gone about 'em; the reason why
the seuen Starres are no mo then seuen, is a pretty reason
Lear. Because they are not eight
Foole. Yes indeed, thou would'st make a good Foole
Lear. To tak't againe perforce; Monster Ingratitude!
Foole. If thou wert my Foole Nunckle, Il'd haue thee
beaten for being old before thy time
Lear. How's that?
Foole. Thou shouldst not haue bin old, till thou hadst
bin wise
Lear. O let me not be mad, not mad sweet Heauen:
keepe me in temper, I would not be mad. How now are
the Horses ready?
Gent. Ready my Lord
Lear. Come Boy
Fool. She that's a Maid now, & laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a Maid long, vnlesse things be cut shorter.
Exeunt.
| Kent is given orders to ride to Regan's home so that she can prepare for the King's arrival. The Fool endeavors to lift the burden that his master carries and tries to lighten his mood with rhymes. However, Lear is depressed and fears for his own sanity. The scene ends with the announcement that preparations are ready for the journey. | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Lear, Kent, Gentleman, and Foole.
Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these Letters;
acquaint my Daughter no further with any thing you
know, then comes from her demand out of the Letter,
if your Dilligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore
you
Kent. I will not sleepe my Lord, till I haue deliuered
your Letter.
Enter.
Foole. If a mans braines were in's heeles, wert not in
danger of kybes?
Lear. I Boy
Foole. Then I prythee be merry, thy wit shall not go
slip-shod
Lear. Ha, ha, ha
Fool. Shalt see thy other Daughter will vse thee kindly,
for though she's as like this, as a Crabbe's like an
Apple, yet I can tell what I can tell
Lear. What can'st tell Boy?
Foole. She will taste as like this as, a Crabbe do's to a
Crab: thou canst, tell why ones nose stands i'th' middle
on's face?
Lear. No
Foole. Why to keepe ones eyes of either side 's nose,
that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into
Lear. I did her wrong
Foole. Can'st tell how an Oyster makes his shell?
Lear. No
Foole. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a Snaile ha's
a house
Lear. Why?
Foole. Why to put's head in, not to giue it away to his
daughters, and leaue his hornes without a case
Lear. I will forget my Nature, so kind a Father? Be
my Horsses ready?
Foole. Thy Asses are gone about 'em; the reason why
the seuen Starres are no mo then seuen, is a pretty reason
Lear. Because they are not eight
Foole. Yes indeed, thou would'st make a good Foole
Lear. To tak't againe perforce; Monster Ingratitude!
Foole. If thou wert my Foole Nunckle, Il'd haue thee
beaten for being old before thy time
Lear. How's that?
Foole. Thou shouldst not haue bin old, till thou hadst
bin wise
Lear. O let me not be mad, not mad sweet Heauen:
keepe me in temper, I would not be mad. How now are
the Horses ready?
Gent. Ready my Lord
Lear. Come Boy
Fool. She that's a Maid now, & laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a Maid long, vnlesse things be cut shorter.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation This scene is only fifty-one lines long, but it is a masterpiece of dramatic literature. It requires the actors playing Lear and the Fool to be at their best. The challenge is to do justice to the lines provided for them by Shakespeare. The Fool says of Regan, "Shalt see, thy other daughter will use thee kindly; for though she's as like this as a crab is like an apple, yet I can tell what I can tell." Lear asks the Fool to explain and he goes on to say, "She will taste as like this as a crab does to a crab. Thou canst tell why one's nose stands in the middle on's face?" We think initially that the Fool is referring to Regan, but it is in fact Cordelia that he refers to and as the conversation develops, Lear realizes his true folly in not only disposing of his Kingdom, but also losing the daughter that really loved him. He concludes, "I did her wrong." Again speaking in riddles, the Fool comments on Lear's disposal of Britain by saying, "I can tell why a snail has a house." Lear: "Why?" Fool: "Why, to put his head in; not to give it away to his daughters and leave his horns without a case." In giving away his Kingdom, Lear has made himself very vulnerable, like a snail without its shell. Lear finishes by saying, "O, let me not be mad, not mad, sweet heaven!" Through their conversations, we see how close the King and the Fool are. There is even a suggestion of role reversal when the Fool suggests that if Lear were his Fool, he would have beaten him for being old before his time. The reader may have suspected that Lear's sanity was in doubt, and now he suspects that he is mad because of the recent poor decisions he has made. Perhaps he suffers from what we would today term as a kind of dementia, the symptoms of which we have previously described. The Fool tries to warn Lear about the reception he may obtain from Regan, but whatever happens to the King he will obtain support from both Kent and the Fool. Perhaps it might be appropriate if Lear swaps his crown for a coxcomb. | analysis |
Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
Enter Bastard, and Curan, seuerally.
Bast. Saue thee Curan
Cur. And you Sir, I haue bin
With your Father, and giuen him notice
That the Duke of Cornwall, and Regan his Duchesse
Will be here with him this night
Bast. How comes that?
Cur. Nay I know not, you haue heard of the newes abroad,
I meane the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but
ear-kissing arguments
Bast. Not I: pray you what are they?
Cur. Haue you heard of no likely Warres toward,
'Twixt the Dukes of Cornwall, and Albany?
Bast. Not a word
Cur. You may do then in time,
Fare you well Sir.
Enter.
Bast. The Duke be here to night? The better best,
This weaues it selfe perforce into my businesse,
My Father hath set guard to take my Brother,
And I haue one thing of a queazie question
Which I must act, Briefenesse, and Fortune worke.
Enter Edgar.
Brother, a word, discend; Brother I say,
My Father watches: O Sir, fly this place,
Intelligence is giuen where you are hid;
You haue now the good aduantage of the night,
Haue you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornewall?
Hee's comming hither, now i'th' night, i'th' haste,
And Regan with him, haue you nothing said
Vpon his partie 'gainst the Duke of Albany?
Aduise your selfe
Edg. I am sure on't, not a word
Bast. I heare my Father comming, pardon me:
In cunning, I must draw my Sword vpon you:
Draw, seeme to defend your selfe,
Now quit you well.
Yeeld, come before my Father, light hoa, here,
Fly Brother, Torches, Torches, so farewell.
Exit Edgar.
Some blood drawne on me, would beget opinion
Of my more fierce endeauour. I haue seene drunkards
Do more then this in sport; Father, Father,
Stop, stop, no helpe?
Enter Gloster, and Seruants with Torches.
Glo. Now Edmund, where's the villaine?
Bast. Here stood he in the dark, his sharpe Sword out,
Mumbling of wicked charmes, coniuring the Moone
To stand auspicious Mistris
Glo. But where is he?
Bast. Looke Sir, I bleed
Glo. Where is the villaine, Edmund?
Bast. Fled this way Sir, when by no meanes he could
Glo. Pursue him, ho: go after. By no meanes, what?
Bast. Perswade me to the murther of your Lordship,
But that I told him the reuenging Gods,
'Gainst Paricides did all the thunder bend,
Spoke with how manifold, and strong a Bond
The Child was bound to'th' Father; Sir in fine,
Seeing how lothly opposite I stood
To his vnnaturall purpose, in fell motion
With his prepared Sword, he charges home
My vnprouided body, latch'd mine arme;
And when he saw my best alarum'd spirits
Bold in the quarrels right, rouz'd to th' encounter,
Or whether gasted by the noyse I made,
Full sodainely he fled
Glost. Let him fly farre:
Not in this Land shall he remaine vncaught
And found; dispatch, the Noble Duke my Master,
My worthy Arch and Patron comes to night,
By his authoritie I will proclaime it,
That he which finds him shall deserue our thankes,
Bringing the murderous Coward to the stake:
He that conceales him death
Bast. When I disswaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to doe it, with curst speech
I threaten'd to discouer him; he replied,
Thou vnpossessing Bastard, dost thou thinke,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposall
Of any trust, vertue, or worth in thee
Make thy words faith'd? No, what should I denie,
(As this I would, though thou didst produce
My very Character) I'ld turne it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potentiall spirits
To make thee seeke it.
Tucket within.
Glo. O strange and fastned Villaine,
Would he deny his Letter, said he?
Harke, the Dukes Trumpets, I know not wher he comes;
All Ports Ile barre, the villaine shall not scape,
The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture
I will send farre and neere, that all the kingdome
May haue due note of him, and of my land,
(Loyall and naturall Boy) Ile worke the meanes
To make thee capable.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, and Attendants.
Corn. How now my Noble friend, since I came hither
(Which I can call but now,) I haue heard strangenesse
Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue th' offender; how dost my Lord?
Glo. O Madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd
Reg. What, did my Fathers Godsonne seeke your life?
He whom my Father nam'd, your Edgar?
Glo. O Lady, Lady, shame would haue it hid
Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous Knights
That tended vpon my Father?
Glo. I know not Madam, 'tis too bad, too bad
Bast. Yes Madam, he was of that consort
Reg. No maruaile then, though he were ill affected,
'Tis they haue put him on the old mans death,
To haue th' expence and wast of his Reuenues:
I haue this present euening from my Sister
Beene well inform'd of them, and with such cautions,
That if they come to soiourne at my house,
Ile not be there
Cor. Nor I, assure thee Regan;
Edmund, I heare that you haue shewne your Father
A Child-like Office
Bast. It was my duty Sir
Glo. He did bewray his practise, and receiu'd
This hurt you see, striuing to apprehend him
Cor. Is he pursued?
Glo. I my good Lord
Cor. If he be taken, he shall neuer more
Be fear'd of doing harme, make your owne purpose,
How in my strength you please: for you Edmund,
Whose vertue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend it selfe, you shall be ours,
Nature's of such deepe trust, we shall much need:
You we first seize on
Bast. I shall serue you Sir truely, how euer else
Glo. For him I thanke your Grace
Cor. You know not why we came to visit you?
Reg. Thus out of season, thredding darke ey'd night,
Occasions Noble Gloster of some prize,
Wherein we must haue vse of your aduise.
Our Father he hath writ, so hath our Sister,
Of differences, which I best thought it fit
To answere from our home: the seuerall Messengers
From hence attend dispatch, our good old Friend,
Lay comforts to your bosome, and bestow
Your needfull counsaile to our businesses,
Which craues the instant vse
Glo. I serue you Madam,
Your Graces are right welcome.
Exeunt. Flourish.
| We learn that there is some public unrest in the locality, which concerns Edmund particularly as the Duke of Cornwall and his wife Regan will arrive at the castle shortly. Edmund is pleased about recent developments, as they will all contribute to his advancement. His half-brother Edgar is in hiding and Edmund tells him that he must now flee the castle before he is discovered. Gloucester already knows Edgar has been hiding somewhere in the castle, so Edmund tells Edgar that he must make his escape look convincing. Edmund tells Edgar that he will pretend to stop him leaving the castle and they draw swords. Edgar leaves and Edmund wounds himself and cries out. Gloucester enters and is immediately convinced that Edgar is a villain and declares him an outlaw. The Duke of Cornwall says that he must be hunted down. Gloucester calls his son Edmund his loyal and natural boy. Edmund is given a place as one of the Duke of Cornwall's trusted followers. Cornwall and Regan have come to seek advice from Gloucester concerning the rift between Goneril and her father. The King is due to arrive at their castle, and they do not wish to meet with him for he is sure to complain about the treatment he has received from his eldest daughter. | summary |
Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
Enter Bastard, and Curan, seuerally.
Bast. Saue thee Curan
Cur. And you Sir, I haue bin
With your Father, and giuen him notice
That the Duke of Cornwall, and Regan his Duchesse
Will be here with him this night
Bast. How comes that?
Cur. Nay I know not, you haue heard of the newes abroad,
I meane the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but
ear-kissing arguments
Bast. Not I: pray you what are they?
Cur. Haue you heard of no likely Warres toward,
'Twixt the Dukes of Cornwall, and Albany?
Bast. Not a word
Cur. You may do then in time,
Fare you well Sir.
Enter.
Bast. The Duke be here to night? The better best,
This weaues it selfe perforce into my businesse,
My Father hath set guard to take my Brother,
And I haue one thing of a queazie question
Which I must act, Briefenesse, and Fortune worke.
Enter Edgar.
Brother, a word, discend; Brother I say,
My Father watches: O Sir, fly this place,
Intelligence is giuen where you are hid;
You haue now the good aduantage of the night,
Haue you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornewall?
Hee's comming hither, now i'th' night, i'th' haste,
And Regan with him, haue you nothing said
Vpon his partie 'gainst the Duke of Albany?
Aduise your selfe
Edg. I am sure on't, not a word
Bast. I heare my Father comming, pardon me:
In cunning, I must draw my Sword vpon you:
Draw, seeme to defend your selfe,
Now quit you well.
Yeeld, come before my Father, light hoa, here,
Fly Brother, Torches, Torches, so farewell.
Exit Edgar.
Some blood drawne on me, would beget opinion
Of my more fierce endeauour. I haue seene drunkards
Do more then this in sport; Father, Father,
Stop, stop, no helpe?
Enter Gloster, and Seruants with Torches.
Glo. Now Edmund, where's the villaine?
Bast. Here stood he in the dark, his sharpe Sword out,
Mumbling of wicked charmes, coniuring the Moone
To stand auspicious Mistris
Glo. But where is he?
Bast. Looke Sir, I bleed
Glo. Where is the villaine, Edmund?
Bast. Fled this way Sir, when by no meanes he could
Glo. Pursue him, ho: go after. By no meanes, what?
Bast. Perswade me to the murther of your Lordship,
But that I told him the reuenging Gods,
'Gainst Paricides did all the thunder bend,
Spoke with how manifold, and strong a Bond
The Child was bound to'th' Father; Sir in fine,
Seeing how lothly opposite I stood
To his vnnaturall purpose, in fell motion
With his prepared Sword, he charges home
My vnprouided body, latch'd mine arme;
And when he saw my best alarum'd spirits
Bold in the quarrels right, rouz'd to th' encounter,
Or whether gasted by the noyse I made,
Full sodainely he fled
Glost. Let him fly farre:
Not in this Land shall he remaine vncaught
And found; dispatch, the Noble Duke my Master,
My worthy Arch and Patron comes to night,
By his authoritie I will proclaime it,
That he which finds him shall deserue our thankes,
Bringing the murderous Coward to the stake:
He that conceales him death
Bast. When I disswaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to doe it, with curst speech
I threaten'd to discouer him; he replied,
Thou vnpossessing Bastard, dost thou thinke,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposall
Of any trust, vertue, or worth in thee
Make thy words faith'd? No, what should I denie,
(As this I would, though thou didst produce
My very Character) I'ld turne it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potentiall spirits
To make thee seeke it.
Tucket within.
Glo. O strange and fastned Villaine,
Would he deny his Letter, said he?
Harke, the Dukes Trumpets, I know not wher he comes;
All Ports Ile barre, the villaine shall not scape,
The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture
I will send farre and neere, that all the kingdome
May haue due note of him, and of my land,
(Loyall and naturall Boy) Ile worke the meanes
To make thee capable.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, and Attendants.
Corn. How now my Noble friend, since I came hither
(Which I can call but now,) I haue heard strangenesse
Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue th' offender; how dost my Lord?
Glo. O Madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd
Reg. What, did my Fathers Godsonne seeke your life?
He whom my Father nam'd, your Edgar?
Glo. O Lady, Lady, shame would haue it hid
Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous Knights
That tended vpon my Father?
Glo. I know not Madam, 'tis too bad, too bad
Bast. Yes Madam, he was of that consort
Reg. No maruaile then, though he were ill affected,
'Tis they haue put him on the old mans death,
To haue th' expence and wast of his Reuenues:
I haue this present euening from my Sister
Beene well inform'd of them, and with such cautions,
That if they come to soiourne at my house,
Ile not be there
Cor. Nor I, assure thee Regan;
Edmund, I heare that you haue shewne your Father
A Child-like Office
Bast. It was my duty Sir
Glo. He did bewray his practise, and receiu'd
This hurt you see, striuing to apprehend him
Cor. Is he pursued?
Glo. I my good Lord
Cor. If he be taken, he shall neuer more
Be fear'd of doing harme, make your owne purpose,
How in my strength you please: for you Edmund,
Whose vertue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend it selfe, you shall be ours,
Nature's of such deepe trust, we shall much need:
You we first seize on
Bast. I shall serue you Sir truely, how euer else
Glo. For him I thanke your Grace
Cor. You know not why we came to visit you?
Reg. Thus out of season, thredding darke ey'd night,
Occasions Noble Gloster of some prize,
Wherein we must haue vse of your aduise.
Our Father he hath writ, so hath our Sister,
Of differences, which I best thought it fit
To answere from our home: the seuerall Messengers
From hence attend dispatch, our good old Friend,
Lay comforts to your bosome, and bestow
Your needfull counsaile to our businesses,
Which craues the instant vse
Glo. I serue you Madam,
Your Graces are right welcome.
Exeunt. Flourish.
| Interpretation At the very start of this scene there is an indication of growing chaos in the land due to its partition. However, Edmund sees this as an opportunity to improve his status. He also knows the whereabouts of Edgar and it is now time for him to play this card and dispose of his rival from the castle. We see how cunning Edmund is and how he can turn events to his advantage. He dupes Edgar into thinking that he has his welfare at heart. He persuades Edgar to leave the castle using a pretence that Edmund is trying to prevent the escape. Unknown to Edgar, Edmund wounds himself in order to make his story more convincing to his father Gloucester. We marvel at Edmund's superior cunning, which makes those around him seem dim-witted, especially the noble characters in the play. Their naivety is plain for the audience to see. We see a total change in Gloucester's feelings for Edmund. He has in fact changed places with Edgar in Gloucester's eyes, and Gloucester calls him his 'natural boy', a far cry from the opening scene of the play where he is talked about as a product of a sinful but enjoyable relationship. When Regan and Cornwall arrive, they at first glance appear to be a respectable and responsible couple. They hope that civil order will soon be restored and that the evildoers will be caught and punished. We learn that Edgar is King Lear's godson, and Regan is appalled to hear that he seeks the death of Gloucester. They too seem willing to accept Edmund's deceit without question. A direct connection is made between Edgar's behavior and the outrageous behavior of Lear's followers. The aim here is to win Gloucester over to their side in opposition to Lear. We are, of course, aware that Regan and Goneril are co-conspirators against their father. Previous scenes have given us an insight into Goneril and in particular her husband, who although dominated, does appear to be honorable. The Duke of Cornwall, however, is a different prospect and we are not quite clear concerning his personality. The fact that he praises Edmund for his loyalty suggests that he perhaps recognizes a kindred spirit. Shakespeare cleverly is bringing all the villains together and as this takes place they become stronger and so do the dark powers of the play become more ominous, whilst the heroes of the story are losing their position and their power. | analysis |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Kent, and Steward seuerally.
Stew. Good dawning to thee Friend, art of this house?
Kent. I
Stew. Where may we set our horses?
Kent. I'th' myre
Stew. Prythee, if thou lou'st me, tell me
Kent. I loue thee not
Ste. Why then I care not for thee
Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make
thee care for me
Ste. Why do'st thou vse me thus? I know thee not
Kent. Fellow I know thee
Ste. What do'st thou know me for?
Kent. A Knaue, a Rascall, an eater of broken meates, a
base, proud, shallow, beggerly, three-suited-hundred
pound, filthy woosted-stocking knaue, a Lilly-liuered,
action-taking, whoreson glasse-gazing super-seruiceable
finicall Rogue, one Trunke-inheriting slaue, one that
would'st be a Baud in way of good seruice, and art nothing
but the composition of a Knaue, Begger, Coward,
Pandar, and the Sonne and Heire of a Mungrill Bitch,
one whom I will beate into clamours whining, if thou
deny'st the least sillable of thy addition
Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus
to raile on one, that is neither knowne of thee, nor
knowes thee?
Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny
thou knowest me? Is it two dayes since I tript vp thy
heeles, and beate thee before the King? Draw you rogue,
for though it be night, yet the Moone shines, Ile make a
sop oth' Moonshine of you, you whoreson Cullyenly
Barber-monger, draw
Stew. Away, I haue nothing to do with thee
Kent. Draw you Rascall, you come with Letters against
the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, against
the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or
Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come
your waies
Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe
Kent. Strike you slaue: stand rogue, stand you neat
slaue, strike
Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther.
Enter Bastard, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part
Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come,
Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master
Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here?
Cor. Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that strikes
againe, what is the matter?
Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King?
Cor. What is your difference, speake?
Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord
Kent. No Maruell, you haue so bestir'd your valour,
you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor
made thee
Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man?
Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could
not haue made him so ill, though they had bin but two
yeares oth' trade
Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell?
Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I haue spar'd
at sute of his gray-beard
Kent. Thou whoreson Zed, thou vnnecessary letter:
my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted
villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a
Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile?
Cor. Peace sirrah,
You beastly knaue, know you no reuerence?
Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge
Cor. Why art thou angrie?
Kent. That such a slaue as this should weare a Sword,
Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these,
Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine,
Which are t' intrince, t' vnloose: smooth euery passion
That in the natures of their Lords rebell,
Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes,
Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes
With euery gall, and varry of their Masters,
Knowing naught (like dogges) but following:
A plague vpon your Epilepticke visage,
Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole?
Goose, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine,
I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot
Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow?
Glost. How fell you out, say that?
Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,
Then I, and such a knaue
Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knaue?
What is his fault?
Kent. His countenance likes me not
Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers
Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine,
I haue seene better faces in my Time,
Then stands on any shoulder that I see
Before me, at this instant
Corn. This is some Fellow,
Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect
A saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb
Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he,
An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth,
And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine.
These kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainnesse
Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,
Then twenty silly-ducking obseruants,
That stretch their duties nicely
Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
Vnder th' allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire
On flickring Phoebus front
Corn. What mean'st by this?
Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend
so much; I know Sir, I am no flatterer, he that beguild
you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knaue, which
for my part I will not be, though I should win your
displeasure to entreat me too't
Corn. What was th' offence you gaue him?
Ste. I neuer gaue him any:
It pleas'd the King his Master very late
To strike at me vpon his misconstruction,
When he compact, and flattering his displeasure
Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd,
And put vpon him such a deale of Man,
That worthied him, got praises of the King,
For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued,
And in the fleshment of this dead exploit,
Drew on me here againe
Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards
But Aiax is there Foole
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks?
You stubborne ancient Knaue, you reuerent Bragart,
Wee'l teach you
Kent. Sir, I am too old to learne:
Call not your Stocks for me, I serue the King.
On whose imployment I was sent to you,
You shall doe small respects, show too bold malice
Against the Grace, and Person of my Master,
Stocking his Messenger
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks;
As I haue life and Honour, there shall he sit till Noone
Reg. Till noone? till night my Lord, and all night too
Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Fathers dog,
You should not vse me so
Reg. Sir, being his Knaue, I will.
Stocks brought out.
Cor. This is a Fellow of the selfe same colour,
Our Sister speakes of. Come, bring away the Stocks
Glo. Let me beseech your Grace, not to do so,
The King his Master, needs must take it ill
That he so slightly valued in his Messenger,
Should haue him thus restrained
Cor. Ile answere that
Reg. My Sister may recieue it much more worsse,
To haue her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted
Corn. Come my Lord, away.
Enter.
Glo. I am sorry for thee friend, 'tis the Dukes pleasure,
Whose disposition all the world well knowes
Will not be rub'd nor stopt, Ile entreat for thee
Kent. Pray do not Sir, I haue watch'd and trauail'd hard,
Some time I shall sleepe out, the rest Ile whistle:
A good mans fortune may grow out at heeles:
Giue you good morrow
Glo. The Duke's too blame in this,
'Twill be ill taken.
Enter.
Kent. Good King, that must approue the common saw,
Thou out of Heauens benediction com'st
To the warme Sun.
Approach thou Beacon to this vnder Globe,
That by thy comfortable Beames I may
Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
But miserie. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately beene inform'd
Of my obscured course. And shall finde time
From this enormous State, seeking to giue
Losses their remedies. All weary and o're-watch'd,
Take vantage heauie eyes, not to behold
This shamefull lodging. Fortune goodnight,
Smile once more, turne thy wheele.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. I heard my selfe proclaim'd,
And by the happy hollow of a Tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no place
That guard, and most vnusall vigilance
Do's not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserue myselfe: and am bethought
To take the basest, and most poorest shape
That euer penury in contempt of man,
Brought neere to beast; my face Ile grime with filth,
Blanket my loines, else all my haires in knots,
And with presented nakednesse out-face
The Windes, and persecutions of the skie;
The Country giues me proofe, and president
Of Bedlam beggers, who with roaring voices,
Strike in their num'd and mortified Armes.
Pins, Wodden-prickes, Nayles, Sprigs of Rosemarie:
And with this horrible obiect, from low Farmes,
Poore pelting Villages, Sheeps-Coates, and Milles,
Sometimes with Lunaticke bans, sometime with Praiers
Inforce their charitie: poore Turlygod poore Tom,
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
Enter.
Enter Lear, Foole, and Gentleman.
Lea. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
And not send backe my Messengers
Gent. As I learn'd,
The night before, there was no purpose in them
Of this remoue
Kent. Haile to thee Noble Master
Lear. Ha? Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime?
Kent. No my Lord
Foole. Hah, ha, he weares Cruell Garters Horses are
tide by the heads, Dogges and Beares by'th' necke,
Monkies by'th' loynes, and Men by'th' legs: when a man
ouerlustie at legs, then he weares wodden nether-stocks
Lear. What's he,
That hath so much thy place mistooke
To set thee heere?
Kent. It is both he and she,
Your Son, and Daughter
Lear. No
Kent. Yes
Lear. No I say
Kent. I say yea
Lear. By Iupiter I sweare no
Kent. By Iuno, I sweare I
Lear. They durst not do't:
They could not, would not do't: 'tis worse then murther,
To do vpon respect such violent outrage:
Resolue me with all modest haste, which way
Thou might'st deserue, or they impose this vsage,
Comming from vs
Kent. My Lord, when at their home
I did commend your Highnesse Letters to them,
Ere I was risen from the place, that shewed
My dutie kneeling, came there a reeking Poste,
Stew'd in his haste, halfe breathlesse, painting forth
From Gonerill his Mistris, salutations;
Deliuer'd Letters spight of intermission,
Which presently they read; on those contents
They summon'd vp their meiney, straight tooke Horse,
Commanded me to follow, and attend
The leisure of their answer, gaue me cold lookes,
And meeting heere the other Messenger,
Whose welcome I perceiu'd had poison'd mine,
Being the very fellow which of late
Displaid so sawcily against your Highnesse,
Hauing more man then wit about me, drew;
He rais'd the house, with loud and coward cries,
Your Sonne and Daughter found this trespasse worth
The shame which heere it suffers
Foole. Winters not gon yet, if the wil'd Geese fly that way,
Fathers that weare rags, do make their Children blind,
But Fathers that beare bags, shall see their children kind.
Fortune that arrant whore, nere turns the key toth' poore.
But for all this thou shalt haue as many Dolors for thy
Daughters, as thou canst tell in a yeare
Lear. Oh how this Mother swels vp toward my heart!
Historica passio, downe thou climing sorrow,
Thy Elements below where is this Daughter?
Kent. With the Earle Sir, here within
Lear. Follow me not, stay here.
Enter.
Gen. Made you no more offence,
But what you speake of?
Kent. None:
How chance the King comes with so small a number?
Foole. And thou hadst beene set i'th' Stockes for that
question, thoud'st well deseru'd it
Kent. Why Foole?
Foole. Wee'l set thee to schoole to an Ant, to teach
thee ther's no labouring i'th' winter. All that follow their
noses, are led by their eyes, but blinde men, and there's
not a nose among twenty, but can smell him that's stinking;
let go thy hold when a great wheele runs downe a
hill, least it breake thy necke with following. But the
great one that goes vpward, let him draw thee after:
when a wiseman giues thee better counsell giue me mine
againe, I would haue none but knaues follow it, since a
Foole giues it.
That Sir, which serues and seekes for gaine,
And followes but for forme;
Will packe, when it begins to raine,
And leaue thee in the storme,
But I will tarry, the Foole will stay,
And let the wiseman flie:
The knaue turnes Foole that runnes away,
The Foole no knaue perdie.
Enter Lear, and Gloster] :
Kent. Where learn'd you this Foole?
Foole. Not i'th' Stocks Foole
Lear. Deny to speake with me?
They are sicke, they are weary,
They haue trauail'd all the night? meere fetches,
The images of reuolt and flying off.
Fetch me a better answer
Glo. My deere Lord,
You know the fiery quality of the Duke,
How vnremoueable and fixt he is
In his owne course
Lear. Vengeance, Plague, Death, Confusion:
Fiery? What quality? Why Gloster, Gloster,
I'ld speake with the Duke of Cornewall, and his wife
Glo. Well my good Lord, I haue inform'd them so
Lear. Inform'd them? Do'st thou vnderstand me man
Glo. I my good Lord
Lear. The King would speake with Cornwall,
The deere Father
Would with his Daughter speake, commands, tends, seruice,
Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood:
Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that-
No, but not yet, may be he is not well,
Infirmity doth still neglect all office,
Whereto our health is bound, we are not our selues,
When Nature being opprest, commands the mind
To suffer with the body; Ile forbeare,
And am fallen out with my more headier will,
To take the indispos'd and sickly fit,
For the sound man. Death on my state: wherefore
Should he sit heere? This act perswades me,
That this remotion of the Duke and her
Is practise only. Giue me my Seruant forth;
Goe tell the Duke, and's wife, Il'd speake with them:
Now, presently: bid them come forth and heare me,
Or at their Chamber doore Ile beate the Drum,
Till it crie sleepe to death
Glo. I would haue all well betwixt you.
Enter.
Lear. Oh me my heart! My rising heart! But downe
Foole. Cry to it Nunckle, as the Cockney did to the
Eeles, when she put 'em i'th' Paste aliue, she knapt 'em
o'th' coxcombs with a sticke, and cryed downe wantons,
downe; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindnesse to his
Horse buttered his Hay.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Lear. Good morrow to you both
Corn. Haile to your Grace.
Kent here set at liberty.
Reg. I am glad to see your Highnesse
Lear. Regan, I thinke you are. I know what reason
I haue to thinke so, if thou should'st not be glad,
I would diuorce me from thy Mother Tombe,
Sepulchring an Adultresse. O are you free?
Some other time for that. Beloued Regan,
Thy Sisters naught: oh Regan, she hath tied
Sharpe-tooth'd vnkindnesse, like a vulture heere,
I can scarce speake to thee, thou'lt not beleeue
With how deprau'd a quality. Oh Regan
Reg. I pray you Sir, take patience, I haue hope
You lesse know how to value her desert,
Then she to scant her dutie
Lear. Say? How is that?
Reg. I cannot thinke my Sister in the least
Would faile her Obligation. If Sir perchance
She haue restrained the Riots of your Followres,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As cleeres her from all blame
Lear. My curses on her
Reg. O Sir, you are old,
Nature in you stands on the very Verge
Of his confine: you should be rul'd, and led
By some discretion, that discernes your state
Better then you your selfe: therefore I pray you,
That to our Sister, you do make returne,
Say you haue wrong'd her
Lear. Aske her forgiuenesse?
Do you but marke how this becomes the house?
Deere daughter, I confesse that I am old;
Age is vnnecessary: on my knees I begge,
That you'l vouchsafe me Rayment, Bed, and Food
Reg. Good Sir, no more: these are vnsightly trickes:
Returne you to my Sister
Lear. Neuer Regan:
She hath abated me of halfe my Traine;
Look'd blacke vpon me, strooke me with her Tongue
Most Serpent-like, vpon the very Heart.
All the stor'd Vengeances of Heauen, fall
On her ingratefull top: strike her yong bones
You taking Ayres, with Lamenesse
Corn. Fye sir, fie
Le. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornfull eyes: Infect her Beauty,
You Fen-suck'd Fogges, drawne by the powrfull Sunne,
To fall, and blister
Reg. O the blest Gods!
So will you wish on me, when the rash moode is on
Lear. No Regan, thou shalt neuer haue my curse:
Thy tender-hefted Nature shall not giue
Thee o're to harshnesse: Her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burne. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my Traine,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my comming in. Thou better know'st
The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood,
Effects of Curtesie, dues of Gratitude:
Thy halfe o'th' Kingdome hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd
Reg. Good Sir, to'th' purpose.
Tucket within.
Lear. Who put my man i'th' Stockes?
Enter Steward.
Corn. What Trumpet's that?
Reg. I know't, my Sisters: this approues her Letter,
That she would soone be heere. Is your Lady come?
Lear. This is a Slaue, whose easie borrowed pride
Dwels in the sickly grace of her he followes.
Out Varlet, from my sight
Corn. What meanes your Grace?
Enter Gonerill.
Lear. Who stockt my Seruant? Regan, I haue good hope
Thou did'st not know on't.
Who comes here? O Heauens!
If you do loue old men; if your sweet sway
Allow Obedience; if you your selues are old,
Make it your cause: Send downe, and take my part.
Art not asham'd to looke vpon this Beard?
O Regan, will you take her by the hand?
Gon. Why not by'th' hand Sir? How haue I offended?
All's not offence that indiscretion findes,
And dotage termes so
Lear. O sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold?
How came my man i'th' Stockes?
Corn. I set him there, Sir: but his owne Disorders
Deseru'd much lesse aduancement
Lear. You? Did you?
Reg. I pray you Father being weake, seeme so.
If till the expiration of your Moneth
You will returne and soiourne with my Sister,
Dismissing halfe your traine, come then to me,
I am now from home, and out of that prouision
Which shall be needfull for your entertainement
Lear. Returne to her? and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abiure all roofes, and chuse
To wage against the enmity oth' ayre,
To be a Comrade with the Wolfe, and Owle,
Necessities sharpe pinch. Returne with her?
Why the hot-bloodied France, that dowerlesse tooke
Our yongest borne, I could as well be brought
To knee his Throne, and Squire-like pension beg,
To keepe base life a foote; returne with her?
Perswade me rather to be slaue and sumpter
To this detested groome
Gon. At your choice Sir
Lear. I prythee Daughter do not make me mad,
I will not trouble thee my Child; farewell:
Wee'l no more meete, no more see one another.
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my Daughter,
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a Byle,
A plague sore, or imbossed Carbuncle
In my corrupted blood. But Ile not chide thee,
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it,
I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoote,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-iudging Ioue,
Mend when thou can'st, be better at thy leisure,
I can be patient, I can stay with Regan,
I and my hundred Knights
Reg. Not altogether so,
I look'd not for you yet, nor am prouided
For your fit welcome, giue eare Sir to my Sister,
For those that mingle reason with your passion,
Must be content to thinke you old, and so,
But she knowes what she doe's
Lear. Is this well spoken?
Reg. I dare auouch it Sir, what fifty Followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many? Sith that both charge and danger,
Speake 'gainst so great a number? How in one house
Should many people, vnder two commands
Hold amity? 'Tis hard, almost impossible
Gon. Why might not you my Lord, receiue attendance
From those that she cals Seruants, or from mine?
Reg. Why not my Lord?
If then they chanc'd to slacke ye,
We could comptroll them; if you will come to me,
(For now I spie a danger) I entreate you
To bring but fiue and twentie, to no more
Will I giue place or notice
Lear. I gaue you all
Reg. And in good time you gaue it
Lear. Made you my Guardians, my Depositaries,
But kept a reseruation to be followed
With such a number? What, must I come to you
With fiue and twenty? Regan, said you so?
Reg. And speak't againe my Lord, no more with me
Lea. Those wicked Creatures yet do look wel fauor'd
When others are more wicked, not being the worst
Stands in some ranke of praise, Ile go with thee,
Thy fifty yet doth double fiue and twenty,
And thou art twice her Loue
Gon. Heare me my Lord;
What need you fiue and twenty? Ten? Or fiue?
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Haue a command to tend you?
Reg. What need one?
Lear. O reason not the need: our basest Beggers
Are in the poorest thing superfluous.
Allow not Nature, more then Nature needs:
Mans life is cheape as Beastes. Thou art a Lady;
If onely to go warme were gorgeous,
Why Nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keepes thee warme, but for true need:
You Heauens, giue me that patience, patience I need,
You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man,
As full of griefe as age, wretched in both,
If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts
Against their Father, foole me not so much,
To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger,
And let not womens weapons, water drops,
Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags,
I will haue such reuenges on you both,
That all the world shall- I will do such things,
What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe
The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe,
No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping.
Storme and Tempest.
But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes
Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad.
Exeunt.
Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme
Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people,
Cannot be well bestow'd
Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest,
And must needs taste his folly
Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly,
But not one follower
Gon. So am I purpos'd,
Where is my Lord of Gloster?
Enter Gloster.
Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd
Glo. The King is in high rage
Corn. Whether is he going?
Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether
Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe
Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay
Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes
Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about
There's scarce a Bush
Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men,
The iniuries that they themselues procure,
Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores,
He is attended with a desperate traine,
And what they may incense him too, being apt,
To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare
Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night,
My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme.
Exeunt.
| Both Kent, in disguise, and Oswald have letters for Regan. The two argue and Kent draws his sword and beats Oswald with it. He is still angry at the steward's disrespectful attitude towards the King. The commotion attracts the attention of Edmund and the others and they come to make the peace. Regan quickly deduces that the pair are messengers from Goneril and her father. Cornwall asks them to explain their behavior and the blunt Kent condemns Oswald. Oswald defends himself and Cornwall sides with him, and Kent is ordered to be placed in the stocks, much to Regan's satisfaction. Gloucester tries to intervene on Kent's behalf but is unsuccessful. Philosophically, Kent accepts his sentence, but finds comfort in reading a letter from Cordelia who is concerned regarding her father's plight. | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Kent, and Steward seuerally.
Stew. Good dawning to thee Friend, art of this house?
Kent. I
Stew. Where may we set our horses?
Kent. I'th' myre
Stew. Prythee, if thou lou'st me, tell me
Kent. I loue thee not
Ste. Why then I care not for thee
Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make
thee care for me
Ste. Why do'st thou vse me thus? I know thee not
Kent. Fellow I know thee
Ste. What do'st thou know me for?
Kent. A Knaue, a Rascall, an eater of broken meates, a
base, proud, shallow, beggerly, three-suited-hundred
pound, filthy woosted-stocking knaue, a Lilly-liuered,
action-taking, whoreson glasse-gazing super-seruiceable
finicall Rogue, one Trunke-inheriting slaue, one that
would'st be a Baud in way of good seruice, and art nothing
but the composition of a Knaue, Begger, Coward,
Pandar, and the Sonne and Heire of a Mungrill Bitch,
one whom I will beate into clamours whining, if thou
deny'st the least sillable of thy addition
Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus
to raile on one, that is neither knowne of thee, nor
knowes thee?
Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny
thou knowest me? Is it two dayes since I tript vp thy
heeles, and beate thee before the King? Draw you rogue,
for though it be night, yet the Moone shines, Ile make a
sop oth' Moonshine of you, you whoreson Cullyenly
Barber-monger, draw
Stew. Away, I haue nothing to do with thee
Kent. Draw you Rascall, you come with Letters against
the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, against
the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or
Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come
your waies
Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe
Kent. Strike you slaue: stand rogue, stand you neat
slaue, strike
Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther.
Enter Bastard, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part
Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come,
Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master
Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here?
Cor. Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that strikes
againe, what is the matter?
Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King?
Cor. What is your difference, speake?
Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord
Kent. No Maruell, you haue so bestir'd your valour,
you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor
made thee
Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man?
Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could
not haue made him so ill, though they had bin but two
yeares oth' trade
Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell?
Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I haue spar'd
at sute of his gray-beard
Kent. Thou whoreson Zed, thou vnnecessary letter:
my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted
villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a
Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile?
Cor. Peace sirrah,
You beastly knaue, know you no reuerence?
Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge
Cor. Why art thou angrie?
Kent. That such a slaue as this should weare a Sword,
Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these,
Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine,
Which are t' intrince, t' vnloose: smooth euery passion
That in the natures of their Lords rebell,
Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes,
Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes
With euery gall, and varry of their Masters,
Knowing naught (like dogges) but following:
A plague vpon your Epilepticke visage,
Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole?
Goose, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine,
I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot
Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow?
Glost. How fell you out, say that?
Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,
Then I, and such a knaue
Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knaue?
What is his fault?
Kent. His countenance likes me not
Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers
Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine,
I haue seene better faces in my Time,
Then stands on any shoulder that I see
Before me, at this instant
Corn. This is some Fellow,
Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect
A saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb
Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he,
An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth,
And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine.
These kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainnesse
Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,
Then twenty silly-ducking obseruants,
That stretch their duties nicely
Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
Vnder th' allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire
On flickring Phoebus front
Corn. What mean'st by this?
Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend
so much; I know Sir, I am no flatterer, he that beguild
you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knaue, which
for my part I will not be, though I should win your
displeasure to entreat me too't
Corn. What was th' offence you gaue him?
Ste. I neuer gaue him any:
It pleas'd the King his Master very late
To strike at me vpon his misconstruction,
When he compact, and flattering his displeasure
Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd,
And put vpon him such a deale of Man,
That worthied him, got praises of the King,
For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued,
And in the fleshment of this dead exploit,
Drew on me here againe
Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards
But Aiax is there Foole
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks?
You stubborne ancient Knaue, you reuerent Bragart,
Wee'l teach you
Kent. Sir, I am too old to learne:
Call not your Stocks for me, I serue the King.
On whose imployment I was sent to you,
You shall doe small respects, show too bold malice
Against the Grace, and Person of my Master,
Stocking his Messenger
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks;
As I haue life and Honour, there shall he sit till Noone
Reg. Till noone? till night my Lord, and all night too
Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Fathers dog,
You should not vse me so
Reg. Sir, being his Knaue, I will.
Stocks brought out.
Cor. This is a Fellow of the selfe same colour,
Our Sister speakes of. Come, bring away the Stocks
Glo. Let me beseech your Grace, not to do so,
The King his Master, needs must take it ill
That he so slightly valued in his Messenger,
Should haue him thus restrained
Cor. Ile answere that
Reg. My Sister may recieue it much more worsse,
To haue her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted
Corn. Come my Lord, away.
Enter.
Glo. I am sorry for thee friend, 'tis the Dukes pleasure,
Whose disposition all the world well knowes
Will not be rub'd nor stopt, Ile entreat for thee
Kent. Pray do not Sir, I haue watch'd and trauail'd hard,
Some time I shall sleepe out, the rest Ile whistle:
A good mans fortune may grow out at heeles:
Giue you good morrow
Glo. The Duke's too blame in this,
'Twill be ill taken.
Enter.
Kent. Good King, that must approue the common saw,
Thou out of Heauens benediction com'st
To the warme Sun.
Approach thou Beacon to this vnder Globe,
That by thy comfortable Beames I may
Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
But miserie. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately beene inform'd
Of my obscured course. And shall finde time
From this enormous State, seeking to giue
Losses their remedies. All weary and o're-watch'd,
Take vantage heauie eyes, not to behold
This shamefull lodging. Fortune goodnight,
Smile once more, turne thy wheele.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. I heard my selfe proclaim'd,
And by the happy hollow of a Tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no place
That guard, and most vnusall vigilance
Do's not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserue myselfe: and am bethought
To take the basest, and most poorest shape
That euer penury in contempt of man,
Brought neere to beast; my face Ile grime with filth,
Blanket my loines, else all my haires in knots,
And with presented nakednesse out-face
The Windes, and persecutions of the skie;
The Country giues me proofe, and president
Of Bedlam beggers, who with roaring voices,
Strike in their num'd and mortified Armes.
Pins, Wodden-prickes, Nayles, Sprigs of Rosemarie:
And with this horrible obiect, from low Farmes,
Poore pelting Villages, Sheeps-Coates, and Milles,
Sometimes with Lunaticke bans, sometime with Praiers
Inforce their charitie: poore Turlygod poore Tom,
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
Enter.
Enter Lear, Foole, and Gentleman.
Lea. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
And not send backe my Messengers
Gent. As I learn'd,
The night before, there was no purpose in them
Of this remoue
Kent. Haile to thee Noble Master
Lear. Ha? Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime?
Kent. No my Lord
Foole. Hah, ha, he weares Cruell Garters Horses are
tide by the heads, Dogges and Beares by'th' necke,
Monkies by'th' loynes, and Men by'th' legs: when a man
ouerlustie at legs, then he weares wodden nether-stocks
Lear. What's he,
That hath so much thy place mistooke
To set thee heere?
Kent. It is both he and she,
Your Son, and Daughter
Lear. No
Kent. Yes
Lear. No I say
Kent. I say yea
Lear. By Iupiter I sweare no
Kent. By Iuno, I sweare I
Lear. They durst not do't:
They could not, would not do't: 'tis worse then murther,
To do vpon respect such violent outrage:
Resolue me with all modest haste, which way
Thou might'st deserue, or they impose this vsage,
Comming from vs
Kent. My Lord, when at their home
I did commend your Highnesse Letters to them,
Ere I was risen from the place, that shewed
My dutie kneeling, came there a reeking Poste,
Stew'd in his haste, halfe breathlesse, painting forth
From Gonerill his Mistris, salutations;
Deliuer'd Letters spight of intermission,
Which presently they read; on those contents
They summon'd vp their meiney, straight tooke Horse,
Commanded me to follow, and attend
The leisure of their answer, gaue me cold lookes,
And meeting heere the other Messenger,
Whose welcome I perceiu'd had poison'd mine,
Being the very fellow which of late
Displaid so sawcily against your Highnesse,
Hauing more man then wit about me, drew;
He rais'd the house, with loud and coward cries,
Your Sonne and Daughter found this trespasse worth
The shame which heere it suffers
Foole. Winters not gon yet, if the wil'd Geese fly that way,
Fathers that weare rags, do make their Children blind,
But Fathers that beare bags, shall see their children kind.
Fortune that arrant whore, nere turns the key toth' poore.
But for all this thou shalt haue as many Dolors for thy
Daughters, as thou canst tell in a yeare
Lear. Oh how this Mother swels vp toward my heart!
Historica passio, downe thou climing sorrow,
Thy Elements below where is this Daughter?
Kent. With the Earle Sir, here within
Lear. Follow me not, stay here.
Enter.
Gen. Made you no more offence,
But what you speake of?
Kent. None:
How chance the King comes with so small a number?
Foole. And thou hadst beene set i'th' Stockes for that
question, thoud'st well deseru'd it
Kent. Why Foole?
Foole. Wee'l set thee to schoole to an Ant, to teach
thee ther's no labouring i'th' winter. All that follow their
noses, are led by their eyes, but blinde men, and there's
not a nose among twenty, but can smell him that's stinking;
let go thy hold when a great wheele runs downe a
hill, least it breake thy necke with following. But the
great one that goes vpward, let him draw thee after:
when a wiseman giues thee better counsell giue me mine
againe, I would haue none but knaues follow it, since a
Foole giues it.
That Sir, which serues and seekes for gaine,
And followes but for forme;
Will packe, when it begins to raine,
And leaue thee in the storme,
But I will tarry, the Foole will stay,
And let the wiseman flie:
The knaue turnes Foole that runnes away,
The Foole no knaue perdie.
Enter Lear, and Gloster] :
Kent. Where learn'd you this Foole?
Foole. Not i'th' Stocks Foole
Lear. Deny to speake with me?
They are sicke, they are weary,
They haue trauail'd all the night? meere fetches,
The images of reuolt and flying off.
Fetch me a better answer
Glo. My deere Lord,
You know the fiery quality of the Duke,
How vnremoueable and fixt he is
In his owne course
Lear. Vengeance, Plague, Death, Confusion:
Fiery? What quality? Why Gloster, Gloster,
I'ld speake with the Duke of Cornewall, and his wife
Glo. Well my good Lord, I haue inform'd them so
Lear. Inform'd them? Do'st thou vnderstand me man
Glo. I my good Lord
Lear. The King would speake with Cornwall,
The deere Father
Would with his Daughter speake, commands, tends, seruice,
Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood:
Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that-
No, but not yet, may be he is not well,
Infirmity doth still neglect all office,
Whereto our health is bound, we are not our selues,
When Nature being opprest, commands the mind
To suffer with the body; Ile forbeare,
And am fallen out with my more headier will,
To take the indispos'd and sickly fit,
For the sound man. Death on my state: wherefore
Should he sit heere? This act perswades me,
That this remotion of the Duke and her
Is practise only. Giue me my Seruant forth;
Goe tell the Duke, and's wife, Il'd speake with them:
Now, presently: bid them come forth and heare me,
Or at their Chamber doore Ile beate the Drum,
Till it crie sleepe to death
Glo. I would haue all well betwixt you.
Enter.
Lear. Oh me my heart! My rising heart! But downe
Foole. Cry to it Nunckle, as the Cockney did to the
Eeles, when she put 'em i'th' Paste aliue, she knapt 'em
o'th' coxcombs with a sticke, and cryed downe wantons,
downe; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindnesse to his
Horse buttered his Hay.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Lear. Good morrow to you both
Corn. Haile to your Grace.
Kent here set at liberty.
Reg. I am glad to see your Highnesse
Lear. Regan, I thinke you are. I know what reason
I haue to thinke so, if thou should'st not be glad,
I would diuorce me from thy Mother Tombe,
Sepulchring an Adultresse. O are you free?
Some other time for that. Beloued Regan,
Thy Sisters naught: oh Regan, she hath tied
Sharpe-tooth'd vnkindnesse, like a vulture heere,
I can scarce speake to thee, thou'lt not beleeue
With how deprau'd a quality. Oh Regan
Reg. I pray you Sir, take patience, I haue hope
You lesse know how to value her desert,
Then she to scant her dutie
Lear. Say? How is that?
Reg. I cannot thinke my Sister in the least
Would faile her Obligation. If Sir perchance
She haue restrained the Riots of your Followres,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As cleeres her from all blame
Lear. My curses on her
Reg. O Sir, you are old,
Nature in you stands on the very Verge
Of his confine: you should be rul'd, and led
By some discretion, that discernes your state
Better then you your selfe: therefore I pray you,
That to our Sister, you do make returne,
Say you haue wrong'd her
Lear. Aske her forgiuenesse?
Do you but marke how this becomes the house?
Deere daughter, I confesse that I am old;
Age is vnnecessary: on my knees I begge,
That you'l vouchsafe me Rayment, Bed, and Food
Reg. Good Sir, no more: these are vnsightly trickes:
Returne you to my Sister
Lear. Neuer Regan:
She hath abated me of halfe my Traine;
Look'd blacke vpon me, strooke me with her Tongue
Most Serpent-like, vpon the very Heart.
All the stor'd Vengeances of Heauen, fall
On her ingratefull top: strike her yong bones
You taking Ayres, with Lamenesse
Corn. Fye sir, fie
Le. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornfull eyes: Infect her Beauty,
You Fen-suck'd Fogges, drawne by the powrfull Sunne,
To fall, and blister
Reg. O the blest Gods!
So will you wish on me, when the rash moode is on
Lear. No Regan, thou shalt neuer haue my curse:
Thy tender-hefted Nature shall not giue
Thee o're to harshnesse: Her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burne. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my Traine,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my comming in. Thou better know'st
The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood,
Effects of Curtesie, dues of Gratitude:
Thy halfe o'th' Kingdome hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd
Reg. Good Sir, to'th' purpose.
Tucket within.
Lear. Who put my man i'th' Stockes?
Enter Steward.
Corn. What Trumpet's that?
Reg. I know't, my Sisters: this approues her Letter,
That she would soone be heere. Is your Lady come?
Lear. This is a Slaue, whose easie borrowed pride
Dwels in the sickly grace of her he followes.
Out Varlet, from my sight
Corn. What meanes your Grace?
Enter Gonerill.
Lear. Who stockt my Seruant? Regan, I haue good hope
Thou did'st not know on't.
Who comes here? O Heauens!
If you do loue old men; if your sweet sway
Allow Obedience; if you your selues are old,
Make it your cause: Send downe, and take my part.
Art not asham'd to looke vpon this Beard?
O Regan, will you take her by the hand?
Gon. Why not by'th' hand Sir? How haue I offended?
All's not offence that indiscretion findes,
And dotage termes so
Lear. O sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold?
How came my man i'th' Stockes?
Corn. I set him there, Sir: but his owne Disorders
Deseru'd much lesse aduancement
Lear. You? Did you?
Reg. I pray you Father being weake, seeme so.
If till the expiration of your Moneth
You will returne and soiourne with my Sister,
Dismissing halfe your traine, come then to me,
I am now from home, and out of that prouision
Which shall be needfull for your entertainement
Lear. Returne to her? and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abiure all roofes, and chuse
To wage against the enmity oth' ayre,
To be a Comrade with the Wolfe, and Owle,
Necessities sharpe pinch. Returne with her?
Why the hot-bloodied France, that dowerlesse tooke
Our yongest borne, I could as well be brought
To knee his Throne, and Squire-like pension beg,
To keepe base life a foote; returne with her?
Perswade me rather to be slaue and sumpter
To this detested groome
Gon. At your choice Sir
Lear. I prythee Daughter do not make me mad,
I will not trouble thee my Child; farewell:
Wee'l no more meete, no more see one another.
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my Daughter,
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a Byle,
A plague sore, or imbossed Carbuncle
In my corrupted blood. But Ile not chide thee,
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it,
I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoote,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-iudging Ioue,
Mend when thou can'st, be better at thy leisure,
I can be patient, I can stay with Regan,
I and my hundred Knights
Reg. Not altogether so,
I look'd not for you yet, nor am prouided
For your fit welcome, giue eare Sir to my Sister,
For those that mingle reason with your passion,
Must be content to thinke you old, and so,
But she knowes what she doe's
Lear. Is this well spoken?
Reg. I dare auouch it Sir, what fifty Followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many? Sith that both charge and danger,
Speake 'gainst so great a number? How in one house
Should many people, vnder two commands
Hold amity? 'Tis hard, almost impossible
Gon. Why might not you my Lord, receiue attendance
From those that she cals Seruants, or from mine?
Reg. Why not my Lord?
If then they chanc'd to slacke ye,
We could comptroll them; if you will come to me,
(For now I spie a danger) I entreate you
To bring but fiue and twentie, to no more
Will I giue place or notice
Lear. I gaue you all
Reg. And in good time you gaue it
Lear. Made you my Guardians, my Depositaries,
But kept a reseruation to be followed
With such a number? What, must I come to you
With fiue and twenty? Regan, said you so?
Reg. And speak't againe my Lord, no more with me
Lea. Those wicked Creatures yet do look wel fauor'd
When others are more wicked, not being the worst
Stands in some ranke of praise, Ile go with thee,
Thy fifty yet doth double fiue and twenty,
And thou art twice her Loue
Gon. Heare me my Lord;
What need you fiue and twenty? Ten? Or fiue?
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Haue a command to tend you?
Reg. What need one?
Lear. O reason not the need: our basest Beggers
Are in the poorest thing superfluous.
Allow not Nature, more then Nature needs:
Mans life is cheape as Beastes. Thou art a Lady;
If onely to go warme were gorgeous,
Why Nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keepes thee warme, but for true need:
You Heauens, giue me that patience, patience I need,
You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man,
As full of griefe as age, wretched in both,
If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts
Against their Father, foole me not so much,
To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger,
And let not womens weapons, water drops,
Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags,
I will haue such reuenges on you both,
That all the world shall- I will do such things,
What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe
The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe,
No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping.
Storme and Tempest.
But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes
Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad.
Exeunt.
Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme
Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people,
Cannot be well bestow'd
Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest,
And must needs taste his folly
Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly,
But not one follower
Gon. So am I purpos'd,
Where is my Lord of Gloster?
Enter Gloster.
Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd
Glo. The King is in high rage
Corn. Whether is he going?
Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether
Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe
Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay
Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes
Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about
There's scarce a Bush
Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men,
The iniuries that they themselues procure,
Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores,
He is attended with a desperate traine,
And what they may incense him too, being apt,
To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare
Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night,
My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation It is important to appreciate the significance of this event. Couriers were very important. They represented their masters and the fact that Kent is placed in the stocks is tantamount to King Lear being placed in the stocks. Although Lear is not aware of the situation at this stage, it represents the greatest insult he has faced. This fact will not be lost on the Shakespearean audience as using couriers was the main method of relaying information. We note Regan's delight at this turn of events. No doubt she thinks and hopes that the reaction from her father will be intense. We also see the lack of influence Gloucester has over this turn of events. The older characters in this story are impotent and the younger generations are taking over. A new order is being introduced - a natural order, and as the old order is melting away, with it goes law and respect. We are now getting a better picture regarding the character of Cornwall, especially when he confronts Kent. We will see that Cornwall is a habitual liar, and he cannot recognize Kent as being honest and, therefore, assumes that he must be lying too. Had we not witnessed Kent's performance in the early part of the play, we might mistake him for a thug by the way he treats Oswald. Kent, one of the old school, is trying to hold on to the principles of the past, and Oswald who is merely a tool of Goneril, is pulling these values down quickly. Through frustration the hot-headed Kent loses control and starts to thrash Oswald. Shakespeare is clearly whetting the appetite of the audience who cannot wait to see Lear's reaction to Kent being placed in the stocks. This is in fact an act of treason, thus showing how little influence and power Lear has left. The modern audience will note the flaw in the story where Kent has received a letter from Cordelia. She is already aware of her father's plight, but there has not been enough time for such messages to travel to France and back, but Shakespeare is not concerned about this, and neither was his audience. This is purely a dramatic device in order to maintain the tempo of the play. | analysis |
Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
Storme still. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman, seuerally.
Kent. Who's there besides foule weather?
Gen. One minded like the weather, most vnquietly
Kent. I know you: Where's the King?
Gent. Contending with the fretfull Elements;
Bids the winde blow the Earth into the Sea,
Or swell the curled Waters 'boue the Maine,
That things might change, or cease
Kent. But who is with him?
Gent. None but the Foole, who labours to out-iest
His heart-strooke iniuries
Kent. Sir, I do know you,
And dare vpon the warrant of my note
Commend a deere thing to you. There is diuision
(Although as yet the face of it is couer'd
With mutuall cunning) 'twixt Albany, and Cornwall:
Who haue, as who haue not, that their great Starres
Thron'd and set high; Seruants, who seeme no lesse,
Which are to France the Spies and Speculations
Intelligent of our State. What hath bin seene,
Either in snuffes, and packings of the Dukes,
Or the hard Reine which both of them hath borne
Against the old kinde King; or something deeper,
Whereof (perchance) these are but furnishings
Gent. I will talke further with you
Kent. No, do not:
For confirmation that I am much more
Then my out-wall; open this Purse, and take
What it containes. If you shall see Cordelia,
(As feare not but you shall) shew her this Ring,
And she will tell you who that Fellow is
That yet you do not know. Fye on this Storme,
I will go seeke the King
Gent. Giue me your hand,
Haue you no more to say?
Kent. Few words, but to effect more then all yet;
That when we haue found the King, in which your pain
That way, Ile this: He that first lights on him,
Holla the other.
Exeunt.
| The raging storm continues, and Kent meets a gentleman who tells him that King Lear wanders about with only his Fool as companion. Seeing that the gentleman is a trustworthy person, Kent tells him that there is a growing mistrust between the Dukes of Albany and Cornwall. The King of France has learnt of the way in which King Lear has been treated, and proposes to invade England in order to provide Lear with some protection. Kent tells the gentleman to travel to Dover and tell the loyal subjects there how their King has been made to suffer. He gives the gentleman his ring, and if he should meet Cordelia he should give her the ring. Kent goes on with his search to find Lear. | summary |
Actus Tertius. Scena Prima.
Storme still. Enter Kent, and a Gentleman, seuerally.
Kent. Who's there besides foule weather?
Gen. One minded like the weather, most vnquietly
Kent. I know you: Where's the King?
Gent. Contending with the fretfull Elements;
Bids the winde blow the Earth into the Sea,
Or swell the curled Waters 'boue the Maine,
That things might change, or cease
Kent. But who is with him?
Gent. None but the Foole, who labours to out-iest
His heart-strooke iniuries
Kent. Sir, I do know you,
And dare vpon the warrant of my note
Commend a deere thing to you. There is diuision
(Although as yet the face of it is couer'd
With mutuall cunning) 'twixt Albany, and Cornwall:
Who haue, as who haue not, that their great Starres
Thron'd and set high; Seruants, who seeme no lesse,
Which are to France the Spies and Speculations
Intelligent of our State. What hath bin seene,
Either in snuffes, and packings of the Dukes,
Or the hard Reine which both of them hath borne
Against the old kinde King; or something deeper,
Whereof (perchance) these are but furnishings
Gent. I will talke further with you
Kent. No, do not:
For confirmation that I am much more
Then my out-wall; open this Purse, and take
What it containes. If you shall see Cordelia,
(As feare not but you shall) shew her this Ring,
And she will tell you who that Fellow is
That yet you do not know. Fye on this Storme,
I will go seeke the King
Gent. Giue me your hand,
Haue you no more to say?
Kent. Few words, but to effect more then all yet;
That when we haue found the King, in which your pain
That way, Ile this: He that first lights on him,
Holla the other.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Shakespeare uses a familiar device in the form of a storm to signify the growth of evil, and also to show that order is giving way to chaos. It also introduces an element of supernatural into the proceedings. The fact that we learn that the King of France is well acquainted with Lear's plight shows that he has spies abroad in England. Kent establishes that the gentleman he has met can be relied upon, and he sends him to Dover in order to contact Cordelia to show that he is active and still loyal to her father. Some light is introduced into the proceedings for the audience, as there is now a hope that the tragic Lear may be rescued, and that the forces of evil may be destroyed. The gentleman provides Kent with a vivid description of Lear and his fight against the elements. The King is contending with the fretful elements; Bids the wind blow the earth into the sea, Or swell the curled waters above the main, That things might change or cease; tears his white hair, Which the impetuous blasts, with eyeless rage, Catch in their fury and make nothing of;" Shakespeare provides a descriptive vision of Lear ranting and raving on the heath, shouting at the storm, pulling at his hair, and again refers to this common theme of sight eyeless rage". We have already covered Lear's inability to see the repercussions in dividing up his Kingdom. He failed to see through his two oldest daughters' false flattery. Gloucester failed to see the villainy in Edmund, and so on. Shakespeare prepares the audience for what is to transpire in later scenes. At this stage in the play, we group together Regan and Cornwall, Edmund, Goneril and Albany as the evil characters. We have no evidence to indicate that Albany is any different from his co-conspirators. | analysis |
Scena Secunda.
Storme still. Enter Lear, and Foole.
Lear. Blow windes, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow
You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's spout,
Till you haue drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cockes.
You Sulph'rous and Thought-executing Fires,
Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleauing Thunder-bolts,
Sindge my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder,
Strike flat the thicke Rotundity o'th' world,
Cracke Natures moulds, all germaines spill at once
That makes ingratefull Man
Foole. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry house, is
better then this Rain-water out o' doore. Good Nunkle,
in, aske thy Daughters blessing, heere's a night pitties
neither Wisemen, nor Fooles
Lear. Rumble thy belly full: spit Fire, spowt Raine:
Nor Raine, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters;
I taxe not you, you Elements with vnkindnesse.
I neuer gaue you Kingdome, call'd you Children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Heere I stand your Slaue,
A poore, infirme, weake, and dispis'd old man:
But yet I call you Seruile Ministers,
That will with two pernicious Daughters ioyne
Your high-engender'd Battailes, 'gainst a head
So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foule
Foole. He that has a house to put's head in, has a good
Head-peece:
The Codpiece that will house, before the head has any;
The Head, and he shall Lowse: so Beggers marry many.
The man y makes his Toe, what he his Hart shold make,
Shall of a Corne cry woe, and turne his sleepe to wake.
For there was neuer yet faire woman, but shee made
mouthes in a glasse.
Enter Kent
Lear. No, I will be the patterne of all patience,
I will say nothing
Kent. Who's there?
Foole. Marry here's Grace, and a Codpiece, that's a
Wiseman, and a Foole
Kent. Alas Sir are you here? Things that loue night,
Loue not such nights as these: The wrathfull Skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the darke
And make them keepe their Caues: Since I was man,
Such sheets of Fire, such bursts of horrid Thunder,
Such groanes of roaring Winde, and Raine, I neuer
Remember to haue heard. Mans Nature cannot carry
Th' affliction, nor the feare
Lear. Let the great Goddes
That keepe this dreadfull pudder o're our heads,
Finde out their enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch,
That hast within thee vndivulged Crimes
Vnwhipt of Iustice. Hide thee, thou Bloudy hand;
Thou Periur'd, and thou Simular of Vertue
That art Incestuous. Caytiffe, to peeces shake
That vnder couert, and conuenient seeming
Ha's practis'd on mans life. Close pent-vp guilts,
Riue your concealing Continents, and cry
These dreadfull Summoners grace. I am a man,
More sinn'd against, then sinning
Kent. Alacke, bare-headed?
Gracious my Lord, hard by heere is a Houell,
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the Tempest:
Repose you there, while I to this hard house,
(More harder then the stones whereof 'tis rais'd,
Which euen but now, demanding after you,
Deny'd me to come in) returne, and force
Their scanted curtesie
Lear. My wits begin to turne.
Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold?
I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow?
The Art of our Necessities is strange,
And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel;
Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee
Foole. He that has and a little-tyne wit,
With heigh-ho, the Winde and the Raine,
Must make content with his Fortunes fit,
Though the Raine it raineth euery day
Le. True Boy: Come bring vs to this Houell.
Enter.
Foole. This is a braue night to coole a Curtizan:
Ile speake a Prophesie ere I go:
When Priests are more in word, then matter;
When Brewers marre their Malt with water;
When Nobles are their Taylors Tutors,
No Heretiques burn'd, but wenches Sutors;
When euery Case in Law, is right;
No Squire in debt, nor no poore Knight;
When Slanders do not liue in Tongues;
Nor Cut-purses come not to throngs;
When Vsurers tell their Gold i'th' Field,
And Baudes, and whores, do Churches build,
Then shal the Realme of Albion, come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who liues to see't,
That going shalbe vs'd with feet.
This prophecie Merlin shall make, for I liue before his time.
Enter.
| We join a conversation between Lear and his Fool. We read, Blow, winds, and crack your cheeks! Rage! Blow! You cataracts and hurricanoes, spout | summary |
Enter Gloster, and Edmund.
Glo. Alacke, alacke Edmund, I like not this vnnaturall
dealing; when I desired their leaue that I might pity him,
they tooke from me the vse of mine owne house, charg'd
me on paine of perpetuall displeasure, neither to speake
of him, entreat for him, or any way sustaine him
Bast. Most sauage and vnnaturall
Glo. Go too; say you nothing. There is diuision betweene
the Dukes, and a worsse matter then that: I haue
receiued a Letter this night, 'tis dangerous to be spoken,
I haue lock'd the Letter in my Closset, these iniuries the
King now beares, will be reuenged home; ther is part of
a Power already footed, we must incline to the King, I
will looke him, and priuily relieue him; goe you and
maintaine talke with the Duke, that my charity be not of
him perceiued; If he aske for me, I am ill, and gone to
bed, if I die for it, (as no lesse is threatned me) the King
my old Master must be relieued. There is strange things
toward Edmund, pray you be carefull.
Enter.
Bast. This Curtesie forbid thee, shall the Duke
Instantly know, and of that Letter too;
This seemes a faire deseruing, and must draw me
That which my Father looses: no lesse then all,
The yonger rises, when the old doth fall.
Enter.
| Gloucester complains to his son Edmund about the offhand way he has been treated by Regan and Cornwall. They have ordered him not to assist King Lear, and Edmund agrees with his father that this is a strange request. Gloucester tells Edmund that he has a letter containing details of a plan to put right the injustice suffered by the King, and that this will pose a threat to the Duke of Cornwall. When Gloucester exits, Edmund plans to warn Cornwall of the impending danger. | summary |
Enter Gloster, and Edmund.
Glo. Alacke, alacke Edmund, I like not this vnnaturall
dealing; when I desired their leaue that I might pity him,
they tooke from me the vse of mine owne house, charg'd
me on paine of perpetuall displeasure, neither to speake
of him, entreat for him, or any way sustaine him
Bast. Most sauage and vnnaturall
Glo. Go too; say you nothing. There is diuision betweene
the Dukes, and a worsse matter then that: I haue
receiued a Letter this night, 'tis dangerous to be spoken,
I haue lock'd the Letter in my Closset, these iniuries the
King now beares, will be reuenged home; ther is part of
a Power already footed, we must incline to the King, I
will looke him, and priuily relieue him; goe you and
maintaine talke with the Duke, that my charity be not of
him perceiued; If he aske for me, I am ill, and gone to
bed, if I die for it, (as no lesse is threatned me) the King
my old Master must be relieued. There is strange things
toward Edmund, pray you be carefull.
Enter.
Bast. This Curtesie forbid thee, shall the Duke
Instantly know, and of that Letter too;
This seemes a faire deseruing, and must draw me
That which my Father looses: no lesse then all,
The yonger rises, when the old doth fall.
Enter.
| Interpretation Remember that Gloucester is elderly himself, like Lear, and has been slow to react to the crisis facing the Kingdom and Lear. Clearly he is basically a loyal and true servant of the King, and this is fully revealed in this scene. Unfortunately, he confides in his traitorous son Edmund, details of the plan to aid Lear. Gloucester is practically a prisoner in his own home, but we see an indication that he is going to fight back. The battle that has been waged so far in the story between young and old, good and evil, order and chaos has been very much one-sided. Hopefully, the tables will the reversed, starting with Gloucester's actions. We again see another event that the opportunist Edmund will take full advantage of. | analysis |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Lear, Kent, and Foole.
Kent. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter,
The tirrany of the open night's too rough
For Nature to endure.
Storme still
Lear. Let me alone
Kent. Good my Lord enter heere
Lear. Wilt breake my heart?
Kent. I had rather breake mine owne,
Good my Lord enter
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme
Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee,
But where the greater malady is fixt,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare,
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free,
The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind,
Doth from my sences take all feeling else,
Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude,
Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand
For lifting food too't? But I will punish home;
No, I will weepe no more; in such a night,
To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure:
In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all,
O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that:
No more of that
Kent. Good my Lord enter here
Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease,
This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder
On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in,
In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie,
Enter.
Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe.
Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are
That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme,
How shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides,
Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you
From seasons such as these? O I haue tane
Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe,
Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,
That thou maist shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heauens more iust.
Enter Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom
Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe
me, helpe me
Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there?
Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore
Tom
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th'
straw? Come forth
Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the
sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy
bed and warme thee
Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art
thou come to this?
Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom
the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame,
through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire,
that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters
in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him
Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure
incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor.
Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de,
blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking,
do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend
vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there
againe, and there.
Storme still.
Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?
Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?
Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all
sham'd
Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre
Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters
Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir
Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature
To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers,
Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh:
Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot
Those Pelicane Daughters
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo
Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and
Madmen
Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents,
keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not,
with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on
proud array. Tom's a cold
Lear. What hast thou bin?
Edg. A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that
curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust
of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with
her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke
them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the
contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I
deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out-Paramour'd
the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand;
Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog
in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes,
Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman.
Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of
Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the
foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the
cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy,
Boy Sesey: let him trot by.
Storme still.
Lear. Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere
with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is
man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st
the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no
Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are
sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated
man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall
as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton
heere.
Enter Gloucester, with a Torch.
Foole. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie
night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field,
were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest
on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire
Edg. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at
Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web
and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe;
Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature
of earth.
Swithold footed thrice the old,
He met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold;
Bid her a-light, and her troth-plight,
And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee
Kent. How fares your Grace?
Lear. What's he?
Kent. Who's there? What is't you seeke?
Glou. What are you there? Your Names?
Edg. Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the
Toad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that
in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats
Cow-dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the
ditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing
Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and
stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites
to his backe, sixe shirts to his body:
Horse to ride, and weapon to weare:
But Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare,
Haue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare:
Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend
Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company?
Edg. The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo
he's call'd, and Mahu
Glou. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so
vilde, that it doth hate what gets it
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold
Glou. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer
T' obey in all your daughters hard commands:
Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores,
And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you,
Yet haue I ventured to come seeke you out,
And bring you where both fire, and food is ready
Lear. First let me talke with this Philosopher,
What is the cause of Thunder?
Kent. Good my Lord take his offer,
Go into th' house
Lear. Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban:
What is your study?
Edg. How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine
Lear. Let me aske you one word in priuate
Kent. Importune him once more to go my Lord,
His wits begin t' vnsettle
Glou. Canst thou blame him?
Storm still
His Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent,
He said it would be thus: poore banish'd man:
Thou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend
I am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne,
Now out-law'd from my blood: he sought my life
But lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend)
No Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee,
The greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this?
I do beseech your grace
Lear. O cry you mercy, Sir:
Noble Philosopher, your company
Edg. Tom's a cold
Glou. In fellow there, into th' Houel; keep thee warm
Lear. Come, let's in all
Kent. This way, my Lord
Lear. With him;
I will keepe still with my Philosopher
Kent. Good my Lord, sooth him:
Let him take the Fellow
Glou. Take him you on
Kent. Sirra, come on: go along with vs
Lear. Come, good Athenian
Glou. No words, no words, hush
Edg. Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came,
His word was still, fie, foh, and fumme,
I smell the blood of a Brittish man.
Exeunt.
| The Fool has entered the hovel, but the King still refuses to take shelter. The Fool rushes from the hovel saying that there is a spirit inside. Edgar emerges disguised as Poor Tom, and the King thinks he has found a kindred spirit, and to be like him he tears off his own clothing so that he too can be unclad like Poor Tom. Gloucester enters carrying a torch, and he is shocked to see how Lear has deteriorated. He persuades them to follow him as he has found a warm shelter and has food. Lear declines the offer, saying he wishes to converse with Tom. Gloucester agrees that Tom can accompany him, and they all proceed to the shelter. | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Lear, Kent, and Foole.
Kent. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter,
The tirrany of the open night's too rough
For Nature to endure.
Storme still
Lear. Let me alone
Kent. Good my Lord enter heere
Lear. Wilt breake my heart?
Kent. I had rather breake mine owne,
Good my Lord enter
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme
Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee,
But where the greater malady is fixt,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare,
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free,
The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind,
Doth from my sences take all feeling else,
Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude,
Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand
For lifting food too't? But I will punish home;
No, I will weepe no more; in such a night,
To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure:
In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all,
O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that:
No more of that
Kent. Good my Lord enter here
Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease,
This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder
On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in,
In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie,
Enter.
Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe.
Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are
That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme,
How shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides,
Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you
From seasons such as these? O I haue tane
Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe,
Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,
That thou maist shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heauens more iust.
Enter Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom
Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe
me, helpe me
Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there?
Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore
Tom
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th'
straw? Come forth
Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the
sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy
bed and warme thee
Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art
thou come to this?
Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom
the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame,
through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire,
that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters
in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him
Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure
incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor.
Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de,
blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking,
do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend
vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there
againe, and there.
Storme still.
Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?
Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?
Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all
sham'd
Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre
Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters
Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir
Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature
To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers,
Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh:
Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot
Those Pelicane Daughters
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo
Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and
Madmen
Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents,
keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not,
with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on
proud array. Tom's a cold
Lear. What hast thou bin?
Edg. A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that
curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust
of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with
her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke
them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the
contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I
deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out-Paramour'd
the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand;
Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog
in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes,
Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman.
Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of
Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the
foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the
cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy,
Boy Sesey: let him trot by.
Storme still.
Lear. Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere
with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is
man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st
the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no
Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are
sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated
man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall
as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton
heere.
Enter Gloucester, with a Torch.
Foole. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie
night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field,
were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest
on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire
Edg. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at
Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web
and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe;
Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature
of earth.
Swithold footed thrice the old,
He met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold;
Bid her a-light, and her troth-plight,
And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee
Kent. How fares your Grace?
Lear. What's he?
Kent. Who's there? What is't you seeke?
Glou. What are you there? Your Names?
Edg. Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the
Toad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that
in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats
Cow-dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the
ditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing
Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and
stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites
to his backe, sixe shirts to his body:
Horse to ride, and weapon to weare:
But Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare,
Haue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare:
Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend
Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company?
Edg. The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo
he's call'd, and Mahu
Glou. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so
vilde, that it doth hate what gets it
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold
Glou. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer
T' obey in all your daughters hard commands:
Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores,
And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you,
Yet haue I ventured to come seeke you out,
And bring you where both fire, and food is ready
Lear. First let me talke with this Philosopher,
What is the cause of Thunder?
Kent. Good my Lord take his offer,
Go into th' house
Lear. Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban:
What is your study?
Edg. How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine
Lear. Let me aske you one word in priuate
Kent. Importune him once more to go my Lord,
His wits begin t' vnsettle
Glou. Canst thou blame him?
Storm still
His Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent,
He said it would be thus: poore banish'd man:
Thou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend
I am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne,
Now out-law'd from my blood: he sought my life
But lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend)
No Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee,
The greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this?
I do beseech your grace
Lear. O cry you mercy, Sir:
Noble Philosopher, your company
Edg. Tom's a cold
Glou. In fellow there, into th' Houel; keep thee warm
Lear. Come, let's in all
Kent. This way, my Lord
Lear. With him;
I will keepe still with my Philosopher
Kent. Good my Lord, sooth him:
Let him take the Fellow
Glou. Take him you on
Kent. Sirra, come on: go along with vs
Lear. Come, good Athenian
Glou. No words, no words, hush
Edg. Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came,
His word was still, fie, foh, and fumme,
I smell the blood of a Brittish man.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Shakespeare uses this scene to add depth to Lear's mental disintegration. Not only has Lear been battling with the storm on the heath, he has also been fighting against the tempest inside his head. The storm signifies the chaos both inside and outside the King. The storm's fury parallels the anger that Goneril and Regan have for their father. There is much irony in this scene. Only by being brought low does the King realize what life is like for his lowliest of subjects. He realizes that he is now like them and he wishes to commune with Poor Tom . He now appreciates that the only hope for the wretched people like Tom, is through a benign ruler. When he abdicated his powers to his daughters, he also abdicated his responsibilities to the least fortunate people of his land. To show his kinship for his newfound ‘brother' Tom, he rips off his clothes so that he will be nearly naked like Tom. To the onlookers, this is just another symbol of Lear's madness, but this scene finally shows the audience that Lear's eyes have been opened to the truth of the situation and the consequences of his poor decisions. He calls Tom a learned philosopher" as he represents the true nature of man. In this scene we are also reminded of Gloucester's initial errors, which have now placed him in a similar situation to Lear. The meeting of Gloucester and Lear is also a meeting of the main plot and sub-plot of the play. Their common plight arises from similar errors. The irony in this scene continues when we examine the various statement made regarding both Kent and Edgar, who are still in disguise, and Gloucester, Lear and perhaps the Fool fail to see through to the real people underneath. You will note that Gloucester innocently says to Kent, "Poor banished man" ironically that is exactly what he is. Just as in the previous scene, the Fool made a prophecy announcing it as such. In this scene, Kent makes a prophecy, but this is harder to recognize, and scholars have argued over this. We note that Kent says, His word was still - fie, foh, and fum, I smell the blood of a British man." The dark tower symbolizes death and also symbolizes the fortunes of Lear, Gloucester and Edgar, which are at their lowest ebb. Salvation is at hand, but much blood will be spent and life lost. Reference to Child Roland is merely a character derived from folklore. We note that this rhyme is used in the fairy tale of Jack and the Beanstalk. others think of your teachers | analysis |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Cornwall, and Edmund.
Corn. I will haue my reuenge, ere I depart his house
Bast. How my Lord, I may be censured, that Nature
thus giues way to Loyaltie, something feares mee to
thinke of
Cornw. I now perceiue, it was not altogether your
Brothers euill disposition made him seeke his death: but
a prouoking merit set a-worke by a reprouable badnesse
in himselfe
Bast. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent
to be iust? This is the Letter which hee spoake of;
which approues him an intelligent partie to the aduantages
of France. O Heauens! that this Treason were not;
or not I the detector
Corn. Go with me to the Dutchesse
Bast. If the matter of this Paper be certain, you haue
mighty businesse in hand
Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earle of Gloucester:
seeke out where thy Father is, that hee may bee
ready for our apprehension
Bast. If I finde him comforting the King, it will stuffe
his suspition more fully. I will perseuer in my course of
Loyalty, though the conflict be sore betweene that, and
my blood
Corn. I will lay trust vpon thee: and thou shalt finde
a deere Father in my loue.
Exeunt.
| Edmund betrays his father to Cornwall and gains further favor from the Duke. Cornwall is now aware of the King of France's plans to aid King Lear, his wife's father. At the end of the scene, we note that Cornwall addresses Edmund as the Earl of Gloucester. | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Cornwall, and Edmund.
Corn. I will haue my reuenge, ere I depart his house
Bast. How my Lord, I may be censured, that Nature
thus giues way to Loyaltie, something feares mee to
thinke of
Cornw. I now perceiue, it was not altogether your
Brothers euill disposition made him seeke his death: but
a prouoking merit set a-worke by a reprouable badnesse
in himselfe
Bast. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent
to be iust? This is the Letter which hee spoake of;
which approues him an intelligent partie to the aduantages
of France. O Heauens! that this Treason were not;
or not I the detector
Corn. Go with me to the Dutchesse
Bast. If the matter of this Paper be certain, you haue
mighty businesse in hand
Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earle of Gloucester:
seeke out where thy Father is, that hee may bee
ready for our apprehension
Bast. If I finde him comforting the King, it will stuffe
his suspition more fully. I will perseuer in my course of
Loyalty, though the conflict be sore betweene that, and
my blood
Corn. I will lay trust vpon thee: and thou shalt finde
a deere Father in my loue.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation We now see that just as Lear was betrayed by his daughters, Gloucester has been betrayed by his son Edmund. It is also a betrayal of the traditional values and virtues, which will be replaced by chaos and the law of the jungle. Although both Edmund's and Cornwall's actions are despicable they still use eloquent language in order to try and make these developments honorable. Edmund justifies his actions by viewing his father's allegiance to Lear as treasonous. | analysis |
Scena Sexta.
Enter Kent, and Gloucester.
Glou. Heere is better then the open ayre, take it thankfully:
I will peece out the comfort with what addition I
can: I will not be long from you.
Exit
Kent. All the powre of his wits, haue giuen way to his
impatience: the Gods reward your kindnesse.
Enter Lear, Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fraterretto cals me, and tells me Nero is an Angler
in the Lake of Darknesse: pray Innocent, and beware
the foule Fiend
Foole. Prythee Nunkle tell me, whether a madman be
a Gentleman, or a Yeoman
Lear. A King, a King
Foole. No, he's a Yeoman, that ha's a Gentleman to
his Sonne: for hee's a mad Yeoman that sees his Sonne a
Gentleman before him
Lear. To haue a thousand with red burning spits
Come hizzing in vpon 'em
Edg. Blesse thy fiue wits
Kent. O pitty: Sir, where is the patience now
That you so oft haue boasted to retaine?
Edg. My teares begin to take his part so much,
They marre my counterfetting
Lear. The little dogges, and all;
Trey, Blanch, and Sweet-heart: see, they barke at me
Edg. Tom, will throw his head at them: Auaunt you
Curres, be thy mouth or blacke or white:
Tooth that poysons if it bite:
Mastiffe, Grey-hound, Mongrill, Grim,
Hound or Spaniell, Brache, or Hym:
Or Bobtaile tight, or Troudle taile,
Tom will make him weepe and waile,
For with throwing thus my head;
Dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled.
Do, de, de, de: sese: Come, march to Wakes and Fayres,
And Market Townes: poore Tom thy horne is dry,
Lear. Then let them Anatomize Regan: See what
breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in Nature that
make these hard-hearts. You sir, I entertaine for one of
my hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments.
You will say they are Persian; but let them bee
chang'd.
Enter Gloster.
Kent. Now good my Lord, lye heere, and rest awhile
Lear. Make no noise, make no noise, draw the Curtaines:
so, so, wee'l go to Supper i'th' morning
Foole. And Ile go to bed at noone
Glou. Come hither Friend:
Where is the King my Master?
Kent. Here Sir, but trouble him not, his wits are gon
Glou. Good friend, I prythee take him in thy armes;
I haue ore-heard a plot of death vpon him:
There is a Litter ready, lay him in't,
And driue toward Douer friend, where thou shalt meete
Both welcome, and protection. Take vp thy Master,
If thou should'st dally halfe an houre, his life
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured losse. Take vp, take vp,
And follow me, that will to some prouision
Giue thee quicke conduct. Come, come, away.
Exeunt.
| Lear, Kent, Fool and Edgar enter the farmhouse and they await Gloucester bringing them provisions. The manic Lear seeks vengeance on his daughters for the evil offences they have committed against him. He decides to set up a mock trial so that he can bring charges against his daughters, and he appoints the Fool and Edgar to be judges of the court. They use two stools to take the place of Regan and Goneril. They are referred to as "joint-stool". The Fool relishes his role as judge, but Edgar is reluctant to take part in this farce, and pities the King for his madness. Kent eventually persuades the King to take some rest. Just then Gloucester enters to say that there is a plot to kill Lear. In order for him to be safe, the King must be transported to Dover where he will find protection. | summary |
Scena Sexta.
Enter Kent, and Gloucester.
Glou. Heere is better then the open ayre, take it thankfully:
I will peece out the comfort with what addition I
can: I will not be long from you.
Exit
Kent. All the powre of his wits, haue giuen way to his
impatience: the Gods reward your kindnesse.
Enter Lear, Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fraterretto cals me, and tells me Nero is an Angler
in the Lake of Darknesse: pray Innocent, and beware
the foule Fiend
Foole. Prythee Nunkle tell me, whether a madman be
a Gentleman, or a Yeoman
Lear. A King, a King
Foole. No, he's a Yeoman, that ha's a Gentleman to
his Sonne: for hee's a mad Yeoman that sees his Sonne a
Gentleman before him
Lear. To haue a thousand with red burning spits
Come hizzing in vpon 'em
Edg. Blesse thy fiue wits
Kent. O pitty: Sir, where is the patience now
That you so oft haue boasted to retaine?
Edg. My teares begin to take his part so much,
They marre my counterfetting
Lear. The little dogges, and all;
Trey, Blanch, and Sweet-heart: see, they barke at me
Edg. Tom, will throw his head at them: Auaunt you
Curres, be thy mouth or blacke or white:
Tooth that poysons if it bite:
Mastiffe, Grey-hound, Mongrill, Grim,
Hound or Spaniell, Brache, or Hym:
Or Bobtaile tight, or Troudle taile,
Tom will make him weepe and waile,
For with throwing thus my head;
Dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled.
Do, de, de, de: sese: Come, march to Wakes and Fayres,
And Market Townes: poore Tom thy horne is dry,
Lear. Then let them Anatomize Regan: See what
breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in Nature that
make these hard-hearts. You sir, I entertaine for one of
my hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments.
You will say they are Persian; but let them bee
chang'd.
Enter Gloster.
Kent. Now good my Lord, lye heere, and rest awhile
Lear. Make no noise, make no noise, draw the Curtaines:
so, so, wee'l go to Supper i'th' morning
Foole. And Ile go to bed at noone
Glou. Come hither Friend:
Where is the King my Master?
Kent. Here Sir, but trouble him not, his wits are gon
Glou. Good friend, I prythee take him in thy armes;
I haue ore-heard a plot of death vpon him:
There is a Litter ready, lay him in't,
And driue toward Douer friend, where thou shalt meete
Both welcome, and protection. Take vp thy Master,
If thou should'st dally halfe an houre, his life
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured losse. Take vp, take vp,
And follow me, that will to some prouision
Giue thee quicke conduct. Come, come, away.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation We also note some strange behavior from Edgar in this scene, who babbles on about wicked fiends. The whole scene is a perverse comedy. Lear sets up a court in order to try his daughters in their absence, although they are represented in the court by two stools. Lear intends that for the second time in the play his two daughters should provide testimonies about their actions. In the first Act of the play, they provided testimonies of their love for their father. In this scene, testimonies will be made concerning the evil deeds they have performed against their father, which will be evidence of their hate for him. Lear's aim in this absurd farce is to establish why his daughters have treated him so badly. Is he himself to blame for the way they have turned out? There are many interesting quotations in this scene. The Fool says to Lear, "Nuncle, tell me whether a madman be a gentleman or a yeoman." Lear: A King, a King!" This is Lear admitting to him that he is mad. What he had prayed to the gods to save him from has not been heard. This is a clever scene, and if the reader can imagine the set and the appearance of the characters, then it becomes very entertaining and should be studied in some depth, especially in relation to Shakespeare's genius at stagecraft. This is the last scene in which the Fool appears and it is not clear what happens to him. Although Lear says in Act V - Scene.iii, "My poor fool is hanged", it is highly probable that he is referring to Cordelia. Fool was also an Elizabeth term of endearment. It is simpler to assume that Shakespeare has merely written the Fool out of the play because he has served his purpose. You will note that the Fool only appeared after Cordelia's exit, and now that she is to reappear in the play, the Fool exits. As we have said previously some productions omitted the Fool's part altogether, but this would have made the play very bleak. The Fool's presence provides a comic relief from the dire happenings endured by the other characters. The Fool only really interacts with Lear. In their dialogues with each other, both characters come alive. We know that the Fool pined for Cordelia when she was banished by Lear, so in some respects the Fool provided an important link between the King and his only true virtuous daughter. It can also be argued that Shakespeare used the Fool not only to introduce comedy, but also to contrast the comedy with the tragedy in the play thus giving it more effect. So what happens to the Fool? Does he predict his own death by saying in his last line, "I'll go to bed at noon."? We don't know. However, his contribution to the play has been significant, and his place will be taken by Cordelia. There is much going on in this play, and coming to it for the first time much will be missed, but there are further indications that good is now in the ascendancy. We also see a subtle indication that Edgar's prospects are improving. You will note that in his end of scene soliloquy he seems more lucid. He sees hope if he can help take the King to safety. | analysis |
Scena Septima.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gonerill, Bastard, and Seruants.
Corn. Poste speedily to my Lord your husband, shew
him this Letter, the Army of France is landed: seeke out
the Traitor Glouster
Reg. Hang him instantly
Gon. Plucke out his eyes
Corn. Leaue him to my displeasure. Edmond, keepe
you our Sister company: the reuenges wee are bound to
take vppon your Traitorous Father, are not fit for your
beholding. Aduice the Duke where you are going, to a
most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our
Postes shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt vs. Farewell
deere Sister, farewell my Lord of Glouster.
Enter Steward.
How now? Where's the King?
Stew. My Lord of Glouster hath conuey'd him hence
Some fiue or six and thirty of his Knights
Hot Questrists after him, met him at gate,
Who, with some other of the Lords, dependants,
Are gone with him toward Douer; where they boast
To haue well armed Friends
Corn. Get horses for your Mistris
Gon. Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister.
Exit
Corn. Edmund farewell: go seek the Traitor Gloster,
Pinnion him like a Theefe, bring him before vs:
Though well we may not passe vpon his life
Without the forme of Iustice: yet our power
Shall do a curt'sie to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not comptroll.
Enter Gloucester, and Seruants.
Who's there? the Traitor?
Reg. Ingratefull Fox, 'tis he
Corn. Binde fast his corky armes
Glou. What meanes your Graces?
Good my Friends consider you are my Ghests:
Do me no foule play, Friends
Corn. Binde him I say
Reg. Hard, hard: O filthy Traitor
Glou. Vnmercifull Lady, as you are, I'me none
Corn. To this Chaire binde him,
Villaine, thou shalt finde
Glou. By the kinde Gods, 'tis most ignobly done
To plucke me by the Beard
Reg. So white, and such a Traitor?
Glou. Naughty Ladie,
These haires which thou dost rauish from my chin
Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your Host,
With Robbers hands, my hospitable fauours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
Corn. Come Sir.
What Letters had you late from France?
Reg. Be simple answer'd, for we know the truth
Corn. And what confederacie haue you with the Traitors,
late footed in the Kingdome?
Reg. To whose hands
You haue sent the Lunaticke King: Speake
Glou. I haue a Letter guessingly set downe
Which came from one that's of a newtrall heart,
And not from one oppos'd
Corn. Cunning
Reg. And false
Corn. Where hast thou sent the King?
Glou. To Douer
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Was't thou not charg'd at perill
Corn. Wherefore to Douer? Let him answer that
Glou. I am tyed to'th' Stake,
And I must stand the Course
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Glou. Because I would not see thy cruell Nailes
Plucke out his poore old eyes: nor thy fierce Sister,
In his Annointed flesh, sticke boarish phangs.
The Sea, with such a storme as his bare head,
In Hell-blacke-night indur'd, would haue buoy'd vp
And quench'd the Stelled fires:
Yet poore old heart, he holpe the Heauens to raine.
If Wolues had at thy Gate howl'd that sterne time,
Thou should'st haue said, good Porter turne the Key:
All Cruels else subscribe: but I shall see
The winged Vengeance ouertake such Children
Corn. See't shalt thou neuer. Fellowes hold y Chaire,
Vpon these eyes of thine, Ile set my foote
Glou. He that will thinke to liue, till he be old,
Giue me some helpe. - O cruell! O you Gods
Reg. One side will mocke another: Th' other too
Corn. If you see vengeance
Seru. Hold your hand, my Lord:
I haue seru'd you euer since I was a Childe:
But better seruice haue I neuer done you,
Then now to bid you hold
Reg. How now, you dogge?
Ser. If you did weare a beard vpon your chin,
I'ld shake it on this quarrell. What do you meane?
Corn. My Villaine?
Seru. Nay then come on, and take the chance of anger
Reg. Giue me thy Sword. A pezant stand vp thus?
Killes him.
Ser. Oh I am slaine: my Lord, you haue one eye left
To see some mischefe on him. Oh
Corn. Lest it see more, preuent it; Out vilde gelly:
Where is thy luster now?
Glou. All darke and comfortlesse?
Where's my Sonne Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparkes of Nature
To quit this horrid acte
Reg. Out treacherous Villaine,
Thou call'st on him, that hates thee. It was he
That made the ouerture of thy Treasons to vs:
Who is too good to pitty thee
Glou. O my Follies! then Edgar was abus'd,
Kinde Gods, forgiue me that, and prosper him
Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell
His way to Douer.
Exit with Glouster.
How is't my Lord? How looke you?
Corn. I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady;
Turne out that eyelesse Villaine: throw this Slaue
Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace,
Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme.
Exeunt.
| The information Cornwall received from Edmund concerning the invasion by the French army is passed on to Goneril with the assumption that the Duke of Albany will command the English forces. Cornwall then orders that the traitor Gloucester is to be captured and Regan urges that he be hanged, but the crueler Goneril suggests that eyes be plucked out. Cornwall advises Edmund that he should not be present when his father is caught and punished. Oswald, Goneril's steward, reports that the Earl of Gloucester arranged for Lear to be transported to Dover. Gloucester is captured and brought before Cornwall. Regan humiliates the old man by plucking his beard and when questioned, Gloucester freely admits that he had arranged Lear's transport to Dover in order to save him from the cruelty of his daughters. Cornwall removes one of Gloucester's eyes and crushes it on the floor with his foot. One of Cornwall's own servants pleads with his master to stop this cruelty and comes to Gloucester's defense. The servant draws his sword and wounds Cornwall, but he is slain by Regan. Cornwall then removes Gloucester's other eye, and in his anguish, the old man cries out for Edmund. The cruel Regan informs Gloucester that it was Edmund who has betrayed him. Realizing his folly, Gloucester prays for forgiveness and hopes that his true son Edgar will be spared. Gloucester is banished from the castle. Cornwall leaves, bleeding profusely from the wound he received from his servant. Some of the servants who have witnessed this scene are horrified and they follow after Gloucester in order to assist him. Poor Tom takes over the care of his father, but does not reveal his identity. | summary |
Scena Septima.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gonerill, Bastard, and Seruants.
Corn. Poste speedily to my Lord your husband, shew
him this Letter, the Army of France is landed: seeke out
the Traitor Glouster
Reg. Hang him instantly
Gon. Plucke out his eyes
Corn. Leaue him to my displeasure. Edmond, keepe
you our Sister company: the reuenges wee are bound to
take vppon your Traitorous Father, are not fit for your
beholding. Aduice the Duke where you are going, to a
most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our
Postes shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt vs. Farewell
deere Sister, farewell my Lord of Glouster.
Enter Steward.
How now? Where's the King?
Stew. My Lord of Glouster hath conuey'd him hence
Some fiue or six and thirty of his Knights
Hot Questrists after him, met him at gate,
Who, with some other of the Lords, dependants,
Are gone with him toward Douer; where they boast
To haue well armed Friends
Corn. Get horses for your Mistris
Gon. Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister.
Exit
Corn. Edmund farewell: go seek the Traitor Gloster,
Pinnion him like a Theefe, bring him before vs:
Though well we may not passe vpon his life
Without the forme of Iustice: yet our power
Shall do a curt'sie to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not comptroll.
Enter Gloucester, and Seruants.
Who's there? the Traitor?
Reg. Ingratefull Fox, 'tis he
Corn. Binde fast his corky armes
Glou. What meanes your Graces?
Good my Friends consider you are my Ghests:
Do me no foule play, Friends
Corn. Binde him I say
Reg. Hard, hard: O filthy Traitor
Glou. Vnmercifull Lady, as you are, I'me none
Corn. To this Chaire binde him,
Villaine, thou shalt finde
Glou. By the kinde Gods, 'tis most ignobly done
To plucke me by the Beard
Reg. So white, and such a Traitor?
Glou. Naughty Ladie,
These haires which thou dost rauish from my chin
Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your Host,
With Robbers hands, my hospitable fauours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
Corn. Come Sir.
What Letters had you late from France?
Reg. Be simple answer'd, for we know the truth
Corn. And what confederacie haue you with the Traitors,
late footed in the Kingdome?
Reg. To whose hands
You haue sent the Lunaticke King: Speake
Glou. I haue a Letter guessingly set downe
Which came from one that's of a newtrall heart,
And not from one oppos'd
Corn. Cunning
Reg. And false
Corn. Where hast thou sent the King?
Glou. To Douer
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Was't thou not charg'd at perill
Corn. Wherefore to Douer? Let him answer that
Glou. I am tyed to'th' Stake,
And I must stand the Course
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Glou. Because I would not see thy cruell Nailes
Plucke out his poore old eyes: nor thy fierce Sister,
In his Annointed flesh, sticke boarish phangs.
The Sea, with such a storme as his bare head,
In Hell-blacke-night indur'd, would haue buoy'd vp
And quench'd the Stelled fires:
Yet poore old heart, he holpe the Heauens to raine.
If Wolues had at thy Gate howl'd that sterne time,
Thou should'st haue said, good Porter turne the Key:
All Cruels else subscribe: but I shall see
The winged Vengeance ouertake such Children
Corn. See't shalt thou neuer. Fellowes hold y Chaire,
Vpon these eyes of thine, Ile set my foote
Glou. He that will thinke to liue, till he be old,
Giue me some helpe. - O cruell! O you Gods
Reg. One side will mocke another: Th' other too
Corn. If you see vengeance
Seru. Hold your hand, my Lord:
I haue seru'd you euer since I was a Childe:
But better seruice haue I neuer done you,
Then now to bid you hold
Reg. How now, you dogge?
Ser. If you did weare a beard vpon your chin,
I'ld shake it on this quarrell. What do you meane?
Corn. My Villaine?
Seru. Nay then come on, and take the chance of anger
Reg. Giue me thy Sword. A pezant stand vp thus?
Killes him.
Ser. Oh I am slaine: my Lord, you haue one eye left
To see some mischefe on him. Oh
Corn. Lest it see more, preuent it; Out vilde gelly:
Where is thy luster now?
Glou. All darke and comfortlesse?
Where's my Sonne Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparkes of Nature
To quit this horrid acte
Reg. Out treacherous Villaine,
Thou call'st on him, that hates thee. It was he
That made the ouerture of thy Treasons to vs:
Who is too good to pitty thee
Glou. O my Follies! then Edgar was abus'd,
Kinde Gods, forgiue me that, and prosper him
Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell
His way to Douer.
Exit with Glouster.
How is't my Lord? How looke you?
Corn. I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady;
Turne out that eyelesse Villaine: throw this Slaue
Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace,
Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Arguably, this scene is one of the most appalling to be found in dramatic literature. Its impact may have been more severe had Shakespeare not prepared his audience well in advance. We have an inkling of what the various characters are capable of and they do not disappoint us. When Gloucester is asked why he arranged for Lear to be sent to Dover he replies to Regan, Because I would not see thy cruel nails pluck out his poor old eyes; not thy fierce sister in his anointed flesh still boarish fangs." Cornwall then has Gloucester held in a chair and he says, "Upon these eyes of thine I'll set my foot '' Out, vile jelly! Where is thy luster now?" Gloucester responds, "Where's my son Edmund? '' to quit this horrid act." As well as being tortured physically by Cornwall, Regan mentally tortures the old man by revealing Edmund's treachery. Even the modern day audience will be appalled at this scene, but it is true to say that the Shakespearean audience also had the same appetite for violence, but even by his standards Shakespeare outreaches himself in this scene. We see that this clique of evil characters have usurped the old values of love for parents, respect for the aged and sympathy for those less fortunate, and replaced these by a brutal regime, hungry for power and possessions. In particular there is a strong prejudice shown against the older characters by their children and their partners. When insulting Gloucester particular reference is made to his age and looks, his withered arms and white beard that Regan plucks. We now see Gloucester in his true light as loyal subject to King Lear and he honestly admits that he aided Lear in his escape to Dover, considering this to be a noble act. Again there is further reference to sight or the lack of it. Gloucester's inability to see Edmund's treachery is reinforced by the removal of his eyes. He realizes that he has grossly misjudged Edgar, and although he knows there is no hope of receiving forgiveness from his first-born son, he does pray for Edgar's safety. The defiant Gloucester, before losing his sight, does give the audience a glimmer of hope by saying, But I shall see the winged vengeance overtake such children." This prompts Cornwall to follow Goneril's instructions to remove Gloucester's eyes so that his prophecy cannot come true. The importance of this scene and its impact can only be fully appreciated by viewing this spectacle on stage. Some of the drama is lost when just reading the text. Its success depends much on the acting ability of the players. In the earlier scenes we have noted Cornwall's eloquent speech, which bolsters the fa'ade of civility that hides the beast that lies beneath this veneer of respectability. In this scene we see the beast breaking through this thin skin of civilization and it is the manifestation of evil that we witness. Cornwall does not attempt to restrain himself; his cruelty is fully vented against poor Gloucester. Many of the 'good' characters have called upon the gods to assist them, but up until now, evil has prevailed. Although both Lear and Gloucester have made many errors between them, the injustice they have suffered is disproportionate, and the audience must wonder when these brutal and cruel acts will cease so that good can prevail. We also obtain an insight into how the common people react to this situation. There are at least three servants witnessing this episode. One is moved to protect Gloucester by stabbing Cornwall, the other two pass comment on the proceedings at the end of the scene when the main characters exit. This scene is also notable for the fact that it shows the only human aspect in the character of Regan when she shows sympathy for Cornwall's wounding. | analysis |
Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd,
Then still contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worst:
The lowest, and most deiected thing of Fortune,
Stands still in esperance, liues not in feare:
The lamentable change is from the best,
The worst returnes to laughter. Welcome then,
Thou vnsubstantiall ayre that I embrace:
The Wretch that thou hast blowne vnto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Glouster, and an Oldman.
But who comes heere? My Father poorely led?
World, World, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make vs hate thee,
Life would not yeelde to age
Oldm. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant,
And your Fathers Tenant, these fourescore yeares
Glou. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone,
Thy comforts can do me no good at all,
Thee, they may hurt
Oldm. You cannot see your way
Glou. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes:
I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seene,
Our meanes secure vs, and our meere defects
Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar,
The food of thy abused Fathers wrath:
Might I but liue to see thee in my touch,
I'ld say I had eyes againe
Oldm. How now? who's there?
Edg. O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst?
I am worse then ere I was
Old. 'Tis poore mad Tom
Edg. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not,
So long as we can say this is the worst
Oldm. Fellow, where goest?
Glou. Is it a Beggar-man?
Oldm. Madman, and beggar too
Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th' last nights storme, I such a fellow saw;
Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne
Came then into my minde, and yet my minde
Was then scarse Friends with him.
I haue heard more since:
As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods,
They kill vs for their sport
Edg. How should this be?
Bad is the Trade that must play Foole to sorrow,
Ang'ring it selfe, and others. Blesse thee Master
Glou. Is that the naked Fellow?
Oldm. I, my Lord
Glou. Get thee away: If for my sake
Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine
I'th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue,
And bring some couering for this naked Soule,
Which Ile intreate to leade me
Old. Alacke sir, he is mad
Glou. 'Tis the times plague,
When Madmen leade the blinde:
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure:
Aboue the rest, be gone
Oldm. Ile bring him the best Parrell that I haue
Come on't what will.
Exit
Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further
Glou. Come hither fellow
Edg. And yet I must:
Blesse thy sweete eyes, they bleede
Glou. Know'st thou the way to Douer?
Edg. Both style, and gate; Horseway, and foot-path:
poore Tom hath bin scarr'd out of his good wits. Blesse
thee good mans sonne, from the foule Fiend
Glou. Here take this purse, y whom the heau'ns plagues
Haue humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: Heauens deale so still:
Let the superfluous, and Lust-dieted man,
That slaues your ordinance, that will not see
Because he do's not feele, feele your powre quickly:
So distribution should vndoo excesse,
And each man haue enough. Dost thou know Douer?
Edg. I Master
Glou. There is a Cliffe, whose high and bending head
Lookes fearfully in the confined Deepe:
Bring me but to the very brimme of it,
And Ile repayre the misery thou do'st beare
With something rich about me: from that place,
I shall no leading neede
Edg. Giue me thy arme;
Poore Tom shall leade thee.
Exeunt.
| Just when Edgar thinks that matters cannot get any worse, he meets with his blind father, led by an old servant. Edgar dismisses Gloucester's guide, as he will be in danger if he is seen helping ‘a traitor'. Gloucester continues to lament his ill-judged treatment of Edgar who maintains his disguise and uses the voice of Poor Tom. Gloucester remembers meeting Tom on the night of the storm. The old servant provides Edgar with decent clothing before departing. Gloucester asks Tom if he will guide him to Dover where he wishes to cast himself off the cliff. | summary |
Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd,
Then still contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worst:
The lowest, and most deiected thing of Fortune,
Stands still in esperance, liues not in feare:
The lamentable change is from the best,
The worst returnes to laughter. Welcome then,
Thou vnsubstantiall ayre that I embrace:
The Wretch that thou hast blowne vnto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Glouster, and an Oldman.
But who comes heere? My Father poorely led?
World, World, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make vs hate thee,
Life would not yeelde to age
Oldm. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant,
And your Fathers Tenant, these fourescore yeares
Glou. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone,
Thy comforts can do me no good at all,
Thee, they may hurt
Oldm. You cannot see your way
Glou. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes:
I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seene,
Our meanes secure vs, and our meere defects
Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar,
The food of thy abused Fathers wrath:
Might I but liue to see thee in my touch,
I'ld say I had eyes againe
Oldm. How now? who's there?
Edg. O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst?
I am worse then ere I was
Old. 'Tis poore mad Tom
Edg. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not,
So long as we can say this is the worst
Oldm. Fellow, where goest?
Glou. Is it a Beggar-man?
Oldm. Madman, and beggar too
Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th' last nights storme, I such a fellow saw;
Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne
Came then into my minde, and yet my minde
Was then scarse Friends with him.
I haue heard more since:
As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods,
They kill vs for their sport
Edg. How should this be?
Bad is the Trade that must play Foole to sorrow,
Ang'ring it selfe, and others. Blesse thee Master
Glou. Is that the naked Fellow?
Oldm. I, my Lord
Glou. Get thee away: If for my sake
Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine
I'th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue,
And bring some couering for this naked Soule,
Which Ile intreate to leade me
Old. Alacke sir, he is mad
Glou. 'Tis the times plague,
When Madmen leade the blinde:
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure:
Aboue the rest, be gone
Oldm. Ile bring him the best Parrell that I haue
Come on't what will.
Exit
Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further
Glou. Come hither fellow
Edg. And yet I must:
Blesse thy sweete eyes, they bleede
Glou. Know'st thou the way to Douer?
Edg. Both style, and gate; Horseway, and foot-path:
poore Tom hath bin scarr'd out of his good wits. Blesse
thee good mans sonne, from the foule Fiend
Glou. Here take this purse, y whom the heau'ns plagues
Haue humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: Heauens deale so still:
Let the superfluous, and Lust-dieted man,
That slaues your ordinance, that will not see
Because he do's not feele, feele your powre quickly:
So distribution should vndoo excesse,
And each man haue enough. Dost thou know Douer?
Edg. I Master
Glou. There is a Cliffe, whose high and bending head
Lookes fearfully in the confined Deepe:
Bring me but to the very brimme of it,
And Ile repayre the misery thou do'st beare
With something rich about me: from that place,
I shall no leading neede
Edg. Giue me thy arme;
Poore Tom shall leade thee.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation The scene opens with Edgar comforting himself that he has withstood all that fortune can throw at him, but this presumption is tested when Gloucester is led in by an old servant. We wonder at this stage why Edgar maintains his pretence and what Shakespeare's reasoning is for this. It is merely for dramatic effect, for it is not time for Gloucester to be regenerated. This will happen at the climax of the play. Later on in the play in the middle of Act V, Edgar will admit that he should have disclosed his true identity to his father now. The two old characters of Lear and Gloucester are to be pushed to the limits of human endurance, and the results of this on them and those that love them will become evident later on in the story. We also note a change in Gloucester's character, similar to that of Lear. You will remember that Lear only appreciated the hardships faced by his lowliest subjects after he too had been brought low. Now Gloucester is filled with compassion for Poor Tom. He arranges for the servant to provide him with clothing - a far cry from the man we saw in Act I of the play when he boasted about the good sport he had enjoyed in bringing about Edmund's conception. By his actions, Gloucester shows that he is sorry for his previous behavior and will try to make amends by sharing what little he has with those he had never previously noticed. Shakespeare deliberately stalls the use of divine justice until the main characters have earned their assistance. | analysis |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Gonerill, Bastard, and Steward.
Gon. Welcome my Lord. I meruell our mild husband
Not met vs on the way. Now, where's your Master?
Stew. Madam within, but neuer man so chang'd:
I told him of the Army that was Landed:
He smil'd at it. I told him you were comming,
His answer was, the worse. Of Glosters Treachery,
And of the loyall Seruice of his Sonne
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me Sot,
And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out:
What most he should dislike, seemes pleasant to him;
What like, offensiue
Gon. Then shall you go no further.
It is the Cowish terror of his spirit
That dares not vndertake: Hee'l not feele wrongs
Which tye him to an answer: our wishes on the way
May proue effects. Backe Edmond to my Brother,
Hasten his Musters, and conduct his powres.
I must change names at home, and giue the Distaffe
Into my Husbands hands. This trustie Seruant
Shall passe betweene vs: ere long you are like to heare
(If you dare venture in your owne behalfe)
A Mistresses command. Weare this; spare speech,
Decline your head. This kisse, if it durst speake
Would stretch thy Spirits vp into the ayre:
Conceiue, and fare thee well
Bast. Yours in the rankes of death.
Enter.
Gon. My most deere Gloster.
Oh, the difference of man, and man,
To thee a Womans seruices are due,
My Foole vsurpes my body
Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord.
Enter Albany.
Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle
Alb. Oh Gonerill,
You are not worth the dust which the rude winde
Blowes in your face
Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man,
That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs,
Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning
Thine Honor, from thy suffering
Alb. See thy selfe diuell:
Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend
So horrid as in woman
Gon. Oh vaine Foole.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead,
Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out
The other eye of Glouster
Alb. Glousters eyes
Mes. A Seruant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act: bending his Sword
To his great Master, who, threat-enrag'd
Flew on him, and among'st them fell'd him dead,
But not without that harmefull stroke, which since
Hath pluckt him after
Alb. This shewes you are aboue
You Iustices, that these our neather crimes
So speedily can venge. But (O poore Glouster)
Lost he his other eye?
Mes. Both, both, my Lord.
This Leter Madam, craues a speedy answer:
'Tis from your Sister
Gon. One way I like this well.
But being widdow, and my Glouster with her,
May all the building in my fancie plucke
Vpon my hatefull life. Another way
The Newes is not so tart. Ile read, and answer
Alb. Where was his Sonne,
When they did take his eyes?
Mes. Come with my Lady hither
Alb. He is not heere
Mes. No my good Lord, I met him backe againe
Alb. Knowes he the wickednesse?
Mes. I my good Lord: 'twas he inform'd against him
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might haue the freer course
Alb. Glouster, I liue
To thanke thee for the loue thou shew'dst the King,
And to reuenge thine eyes. Come hither Friend,
Tell me what more thou know'st.
Exeunt.
| The scene opens with Goneril and Edmund and they are joined by Oswald who has news that Albany is a changed man. The steward informs Goneril that Albany seems pleased at the impending invasion by France and showed disappointment that Edmund has replaced his father as Earl of Gloucester. As a result, Goneril takes command of her forces and orders Edmund to return to Cornwall while she deals with her husband. Goneril has been flirting with Edmund and she gives him a favor of affection and a kiss. Goneril is impressed by the vibrant Edmund compared with her own weakling husband. Albany enters scolding his wife for her inhuman treatment of King Lear. A messenger arrives to relay the news that the Duke of Cornwall has died from the wound he received from his servant. Albany declares that this act represents retribution from the gods for Cornwall's treatment of Gloucester. Albany vows revenge against Edmund for leaving his father at the mercy of Cornwall. In the evil mind of Goneril, she seeks to gain advantage from these circumstances and form an alliance with Edmund. However, she is concerned that her widowed sister may also seek Edmund's love. | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Gonerill, Bastard, and Steward.
Gon. Welcome my Lord. I meruell our mild husband
Not met vs on the way. Now, where's your Master?
Stew. Madam within, but neuer man so chang'd:
I told him of the Army that was Landed:
He smil'd at it. I told him you were comming,
His answer was, the worse. Of Glosters Treachery,
And of the loyall Seruice of his Sonne
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me Sot,
And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out:
What most he should dislike, seemes pleasant to him;
What like, offensiue
Gon. Then shall you go no further.
It is the Cowish terror of his spirit
That dares not vndertake: Hee'l not feele wrongs
Which tye him to an answer: our wishes on the way
May proue effects. Backe Edmond to my Brother,
Hasten his Musters, and conduct his powres.
I must change names at home, and giue the Distaffe
Into my Husbands hands. This trustie Seruant
Shall passe betweene vs: ere long you are like to heare
(If you dare venture in your owne behalfe)
A Mistresses command. Weare this; spare speech,
Decline your head. This kisse, if it durst speake
Would stretch thy Spirits vp into the ayre:
Conceiue, and fare thee well
Bast. Yours in the rankes of death.
Enter.
Gon. My most deere Gloster.
Oh, the difference of man, and man,
To thee a Womans seruices are due,
My Foole vsurpes my body
Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord.
Enter Albany.
Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle
Alb. Oh Gonerill,
You are not worth the dust which the rude winde
Blowes in your face
Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man,
That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs,
Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning
Thine Honor, from thy suffering
Alb. See thy selfe diuell:
Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend
So horrid as in woman
Gon. Oh vaine Foole.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead,
Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out
The other eye of Glouster
Alb. Glousters eyes
Mes. A Seruant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act: bending his Sword
To his great Master, who, threat-enrag'd
Flew on him, and among'st them fell'd him dead,
But not without that harmefull stroke, which since
Hath pluckt him after
Alb. This shewes you are aboue
You Iustices, that these our neather crimes
So speedily can venge. But (O poore Glouster)
Lost he his other eye?
Mes. Both, both, my Lord.
This Leter Madam, craues a speedy answer:
'Tis from your Sister
Gon. One way I like this well.
But being widdow, and my Glouster with her,
May all the building in my fancie plucke
Vpon my hatefull life. Another way
The Newes is not so tart. Ile read, and answer
Alb. Where was his Sonne,
When they did take his eyes?
Mes. Come with my Lady hither
Alb. He is not heere
Mes. No my good Lord, I met him backe againe
Alb. Knowes he the wickednesse?
Mes. I my good Lord: 'twas he inform'd against him
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might haue the freer course
Alb. Glouster, I liue
To thanke thee for the loue thou shew'dst the King,
And to reuenge thine eyes. Come hither Friend,
Tell me what more thou know'st.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation There are the first indications in this scene that Albany does not wish to ally him with the other three evil characters. He is becoming more critical of his wife's behavior and welcomes the developments in Dover where the French army is expected. The evil Goneril recognizes similar traits in Edmund and is consequently attracted to him. She regards her husband's virtuous behavior as a sign of weakness. She admires Edmund because he is driven to better himself, no matter what the consequences. Another indication here of loss of values is that it does not matter to Goneril that she is already married when she flirts with Edmund. The bold Albany compares Goneril and her sister to beasts. He says, "Wisdom and goodness to the vile seem vile; Filths savor but themselves. What have you done? Tigers, not daughters, what have you perform’d? A father, and a gracious aged man, Most barbarous, most degenerate! Have you madded?" Albany's true nature is at last revealed to the audience. All Goneril can say to him is that he is A moral fool". Albany responds to her by saying, "You are not worth the dust which the rude wind blows in your face." Albany laments the fact that the bonds that tie families and society together have been broken and that chaos will descend on them all. Again we remember Cordelia's statement at the start of the play that she loved her father in accordance with the bond between parent and child. The acts that Goneril and Regan and Edmund have performed have broken the bonds between parent and child. We will see later that Cornwall's death will place Albany in a dilemma. He could quite easily have left the other three, but with Cornwall dead, there is no-one left with experience to lead the English army against the invading French. A further complication is introduced into the plot through Goneril's lust for Edmund. This will put a strain on her relationship with her sister, should the recently widowed Regan now too desire Edmund. Edmund has the attributes that would attract both sisters. | analysis |
Scena Tertia.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Gentlemen, and
Souldiours.
Cor. Alacke, 'tis he: why he was met euen now
As mad as the vext Sea, singing alowd.
Crown'd with ranke Fenitar, and furrow weeds,
With Hardokes, Hemlocke, Nettles, Cuckoo flowres,
Darnell, and all the idle weedes that grow
In our sustaining Corne. A Centery send forth;
Search euery Acre in the high-growne field,
And bring him to our eye. What can mans wisedome
In the restoring his bereaued Sense; he that helpes him,
Take all my outward worth
Gent. There is meanes Madam:
Our foster Nurse of Nature, is repose,
The which he lackes: that to prouoke in him
Are many Simples operatiue, whose power
Will close the eye of Anguish
Cord. All blest Secrets,
All you vnpublish'd Vertues of the earth
Spring with my teares; be aydant, and remediate
In the Goodmans desires: seeke, seeke for him,
Least his vngouern'd rage, dissolue the life
That wants the meanes to leade it.
Enter Messenger.
Mes. Newes Madam,
The Brittish Powres are marching hitherward
Cor. 'Tis knowne before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O deere Father,
It is thy businesse that I go about: Therfore great France
My mourning, and importun'd teares hath pittied:
No blowne Ambition doth our Armes incite,
But loue, deere loue, and our ag'd Fathers Rite:
Soone may I heare, and see him.
Exeunt.
| Although the King of France commanded his forces when they arrived in Dover, he has left and his army is commanded by his Marshall. A gentleman describes to Kent Cordelia's reaction on receiving Kent's letter providing information concerning King Lear's status. Cordelia is appalled at the behavior of her two older sisters. Kent tells the gentleman that Lear is nearby, but that he cannot bring himself to meet with Cordelia so filled is he with shame. The gentleman also tells Kent that the forces of Albany and Cornwall are close by. The disguised Kent informs the gentleman that he will bring Lear to Dover and then reveal his own identity. | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Gentlemen, and
Souldiours.
Cor. Alacke, 'tis he: why he was met euen now
As mad as the vext Sea, singing alowd.
Crown'd with ranke Fenitar, and furrow weeds,
With Hardokes, Hemlocke, Nettles, Cuckoo flowres,
Darnell, and all the idle weedes that grow
In our sustaining Corne. A Centery send forth;
Search euery Acre in the high-growne field,
And bring him to our eye. What can mans wisedome
In the restoring his bereaued Sense; he that helpes him,
Take all my outward worth
Gent. There is meanes Madam:
Our foster Nurse of Nature, is repose,
The which he lackes: that to prouoke in him
Are many Simples operatiue, whose power
Will close the eye of Anguish
Cord. All blest Secrets,
All you vnpublish'd Vertues of the earth
Spring with my teares; be aydant, and remediate
In the Goodmans desires: seeke, seeke for him,
Least his vngouern'd rage, dissolue the life
That wants the meanes to leade it.
Enter Messenger.
Mes. Newes Madam,
The Brittish Powres are marching hitherward
Cor. 'Tis knowne before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O deere Father,
It is thy businesse that I go about: Therfore great France
My mourning, and importun'd teares hath pittied:
No blowne Ambition doth our Armes incite,
But loue, deere loue, and our ag'd Fathers Rite:
Soone may I heare, and see him.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation This scene is omitted from some versions of the play and may also have been amended. It was politically sensitive to have the King of France on English soil with an invading army, and so Shakespeare arranges for his return to France. Shakespeare also makes it clear that although technically the Marshall commands the forces, they are in the realm in order to protect Cordelia's father King Lear. The importance of the scene is to make it clear to the audience that Cordelia truly loves her father and is totally different from her siblings. There is also an indication that the evil flowing in Regan and Goneril's blood is a result of supernatural influences. This has an important bearing on the divine justice that will operate in later scenes. At this stage in the play, both Lear and Gloucester question whether any such justice exists. Shakespeare deliberately set this play in pre-Christian Britain and so there is still a doubt whether good will prevail over evil, and this anomaly enables the tension to be maintained. | analysis |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Regan, and Steward.
Reg. But are my Brothers Powres set forth?
Stew. I Madam
Reg. Himselfe in person there?
Stew. Madam with much ado:
Your Sister is the better Souldier
Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your Lord at home?
Stew. No Madam
Reg. What might import my Sisters Letter to him?
Stew. I know not, Lady
Reg. Faith he is poasted hence on serious matter:
It was great ignorance, Glousters eyes being out
To let him liue. Where he arriues, he moues
All hearts against vs: Edmund, I thinke is gone
In pitty of his misery, to dispatch
His nighted life: Moreouer to descry
The strength o'th' Enemy
Stew. I must needs after him, Madam, with my Letter
Reg. Our troopes set forth to morrow, stay with vs:
The wayes are dangerous
Stew. I may not Madam:
My Lady charg'd my dutie in this busines
Reg. Why should she write to Edmund?
Might not you transport her purposes by word? Belike,
Some things, I know not what. Ile loue thee much
Let me vnseale the Letter
Stew. Madam, I had rather-
Reg. I know your Lady do's not loue her Husband,
I am sure of that: and at her late being heere,
She gaue strange Eliads, and most speaking lookes
To Noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosome
Stew. I, Madam?
Reg. I speake in vnderstanding: Y'are: I know't,
Therefore I do aduise you take this note:
My Lord is dead: Edmond, and I haue talk'd,
And more conuenient is he for my hand
Then for your Ladies: You may gather more:
If you do finde him, pray you giue him this;
And when your Mistris heares thus much from you,
I pray desire her call her wisedome to her.
So fare you well:
If you do chance to heare of that blinde Traitor,
Preferment fals on him, that cuts him off
Stew. Would I could meet Madam, I should shew
What party I do follow
Reg. Fare thee well.
Exeunt.
| Cordelia learns from a messenger that her father is nearby. She now commands the armies of her husband and she waits to face the English army. She learns that her father is a weird sight dressed in weeds and flowers. She consults with her physician to ask whether her father can be cured. He is confident that with care Lear can be returned to sanity. | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Regan, and Steward.
Reg. But are my Brothers Powres set forth?
Stew. I Madam
Reg. Himselfe in person there?
Stew. Madam with much ado:
Your Sister is the better Souldier
Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your Lord at home?
Stew. No Madam
Reg. What might import my Sisters Letter to him?
Stew. I know not, Lady
Reg. Faith he is poasted hence on serious matter:
It was great ignorance, Glousters eyes being out
To let him liue. Where he arriues, he moues
All hearts against vs: Edmund, I thinke is gone
In pitty of his misery, to dispatch
His nighted life: Moreouer to descry
The strength o'th' Enemy
Stew. I must needs after him, Madam, with my Letter
Reg. Our troopes set forth to morrow, stay with vs:
The wayes are dangerous
Stew. I may not Madam:
My Lady charg'd my dutie in this busines
Reg. Why should she write to Edmund?
Might not you transport her purposes by word? Belike,
Some things, I know not what. Ile loue thee much
Let me vnseale the Letter
Stew. Madam, I had rather-
Reg. I know your Lady do's not loue her Husband,
I am sure of that: and at her late being heere,
She gaue strange Eliads, and most speaking lookes
To Noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosome
Stew. I, Madam?
Reg. I speake in vnderstanding: Y'are: I know't,
Therefore I do aduise you take this note:
My Lord is dead: Edmond, and I haue talk'd,
And more conuenient is he for my hand
Then for your Ladies: You may gather more:
If you do finde him, pray you giue him this;
And when your Mistris heares thus much from you,
I pray desire her call her wisedome to her.
So fare you well:
If you do chance to heare of that blinde Traitor,
Preferment fals on him, that cuts him off
Stew. Would I could meet Madam, I should shew
What party I do follow
Reg. Fare thee well.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Cordelia describes her father as "mad as the vex’d sea, singing aloud;" She sends her troops to find him and bring him into her care. We hear that the King suffers from no ordinary madness, but a madness befitting a King, which not only invokes pity, but astonishment. The decking of oneself in flowers has particular symbolism, each separate flower or weed symbolizing the numerous torments suffered by Lear. The King wishes to project an image of wildness and freedom, hence the wearing of flowers representing his chaotic state of mind. This theme of wearing weeds and flowers was quite common and there are examples of this in both Richard II and Hamlet. Sometimes the weeds represent evil, but in this case they represent the madness of the King, and he no doubt wore the Cuckoo Flower also aptly named the Bedlam Cowslip, which is a fairly common weed in this part of England. | analysis |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Gloucester, and Edgar.
Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill?
Edg. You do climbe vp it now. Look how we labor
Glou. Me thinkes the ground is eeuen
Edg. Horrible steepe.
Hearke, do you heare the Sea?
Glou. No truly
Edg. Why then your other Senses grow imperfect
By your eyes anguish
Glou. So may it be indeed.
Me thinkes thy voyce is alter'd, and thou speak'st
In better phrase, and matter then thou did'st
Edg. Y'are much deceiu'd: In nothing am I chang'd
But in my Garments
Glou. Me thinkes y'are better spoken
Edg. Come on Sir,
Heere's the place: stand still: how fearefull
And dizie 'tis, to cast ones eyes so low,
The Crowes and Choughes, that wing the midway ayre
Shew scarse so grosse as Beetles. Halfe way downe
Hangs one that gathers Sampire: dreadfull Trade:
Me thinkes he seemes no bigger then his head.
The Fishermen, that walk'd vpon the beach
Appeare like Mice: and yond tall Anchoring Barke,
Diminish'd to her Cocke: her Cocke, a Buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring Surge,
That on th' vnnumbred idle Pebble chafes
Cannot be heard so high. Ile looke no more,
Least my braine turne, and the deficient sight
Topple downe headlong
Glou. Set me where you stand
Edg. Giue me your hand:
You are now within a foote of th' extreme Verge:
For all beneath the Moone would I not leape vpright
Glou. Let go my hand:
Heere Friend's another purse: in it, a Iewell
Well worth a poore mans taking. Fayries, and Gods
Prosper it with thee. Go thou further off,
Bid me farewell, and let me heare thee going
Edg. Now fare ye well, good Sir
Glou. With all my heart
Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his dispaire,
Is done to cure it
Glou. O you mighty Gods!
This world I do renounce, and in your sights
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could beare it longer, and not fall
To quarrell with your great opposelesse willes,
My snuffe, and loathed part of Nature should
Burne it selfe out. If Edgar liue, O blesse him:
Now Fellow, fare thee well
Edg. Gone Sir, farewell:
And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The Treasury of life, when life it selfe
Yeelds to the Theft. Had he bin where he thought,
By this had thought bin past. Aliue, or dead?
Hoa, you Sir: Friend, heare you Sir, speake:
Thus might he passe indeed: yet he reuiues.
What are you Sir?
Glou. Away, and let me dye
Edg. Had'st thou beene ought
But Gozemore, Feathers, Ayre,
(So many fathome downe precipitating)
Thou'dst shiuer'd like an Egge: but thou do'st breath:
Hast heauy substance, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound,
Ten Masts at each, make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell,
Thy life's a Myracle. Speake yet againe
Glou. But haue I falne, or no?
Edg. From the dread Somnet of this Chalkie Bourne
Looke vp a height, the shrill-gorg'd Larke so farre
Cannot be seene, or heard: Do but looke vp
Glou. Alacke, I haue no eyes:
Is wretchednesse depriu'd that benefit
To end it selfe by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the Tyrants rage,
And frustrate his proud will
Edg. Giue me your arme.
Vp, so: How is't? Feele you your Legges? You stand
Glou. Too well, too well
Edg. This is aboue all strangenesse,
Vpon the crowne o'th' Cliffe. What thing was that
Which parted from you?
Glou. A poore vnfortunate Beggar
Edg. As I stood heere below, me thought his eyes
Were two full Moones: he had a thousand Noses,
Hornes wealk'd, and waued like the enraged Sea:
It was some Fiend: Therefore thou happy Father,
Thinke that the cleerest Gods, who make them Honors
Of mens Impossibilities, haue preserued thee
Glou. I do remember now: henceforth Ile beare
Affliction, till it do cry out it selfe
Enough, enough, and dye. That thing you speake of,
I tooke it for a man: often 'twould say
The Fiend, the Fiend, he led me to that place
Edgar. Beare free and patient thoughts.
Enter Lear.
But who comes heere?
The safer sense will ne're accommodate
His Master thus
Lear. No, they cannot touch me for crying. I am the
King himselfe
Edg. O thou side-piercing sight!
Lear. Nature's aboue Art, in that respect. Ther's your
Presse-money. That fellow handles his bow, like a Crowkeeper:
draw mee a Cloathiers yard. Looke, looke, a
Mouse: peace, peace, this peece of toasted Cheese will
doo't. There's my Gauntlet, Ile proue it on a Gyant.
Bring vp the browne Billes. O well flowne Bird: i'th'
clout, i'th' clout: Hewgh. Giue the word
Edg. Sweet Mariorum
Lear. Passe
Glou. I know that voice
Lear. Ha! Gonerill with a white beard? They flatter'd
me like a Dogge, and told mee I had the white hayres in
my Beard, ere the blacke ones were there. To say I, and
no, to euery thing that I said: I, and no too, was no good
Diuinity. When the raine came to wet me once, and the
winde to make me chatter: when the Thunder would not
peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em
out. Go too, they are not men o'their words; they told
me, I was euery thing: 'Tis a Lye, I am not Agu-proofe
Glou. The tricke of that voyce, I do well remember:
Is't not the King?
Lear. I, euery inch a King.
When I do stare, see how the Subiect quakes.
I pardon that mans life. What was thy cause?
Adultery? thou shalt not dye: dye for Adultery?
No, the Wren goes too't, and the small gilded Fly
Do's letcher in my sight. Let Copulation thriue:
For Glousters bastard Son was kinder to his Father,
Then my Daughters got 'tweene the lawfull sheets.
Too't Luxury pell-mell, for I lacke Souldiers.
Behold yond simpring Dame, whose face betweene her
Forkes presages Snow; that minces Vertue, & do's shake
the head to heare of pleasures name. The Fitchew, nor
the soyled Horse goes too't with a more riotous appetite:
Downe from the waste they are Centaures, though
Women all aboue: but to the Girdle do the Gods inherit,
beneath is all the Fiends. There's hell, there's darkenes,
there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench,
consumption: Fye, fie, fie; pah, pah: Giue me an Ounce
of Ciuet; good Apothecary sweeten my immagination:
There's money for thee
Glou. O let me kisse that hand
Lear. Let me wipe it first,
It smelles of Mortality
Glou. O ruin'd peece of Nature, this great world
Shall so weare out to naught.
Do'st thou know me?
Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough: dost thou
squiny at me? No, doe thy worst blinde Cupid, Ile not
loue. Reade thou this challenge, marke but the penning
of it
Glou. Were all thy Letters Sunnes, I could not see
Edg. I would not take this from report,
It is, and my heart breakes at it
Lear. Read
Glou. What with the Case of eyes?
Lear. Oh ho, are you there with me? No eies in your
head, nor no mony in your purse? Your eyes are in a heauy
case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world
goes
Glou. I see it feelingly
Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world
goes, with no eyes. Looke with thine eares: See how
yond Iustice railes vpon yond simple theefe. Hearke in
thine eare: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is
the Iustice, which is the theefe: Thou hast seene a Farmers
dogge barke at a Beggar?
Glou. I Sir
Lear. And the Creature run from the Cur: there thou
might'st behold the great image of Authoritie, a Dogg's
obey'd in Office. Thou, Rascall Beadle, hold thy bloody
hand: why dost thou lash that Whore? Strip thy owne
backe, thou hotly lusts to vse her in that kind, for which
thou whip'st her. The Vsurer hangs the Cozener. Thorough
tatter'd cloathes great Vices do appeare: Robes,
and Furr'd gownes hide all. Place sinnes with Gold, and
the strong Lance of Iustice, hurtlesse breakes: Arme it in
ragges, a Pigmies straw do's pierce it. None do's offend,
none, I say none, Ile able 'em; take that of me my Friend,
who haue the power to seale th' accusers lips. Get thee
glasse-eyes, and like a scuruy Politician, seeme to see the
things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my
Bootes: harder, harder, so
Edg. O matter, and impertinency mixt,
Reason in Madnesse
Lear. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes.
I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the Ayre
We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke
Glou. Alacke, alacke the day
Lear. When we are borne, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of Fooles. This a good blocke:
It were a delicate stratagem to shoo
A Troope of Horse with Felt: Ile put't in proofe,
And when I haue stolne vpon these Son in Lawes,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir.
Your most deere Daughter-
Lear. No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am euen
The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vse me well,
You shall haue ransome. Let me haue Surgeons,
I am cut to'th' Braines
Gent. You shall haue any thing
Lear. No Seconds? All my selfe?
Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt
To vse his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely,
Like a smugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall:
Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that?
Gent. You are a Royall one, and we obey you
Lear. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it,
You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa.
Enter.
Gent. A sight most pittifull in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter
Who redeemes Nature from the generall curse
Which twaine haue brought her to
Edg. Haile gentle Sir
Gent. Sir, speed you: what's your will?
Edg. Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward
Gent. Most sure, and vulgar:
Euery one heares that, which can distinguish sound
Edg. But by your fauour:
How neere's the other Army?
Gent. Neere, and on speedy foot: the maine descry
Stands on the hourely thought
Edg. I thanke you Sir, that's all
Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here
Her Army is mou'd on.
Enter.
Edg. I thanke you Sir
Glou. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me,
Let not my worser Spirit tempt me againe
To dye before you please
Edg. Well pray you Father
Glou. Now good sir, what are you?
Edg. A most poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows
Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling sorrowes,
Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand,
Ile leade you to some biding
Glou. Heartie thankes:
The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen
To boot, and boot.
Enter Steward.
Stew. A proclaim'd prize: most happie
That eyelesse head of thine, was first fram'd flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor,
Breefely thy selfe remember: the Sword is out
That must destroy thee
Glou. Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough too't
Stew. Wherefore, bold Pezant,
Dar'st thou support a publish'd Traitor? Hence,
Least that th' infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arme
Edg. Chill not let go Zir,
Without vurther 'casion
Stew. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'st
Edg. Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore
volke passe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life,
'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay,
come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor' ye, or Ile
try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder;
chill be plaine with you
Stew. Out Dunghill
Edg. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor
your foynes
Stew. Slaue thou hast slaine me: Villain, take my purse;
If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie,
And giue the Letters which thou find'st about me,
To Edmund Earle of Glouster: seeke him out
Vpon the English party. Oh vntimely death, death
Edg. I know thee well. A seruiceable Villaine,
As duteous to the vices of thy Mistris,
As badnesse would desire
Glou. What, is he dead?
Edg. Sit you downe Father: rest you.
Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speakes of
May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely sorry
He had no other Deathsman. Let vs see:
Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not
To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts,
Their Papers is more lawfull.
Reads the Letter.
Let our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie
opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and
place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee
returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my
Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply
the place for your Labour.
Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate
Seruant. Gonerill.
Oh indistinguish'd space of Womans will,
A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life,
And the exchange my Brother: heere, in the sands
Thee Ile rake vp, the poste vnsanctified
Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time,
With this vngracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well,
That of thy death, and businesse, I can tell
Glou. The King is mad:
How stiffe is my vilde sense
That I stand vp, and haue ingenious feeling
Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be seuer'd from my greefes,
Drum afarre off.
And woes, by wrong imaginations loose
The knowledge of themselues
Edg. Giue me your hand:
Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme.
Come Father, Ile bestow you with a Friend.
Exeunt.
| Oswald advises Regan that the Duke of Albany has been persuaded to lead the English forces against the French army. He also carries a letter from Goneril to Edmund and Regan is more interested in the contents of the letter than the forthcoming battle. She commands Oswald to give her the letter because she is aware that Goneril has flirted with Edmund. Regan reminds Oswald that his mistress is still married and that she considers that Edmund is reserved for her. Regan instructs Oswald that if he should meet Gloucester, he should kill him. | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Gloucester, and Edgar.
Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill?
Edg. You do climbe vp it now. Look how we labor
Glou. Me thinkes the ground is eeuen
Edg. Horrible steepe.
Hearke, do you heare the Sea?
Glou. No truly
Edg. Why then your other Senses grow imperfect
By your eyes anguish
Glou. So may it be indeed.
Me thinkes thy voyce is alter'd, and thou speak'st
In better phrase, and matter then thou did'st
Edg. Y'are much deceiu'd: In nothing am I chang'd
But in my Garments
Glou. Me thinkes y'are better spoken
Edg. Come on Sir,
Heere's the place: stand still: how fearefull
And dizie 'tis, to cast ones eyes so low,
The Crowes and Choughes, that wing the midway ayre
Shew scarse so grosse as Beetles. Halfe way downe
Hangs one that gathers Sampire: dreadfull Trade:
Me thinkes he seemes no bigger then his head.
The Fishermen, that walk'd vpon the beach
Appeare like Mice: and yond tall Anchoring Barke,
Diminish'd to her Cocke: her Cocke, a Buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring Surge,
That on th' vnnumbred idle Pebble chafes
Cannot be heard so high. Ile looke no more,
Least my braine turne, and the deficient sight
Topple downe headlong
Glou. Set me where you stand
Edg. Giue me your hand:
You are now within a foote of th' extreme Verge:
For all beneath the Moone would I not leape vpright
Glou. Let go my hand:
Heere Friend's another purse: in it, a Iewell
Well worth a poore mans taking. Fayries, and Gods
Prosper it with thee. Go thou further off,
Bid me farewell, and let me heare thee going
Edg. Now fare ye well, good Sir
Glou. With all my heart
Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his dispaire,
Is done to cure it
Glou. O you mighty Gods!
This world I do renounce, and in your sights
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could beare it longer, and not fall
To quarrell with your great opposelesse willes,
My snuffe, and loathed part of Nature should
Burne it selfe out. If Edgar liue, O blesse him:
Now Fellow, fare thee well
Edg. Gone Sir, farewell:
And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The Treasury of life, when life it selfe
Yeelds to the Theft. Had he bin where he thought,
By this had thought bin past. Aliue, or dead?
Hoa, you Sir: Friend, heare you Sir, speake:
Thus might he passe indeed: yet he reuiues.
What are you Sir?
Glou. Away, and let me dye
Edg. Had'st thou beene ought
But Gozemore, Feathers, Ayre,
(So many fathome downe precipitating)
Thou'dst shiuer'd like an Egge: but thou do'st breath:
Hast heauy substance, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound,
Ten Masts at each, make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell,
Thy life's a Myracle. Speake yet againe
Glou. But haue I falne, or no?
Edg. From the dread Somnet of this Chalkie Bourne
Looke vp a height, the shrill-gorg'd Larke so farre
Cannot be seene, or heard: Do but looke vp
Glou. Alacke, I haue no eyes:
Is wretchednesse depriu'd that benefit
To end it selfe by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the Tyrants rage,
And frustrate his proud will
Edg. Giue me your arme.
Vp, so: How is't? Feele you your Legges? You stand
Glou. Too well, too well
Edg. This is aboue all strangenesse,
Vpon the crowne o'th' Cliffe. What thing was that
Which parted from you?
Glou. A poore vnfortunate Beggar
Edg. As I stood heere below, me thought his eyes
Were two full Moones: he had a thousand Noses,
Hornes wealk'd, and waued like the enraged Sea:
It was some Fiend: Therefore thou happy Father,
Thinke that the cleerest Gods, who make them Honors
Of mens Impossibilities, haue preserued thee
Glou. I do remember now: henceforth Ile beare
Affliction, till it do cry out it selfe
Enough, enough, and dye. That thing you speake of,
I tooke it for a man: often 'twould say
The Fiend, the Fiend, he led me to that place
Edgar. Beare free and patient thoughts.
Enter Lear.
But who comes heere?
The safer sense will ne're accommodate
His Master thus
Lear. No, they cannot touch me for crying. I am the
King himselfe
Edg. O thou side-piercing sight!
Lear. Nature's aboue Art, in that respect. Ther's your
Presse-money. That fellow handles his bow, like a Crowkeeper:
draw mee a Cloathiers yard. Looke, looke, a
Mouse: peace, peace, this peece of toasted Cheese will
doo't. There's my Gauntlet, Ile proue it on a Gyant.
Bring vp the browne Billes. O well flowne Bird: i'th'
clout, i'th' clout: Hewgh. Giue the word
Edg. Sweet Mariorum
Lear. Passe
Glou. I know that voice
Lear. Ha! Gonerill with a white beard? They flatter'd
me like a Dogge, and told mee I had the white hayres in
my Beard, ere the blacke ones were there. To say I, and
no, to euery thing that I said: I, and no too, was no good
Diuinity. When the raine came to wet me once, and the
winde to make me chatter: when the Thunder would not
peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em
out. Go too, they are not men o'their words; they told
me, I was euery thing: 'Tis a Lye, I am not Agu-proofe
Glou. The tricke of that voyce, I do well remember:
Is't not the King?
Lear. I, euery inch a King.
When I do stare, see how the Subiect quakes.
I pardon that mans life. What was thy cause?
Adultery? thou shalt not dye: dye for Adultery?
No, the Wren goes too't, and the small gilded Fly
Do's letcher in my sight. Let Copulation thriue:
For Glousters bastard Son was kinder to his Father,
Then my Daughters got 'tweene the lawfull sheets.
Too't Luxury pell-mell, for I lacke Souldiers.
Behold yond simpring Dame, whose face betweene her
Forkes presages Snow; that minces Vertue, & do's shake
the head to heare of pleasures name. The Fitchew, nor
the soyled Horse goes too't with a more riotous appetite:
Downe from the waste they are Centaures, though
Women all aboue: but to the Girdle do the Gods inherit,
beneath is all the Fiends. There's hell, there's darkenes,
there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench,
consumption: Fye, fie, fie; pah, pah: Giue me an Ounce
of Ciuet; good Apothecary sweeten my immagination:
There's money for thee
Glou. O let me kisse that hand
Lear. Let me wipe it first,
It smelles of Mortality
Glou. O ruin'd peece of Nature, this great world
Shall so weare out to naught.
Do'st thou know me?
Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough: dost thou
squiny at me? No, doe thy worst blinde Cupid, Ile not
loue. Reade thou this challenge, marke but the penning
of it
Glou. Were all thy Letters Sunnes, I could not see
Edg. I would not take this from report,
It is, and my heart breakes at it
Lear. Read
Glou. What with the Case of eyes?
Lear. Oh ho, are you there with me? No eies in your
head, nor no mony in your purse? Your eyes are in a heauy
case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world
goes
Glou. I see it feelingly
Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world
goes, with no eyes. Looke with thine eares: See how
yond Iustice railes vpon yond simple theefe. Hearke in
thine eare: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is
the Iustice, which is the theefe: Thou hast seene a Farmers
dogge barke at a Beggar?
Glou. I Sir
Lear. And the Creature run from the Cur: there thou
might'st behold the great image of Authoritie, a Dogg's
obey'd in Office. Thou, Rascall Beadle, hold thy bloody
hand: why dost thou lash that Whore? Strip thy owne
backe, thou hotly lusts to vse her in that kind, for which
thou whip'st her. The Vsurer hangs the Cozener. Thorough
tatter'd cloathes great Vices do appeare: Robes,
and Furr'd gownes hide all. Place sinnes with Gold, and
the strong Lance of Iustice, hurtlesse breakes: Arme it in
ragges, a Pigmies straw do's pierce it. None do's offend,
none, I say none, Ile able 'em; take that of me my Friend,
who haue the power to seale th' accusers lips. Get thee
glasse-eyes, and like a scuruy Politician, seeme to see the
things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my
Bootes: harder, harder, so
Edg. O matter, and impertinency mixt,
Reason in Madnesse
Lear. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes.
I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the Ayre
We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke
Glou. Alacke, alacke the day
Lear. When we are borne, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of Fooles. This a good blocke:
It were a delicate stratagem to shoo
A Troope of Horse with Felt: Ile put't in proofe,
And when I haue stolne vpon these Son in Lawes,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir.
Your most deere Daughter-
Lear. No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am euen
The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vse me well,
You shall haue ransome. Let me haue Surgeons,
I am cut to'th' Braines
Gent. You shall haue any thing
Lear. No Seconds? All my selfe?
Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt
To vse his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely,
Like a smugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall:
Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that?
Gent. You are a Royall one, and we obey you
Lear. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it,
You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa.
Enter.
Gent. A sight most pittifull in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter
Who redeemes Nature from the generall curse
Which twaine haue brought her to
Edg. Haile gentle Sir
Gent. Sir, speed you: what's your will?
Edg. Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward
Gent. Most sure, and vulgar:
Euery one heares that, which can distinguish sound
Edg. But by your fauour:
How neere's the other Army?
Gent. Neere, and on speedy foot: the maine descry
Stands on the hourely thought
Edg. I thanke you Sir, that's all
Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here
Her Army is mou'd on.
Enter.
Edg. I thanke you Sir
Glou. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me,
Let not my worser Spirit tempt me againe
To dye before you please
Edg. Well pray you Father
Glou. Now good sir, what are you?
Edg. A most poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows
Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling sorrowes,
Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand,
Ile leade you to some biding
Glou. Heartie thankes:
The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen
To boot, and boot.
Enter Steward.
Stew. A proclaim'd prize: most happie
That eyelesse head of thine, was first fram'd flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor,
Breefely thy selfe remember: the Sword is out
That must destroy thee
Glou. Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough too't
Stew. Wherefore, bold Pezant,
Dar'st thou support a publish'd Traitor? Hence,
Least that th' infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arme
Edg. Chill not let go Zir,
Without vurther 'casion
Stew. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'st
Edg. Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore
volke passe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life,
'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay,
come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor' ye, or Ile
try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder;
chill be plaine with you
Stew. Out Dunghill
Edg. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor
your foynes
Stew. Slaue thou hast slaine me: Villain, take my purse;
If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie,
And giue the Letters which thou find'st about me,
To Edmund Earle of Glouster: seeke him out
Vpon the English party. Oh vntimely death, death
Edg. I know thee well. A seruiceable Villaine,
As duteous to the vices of thy Mistris,
As badnesse would desire
Glou. What, is he dead?
Edg. Sit you downe Father: rest you.
Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speakes of
May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely sorry
He had no other Deathsman. Let vs see:
Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not
To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts,
Their Papers is more lawfull.
Reads the Letter.
Let our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie
opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and
place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee
returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my
Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply
the place for your Labour.
Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate
Seruant. Gonerill.
Oh indistinguish'd space of Womans will,
A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life,
And the exchange my Brother: heere, in the sands
Thee Ile rake vp, the poste vnsanctified
Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time,
With this vngracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well,
That of thy death, and businesse, I can tell
Glou. The King is mad:
How stiffe is my vilde sense
That I stand vp, and haue ingenious feeling
Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be seuer'd from my greefes,
Drum afarre off.
And woes, by wrong imaginations loose
The knowledge of themselues
Edg. Giue me your hand:
Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme.
Come Father, Ile bestow you with a Friend.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Albany is persuaded to lead the armies, not because he wishes to support his wife and her sister, but because of his obligation to defend the Kingdom against foreign invaders. Oswald makes the comment that he considers Goneril probably a better soldier than her husband. Perhaps Albany is using this as a ruse and may be able to avoid battle, rescue Lear, and protect Cordelia. If he is able to achieve this, then the foreign troops will probably depart peacefully. We note the growing suspicion between Goneril and Regan, and cracks are beginning to appear in the evil alliance. The audience senses that evil may start to prey on evil and thus consume itself. The Shakespearean audience is every bit as intrigued as we are at the battle between the two sisters over Edmund. Both these women are formidable, and we note that although Oswald is loyal to his mistress, he bends with the wind and obeys Regan as well. No doubt Edmund relishes the position where two women are fighting over him, but there is more to this, for the women in question are Princesses of the realm and this also legitimizes his position. You will recall that Regan had instructed Edmund to kill Gloucester. Now she tells Oswald the same. Hopefully he is now safe in Dover. They would obviously like to see Gloucester dead, because having him roam the land in his sorry state does nothing to promote their position. | analysis |
Scaena Septima.
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.
Cor. O thou good Kent,
How shall I liue and worke
To match thy goodnesse?
My life will be too short,
And euery measure faile me
Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipt, but so
Cor. Be better suited,
These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
I prythee put them off
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Till time, and I, thinke meet
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
How do's the King?
Gent. Madam sleepes still
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Of this childe-changed Father
Gent. So please your Maiesty,
That we may wake the King, he hath slept long?
Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede
I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?
Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]
Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by good Madam when we do awake him,
I doubt of his Temperance
Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang
Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse
Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters
Haue in thy Reuerence made
Kent. Kind and deere Princesse
Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes
Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the iarring windes?
Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,
Should haue stood that night against my fire,
And was't thou faine (poore Father)
To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,
In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him
Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest
Cor. How does my Royall Lord?
How fares your Maiesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,
Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound
Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares
Do scal'd, like molten Lead
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?
Cor. Still, still, farre wide
Gen. He's scarse awake,
Let him alone a while
Lear. Where haue I bin?
Where am I? Faire day light?
I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty
To see another thus. I know not what to say:
I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,
I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd
Of my condition
Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o're me,
You must not kneele
Lear. Pray do not mocke me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourescore and vpward,
Not an houre more, nor lesse:
And to deale plainely,
I feare I am not in my perfect mind.
Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant
What place this is: and all the skill I haue
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady
To be my childe Cordelia
Cor. And so I am: I am
Lear. Be your teares wet?
Yes faith: I pray weepe not,
If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:
I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters
Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong.
You haue some cause, they haue not
Cor. No cause, no cause
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir
Lear. Do not abuse me
Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage
You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,
Trouble him no more till further setling
Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?
Lear. You must beare with me:
Pray you now forget, and forgiue,
I am old and foolish.
Exeunt.
| Kent reveals his true identity to Cordelia, who expresses her thanks to him for the assistance he has given to her father. Kent will continue to play the part of Caius as he has still work to do. Cordelia's physician advises that the King has slept long and when he is roused it will be to the tune of healing music. Lear is brought in carried on a chair and Cordelia tenderly kisses him. They are reconciled. At first Lear thinks that Cordelia is an angel who has rescued him from purgatory. He soon regains his senses and humbly pleads for his daughter's forgiveness. Cordelia confirms that he is still in his own country and not in France. The physician exits with Lear for he is still not fully restored. Cordelia and Kent learn that Edmund is now in command of Cornwall's army and there is a rumor abroad that both Edgar and Kent have fled to Germany. Kent states that no time must be lost as the battle is imminent. | summary |
Scaena Septima.
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.
Cor. O thou good Kent,
How shall I liue and worke
To match thy goodnesse?
My life will be too short,
And euery measure faile me
Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipt, but so
Cor. Be better suited,
These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
I prythee put them off
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Till time, and I, thinke meet
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
How do's the King?
Gent. Madam sleepes still
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Of this childe-changed Father
Gent. So please your Maiesty,
That we may wake the King, he hath slept long?
Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede
I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?
Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]
Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by good Madam when we do awake him,
I doubt of his Temperance
Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang
Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse
Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters
Haue in thy Reuerence made
Kent. Kind and deere Princesse
Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes
Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the iarring windes?
Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,
Should haue stood that night against my fire,
And was't thou faine (poore Father)
To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,
In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him
Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest
Cor. How does my Royall Lord?
How fares your Maiesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,
Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound
Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares
Do scal'd, like molten Lead
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?
Cor. Still, still, farre wide
Gen. He's scarse awake,
Let him alone a while
Lear. Where haue I bin?
Where am I? Faire day light?
I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty
To see another thus. I know not what to say:
I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,
I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd
Of my condition
Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o're me,
You must not kneele
Lear. Pray do not mocke me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourescore and vpward,
Not an houre more, nor lesse:
And to deale plainely,
I feare I am not in my perfect mind.
Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant
What place this is: and all the skill I haue
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady
To be my childe Cordelia
Cor. And so I am: I am
Lear. Be your teares wet?
Yes faith: I pray weepe not,
If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:
I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters
Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong.
You haue some cause, they haue not
Cor. No cause, no cause
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir
Lear. Do not abuse me
Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage
You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,
Trouble him no more till further setling
Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?
Lear. You must beare with me:
Pray you now forget, and forgiue,
I am old and foolish.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation We are not clear why Kent intends to maintain his disguise, but he felt it necessary to reveal his true identity to Cordelia. We can guess that Kent views this time as the climax of his long years of service to the King and his country. Since the King's rescue, he has spent much of his time sleeping and recovering from his ordeal. It takes a while for him to return to full consciousness and he mistakes Cordelia for an angel. Shakespeare is reinforcing the idea that Cordelia represents the height of feminine virtue and honesty. There are again further indications regarding Lear's transformation. His dialogue with Cordelia makes no mention of status or tests of love, but is merely a father being reunited with his daughter. This scene contrasts greatly from the corresponding scene in Act I where father dismissed daughter. We read Lear's statement to Cordelia, Do not laugh at me; for, as I am a man, I think this lady to be my child Cordelia." This confirms that Lear has regained his sanity. We learn that Lear's return from a deep sleep was accompanied by soothing music. Symbolically this replaces the crashing storm that he fought with on the heath, which symbolized his own state of mind and the evil of his older daughters. The music underlines the return of order to Lear's world. Cordelia is clearly at the far end of the scale from her two sisters, for there is no indication that she desires revenge for what her father has suffered. | analysis |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and
Souldiers.
Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought
To change the course, he's full of alteration,
And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure
Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried
Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam
Reg. Now sweet Lord,
You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you:
Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth,
Do you not loue my Sister?
Bast. In honour'd Loue
Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way,
To the fore-fended place?
Bast. No by mine honour, Madam
Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord
Be not familiar with her
Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers.
Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met:
Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter
With others, whom the rigour of our State
Forc'd to cry out
Regan. Why is this reasond?
Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie:
For these domesticke and particular broiles,
Are not the question heere
Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre
On our proceeding
Reg. Sister you'le go with vs?
Gon. No
Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs
Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe.
Exeunt. both the Armies.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore,
Heare me one word
Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake
Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter:
If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme,
I can produce a Champion, that will proue
What is auouched there. If you miscarry,
Your businesse of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune loues you
Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter
Edg. I was forbid it:
When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry,
And Ile appeare againe.
Enter.
Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper.
Enter Edmund.
Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers,
Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces,
By dilligent discouerie, but your hast
Is now vrg'd on you
Alb. We will greet the time.
Enter.
Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue:
Each iealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd
If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow,
Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill,
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse
His countenance for the Battaile, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him, deuise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercie
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The Battaile done, and they within our power,
Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state,
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Enter.
| Edmund and Regan have assembled their army, but they wonder whether Albany is resolute in his intention to fight against the French. They are also concerned about Oswald's disappearance and they feel sure he has met with disaster. Regan makes it clear that she lusts after Edmund, but she is also consumed with jealousy in case he chooses Goneril. Edmund reassures Regan that he has not sought or enjoyed any favors from Goneril. Goneril and Albany enter with their army. Goneril makes an aside that she would rather lose the battle than have Regan win Edmund. Albany makes it clear that he will only fight against the French invaders and not any British subjects or King Lear. Edmund and Albany have a counsel of war before the battle. Regan and Goneril keep a close eye on one another. Edgar enters, still disguised, and gives Albany a letter that he had removed from Oswald's body. This letter contains orders from Goneril to Edmund to kill her husband Albany. Edgar leaves, and Edmund re-enters with the news that the opposing army approaches. The scene ends with Edmund delivering a soliloquy where he reveals his thoughts and plans. | summary |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and
Souldiers.
Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought
To change the course, he's full of alteration,
And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure
Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried
Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam
Reg. Now sweet Lord,
You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you:
Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth,
Do you not loue my Sister?
Bast. In honour'd Loue
Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way,
To the fore-fended place?
Bast. No by mine honour, Madam
Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord
Be not familiar with her
Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers.
Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met:
Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter
With others, whom the rigour of our State
Forc'd to cry out
Regan. Why is this reasond?
Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie:
For these domesticke and particular broiles,
Are not the question heere
Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre
On our proceeding
Reg. Sister you'le go with vs?
Gon. No
Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs
Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe.
Exeunt. both the Armies.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore,
Heare me one word
Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake
Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter:
If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme,
I can produce a Champion, that will proue
What is auouched there. If you miscarry,
Your businesse of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune loues you
Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter
Edg. I was forbid it:
When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry,
And Ile appeare againe.
Enter.
Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper.
Enter Edmund.
Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers,
Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces,
By dilligent discouerie, but your hast
Is now vrg'd on you
Alb. We will greet the time.
Enter.
Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue:
Each iealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd
If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow,
Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill,
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse
His countenance for the Battaile, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him, deuise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercie
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The Battaile done, and they within our power,
Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state,
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Enter.
| Interpretation This scene merely provides more information concerning the triangle between Edmund, Goneril and Regan. The two sisters' jealousy heightens and their competition over Edmund intensifies. Edgar provides Albany with the evidence of Goneril's plot to kill him in order that she may be totally free to form an alliance with Edmund. The sisters' behavior in this scene is quite pathetic and their behavior is further ridiculed when we hear Edmund's soliloquy. We read, "To both these sisters have I sworn my love; Each jealous of the other, as the stung Are of the adder. Which of them shall I take? Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enjoy’d, If both remain alive. To take the widow Exasperates, makes mad her sister Goneril; And hardly shall I carry out my side, Her husband being alive. Now then, we'll use His countenance for the battle; which being done, Let her who would be rid of him devise His speedy taking off. As for the mercy Which he intends to Lear and Cordelia The battle done, and they within our power, Shall never see his pardon; for my state Stands on me to defend, not to debate." Amidst all this turmoil, Edmund remains cool, calm and calculating. He debates with himself which sister to have, if any. His attitude is almost cavalier. He talks of the sisters as if they were livestock and he is the farmer at an auction, where in fact he is talking about two Princesses of the Kingdom. He is not the least bit intimidated by them. Perhaps that is why they are attracted to him, but we read above that he recognizes exactly what they are - two jealous, poisonous snakes, but he is not daunted by them. Shakespeare has created a different type of villain. He is not like Iago, who quests power over Othello so as to unravel him. He is not like Richard III who lusts for power. He is a manipulator and relishes the fact that he is a bastard. He regards himself as a representative of his kind and he wishes to reverse the conventions so that his race can have power and rule. It is almost an unholy quest that he is championing. In the end, he will let certain events run their course. He will use Albany in the forthcoming battle. He will be a figurehead and rallying point of his own troops, but once victory has been won, he will stand back and let Goneril kill her husband. He certainly does not wish Albany to exercise clemency over Lear and Cordelia, who will be disposed on when captured. What is certainly clear is that Edmund appears to have no feelings for anyone, in particular Regan and Goneril, so whether he ends up with both, one or neither, is really immaterial to him. | analysis |
Scena Secunda.
Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia,
and
Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster.
Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree
For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue:
If euer I returne to you againe,
Ile bring you comfort
Glo. Grace go with you Sir.
Enter.
Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar.
Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away:
King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane,
Giue me thy hand: Come on
Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere
Edg. What in ill thoughts againe?
Men must endure
Their going hence, euen as their comming hither,
Ripenesse is all come on
Glo. And that's true too.
Exeunt.
| Cordelia, Lear and their army move to engage with Edmund and Albany's army. Edgar and Gloucester hide nearby to await the outcome of the battle. Once Edgar has ensured that Gloucester is safe, he leaves to see how the battle progresses. He returns with bad news that Lear's forces have lost and he and Cordelia have been taken prisoner. | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia,
and
Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster.
Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree
For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue:
If euer I returne to you againe,
Ile bring you comfort
Glo. Grace go with you Sir.
Enter.
Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar.
Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away:
King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane,
Giue me thy hand: Come on
Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere
Edg. What in ill thoughts againe?
Men must endure
Their going hence, euen as their comming hither,
Ripenesse is all come on
Glo. And that's true too.
Exeunt.
| Interpretation Shakespeare snatches away from the audience their hope that Lear's suffering has been ended. The hopes raised in Act IV Scene.vii are now dashed. This comfortless epic fascinates the audience because they can feel the power of the tragedy that Lear has to endure, like the biblical Job. | analysis |
Scena Tertia.
Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and
Cordelia, as
prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine.
Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard,
Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne
That are to censure them
Cor. We are not the first,
Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst:
For thee oppressed King I am cast downe,
My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne.
Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison,
We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage:
When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe
And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues)
Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too,
Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take vpon's the mystery of things,
As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebbe and flow by th' Moone
Bast. Take them away
Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia,
The Gods themselues throw Incense.
Haue I caught thee?
He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen,
And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes,
The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make vs weepe?
Weele see 'em staru'd first: come.
Enter.
Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke.
Take thou this note, go follow them to prison,
One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is; to be tender minded
Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment
Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't,
Or thriue by other meanes
Capt. Ile do't my Lord
Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done,
Marke I say instantly, and carry it so
As I haue set it downe.
Exit Captaine.
Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers.
Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine
And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues
Who were the opposites of this dayes strife:
I do require them of you so to vse them,
As we shall find their merites, and our safety
May equally determine
Bast. Sir, I thought it fit,
To send the old and miserable King to some retention,
Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more,
To plucke the common bosome on his side,
And turne our imprest Launces in our eies
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen:
My reason all the same, and they are ready
To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare
Where you shall hold your Session
Alb. Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subiect of this Warre,
Not as a Brother
Reg. That's as we list to grace him.
Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded
Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers,
Bore the Commission of my place and person,
The which immediacie may well stand vp,
And call it selfe your Brother
Gon. Not so hot:
In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe,
More then in your addition
Reg. In my rights,
By me inuested, he compeeres the best
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you
Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets
Gon. Hola, hola,
That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint
Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere
From a full flowing stomack. Generall,
Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony,
Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine:
Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere
My Lord, and Master
Gon. Meane you to enioy him?
Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will
Bast. Nor in thine Lord
Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes
Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine
Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee
On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest,
This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters,
I bare it in the interest of my wife,
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord,
And I her husband contradict your Banes.
If you will marry, make your loues to me,
My Lady is bespoke
Gon. An enterlude
Alb. Thou art armed Gloster,
Let the Trumpet sound:
If none appeare to proue vpon thy person,
Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons,
There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse
Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee
Reg. Sicke, O sicke
Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine
Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes
That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies,
Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach;
On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine
My truth and honor firmely.
Enter a Herald.
Alb. A Herald, ho.
Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers
All leuied in my name, haue in my name
Tooke their discharge
Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me
Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent.
Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound,
And read out this.
A Trumpet sounds.
Herald reads.
If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army,
will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster,
that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third
sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence.
1 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
2 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
3 Trumpet.
Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar armed.
Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares
Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet
Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality, and why you answer
This present Summons?
Edg. Know my name is lost
By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit,
Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary
I come to cope
Alb. Which is that Aduersary?
Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster?
Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him?
Edg. Draw thy Sword,
That if my speech offend a Noble heart,
Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine:
Behold it is my priuiledge,
The priuiledge of mine Honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest,
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence,
Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune,
Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor:
False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father,
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince,
And from th' extremest vpward of thy head,
To the discent and dust below thy foote,
A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no,
This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent
To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake,
Thou lyest
Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name,
But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike,
And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes,
What safe, and nicely I might well delay,
By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne:
Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head,
With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart,
Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise,
This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way,
Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake
Alb. Saue him, saue him.
Alarums. Fights.
Gon. This is practise Gloster,
By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer
An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozend, and beguild
Alb. Shut your mouth Dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir,
Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill:
No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it
Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine,
Who can araigne me for't?
Enter.
Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper?
Bast. Aske me not what I know
Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her
Bast. What you haue charg'd me with,
That haue I done,
And more, much more, the time will bring it out.
'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou
That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble,
I do forgiue thee
Edg. Let's exchange charity:
I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond,
If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne,
The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague vs:
The darke and vitious place where thee he got,
Cost him his eyes
Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true,
The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere
Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie
A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee,
Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I
Did hate thee, or thy Father
Edg. Worthy Prince I know't
Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe?
How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father?
Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale,
And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst.
The bloody proclamation to escape
That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse,
That we the paine of death would hourely dye,
Rather then die at once) taught me to shift
Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance
That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings,
Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire.
Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him,
Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd,
Not sure, though hoping of this good successe,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart
(Alacke too weake the conflict to support)
Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe,
Burst smilingly
Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me,
And shall perchance do good, but speake you on,
You looke as you had something more to say
Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in,
For I am almost ready to dissolue,
Hearing of this.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe
Edg. What kinde of helpe?
Alb. Speake man
Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife?
Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart
of- O she's dead
Alb. Who dead? Speake man
Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister
By her is poyson'd: she confesses it
Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant
Edg. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead;
Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out.
This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble.
Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he?
The time will not allow the complement
Which very manners vrges
Kent. I am come
To bid my King and Master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Alb. Great thing of vs forgot,
Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this obiect Kent?
Kent. Alacke, why thus?
Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herselfe
Alb. Euen so: couer their faces
Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do
Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send,
(Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ
Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time
Alb. Run, run, O run
Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?
Send thy token of repreeue
Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword,
Giue it the Captaine
Edg. Hast thee for thy life
Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me,
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire,
That she for-did her selfe
Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile.
Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.
Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so,
That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.
I know when one is dead, and when one liues,
She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse,
If that her breath will mist or staine the stone,
Why then she liues
Kent. Is this the promis'd end?
Edg. Or image of that horror
Alb. Fall and cease
Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so,
It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes
That euer I haue felt
Kent. O my good Master
Lear. Prythee away
Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend
Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all,
I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer:
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha:
What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee
Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did
Lear. Did I not fellow?
I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion
I would haue made him skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight
Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated,
One of them we behold
Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?
Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent,
Where is your Seruant Caius?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that,
He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten
Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man
Lear. Ile see that straight
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay,
Haue follow'd your sad steps
Lear. You are welcome hither
Kent. Nor no man else:
All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly,
Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues,
And desperately are dead
Lear. I so I thinke
Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it
That we present vs to him.
Enter a Messenger.
Edg. Very bootlesse
Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord
Alb. That's but a trifle heere:
You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,
During the life of this old Maiesty
To him our absolute power, you to your rights,
With boote, and such addition as your Honours
Haue more then merited. All Friends shall
Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes
The cup of their deseruings: O see, see
Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.
Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,
Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,
Looke there, looke there.
He dies.
Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord
Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake
Edg. Looke vp my Lord
Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him,
That would vpon the wracke of this tough world
Stretch him out longer
Edg. He is gon indeed
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long,
He but vsurpt his life
Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse
Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine,
Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine
Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go,
My Master calls me, I must not say no
Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey,
Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong,
Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.
Exeunt. with a dead March.
FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.
| Lear and Cordelia are led in as prisoners. Edmund is their jailor. They are led away to prison and Edmund gives the officer in charge his orders that are to be followed immediately. Edmund is joined by Albany, Goneril and Regan. Albany demands that Lear and Cordelia be put into his custody, but Edmund refuses. Albany then orders that Edmund and Goneril be arrested for treason. They are charged with conspiracy for plotting Albany's death. Edgar enters still in disguise and he makes a statement denouncing Edmund. The two brothers fight and Edmund falls. Albany reveals the contents of the letter given to him by Edgar and Goneril flees. Edmund admits his villainy and Edgar reveals his identity and recounts the recent events with his father. Edgar had revealed his identity to Gloucester, but he suffered a heart attack and died. The part that Kent has played in the events is also revealed. A gentleman enters with the news that Goneril has killed herself after she had poisoned her sister Regan, who is also dead. Albany realizes that Edmund and Goneril planned to have Lear and Cordelia murdered, but he is too late to act. Lear enters carrying his dead daughter in his arms. She had been hanged. This last tragedy for the King is too much and he dies, covering his daughter's body with his own. Albany, Kent and Edgar are left to restore the Kingdom. Kent indicates that he too does not have long to live. Edgar closes the play, "The weight of this sad time we must obey; Speak what we feel, not what we ought to say. The oldest hath borne most: we that are young Shall never see so much, nor live so long." | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and
Cordelia, as
prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine.
Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard,
Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne
That are to censure them
Cor. We are not the first,
Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst:
For thee oppressed King I am cast downe,
My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne.
Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison,
We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage:
When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe
And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues)
Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too,
Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take vpon's the mystery of things,
As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebbe and flow by th' Moone
Bast. Take them away
Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia,
The Gods themselues throw Incense.
Haue I caught thee?
He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen,
And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes,
The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make vs weepe?
Weele see 'em staru'd first: come.
Enter.
Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke.
Take thou this note, go follow them to prison,
One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is; to be tender minded
Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment
Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't,
Or thriue by other meanes
Capt. Ile do't my Lord
Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done,
Marke I say instantly, and carry it so
As I haue set it downe.
Exit Captaine.
Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers.
Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine
And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues
Who were the opposites of this dayes strife:
I do require them of you so to vse them,
As we shall find their merites, and our safety
May equally determine
Bast. Sir, I thought it fit,
To send the old and miserable King to some retention,
Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more,
To plucke the common bosome on his side,
And turne our imprest Launces in our eies
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen:
My reason all the same, and they are ready
To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare
Where you shall hold your Session
Alb. Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subiect of this Warre,
Not as a Brother
Reg. That's as we list to grace him.
Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded
Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers,
Bore the Commission of my place and person,
The which immediacie may well stand vp,
And call it selfe your Brother
Gon. Not so hot:
In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe,
More then in your addition
Reg. In my rights,
By me inuested, he compeeres the best
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you
Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets
Gon. Hola, hola,
That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint
Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere
From a full flowing stomack. Generall,
Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony,
Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine:
Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere
My Lord, and Master
Gon. Meane you to enioy him?
Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will
Bast. Nor in thine Lord
Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes
Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine
Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee
On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest,
This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters,
I bare it in the interest of my wife,
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord,
And I her husband contradict your Banes.
If you will marry, make your loues to me,
My Lady is bespoke
Gon. An enterlude
Alb. Thou art armed Gloster,
Let the Trumpet sound:
If none appeare to proue vpon thy person,
Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons,
There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse
Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee
Reg. Sicke, O sicke
Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine
Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes
That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies,
Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach;
On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine
My truth and honor firmely.
Enter a Herald.
Alb. A Herald, ho.
Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers
All leuied in my name, haue in my name
Tooke their discharge
Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me
Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent.
Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound,
And read out this.
A Trumpet sounds.
Herald reads.
If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army,
will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster,
that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third
sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence.
1 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
2 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
3 Trumpet.
Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar armed.
Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares
Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet
Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality, and why you answer
This present Summons?
Edg. Know my name is lost
By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit,
Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary
I come to cope
Alb. Which is that Aduersary?
Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster?
Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him?
Edg. Draw thy Sword,
That if my speech offend a Noble heart,
Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine:
Behold it is my priuiledge,
The priuiledge of mine Honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest,
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence,
Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune,
Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor:
False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father,
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince,
And from th' extremest vpward of thy head,
To the discent and dust below thy foote,
A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no,
This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent
To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake,
Thou lyest
Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name,
But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike,
And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes,
What safe, and nicely I might well delay,
By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne:
Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head,
With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart,
Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise,
This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way,
Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake
Alb. Saue him, saue him.
Alarums. Fights.
Gon. This is practise Gloster,
By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer
An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozend, and beguild
Alb. Shut your mouth Dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir,
Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill:
No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it
Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine,
Who can araigne me for't?
Enter.
Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper?
Bast. Aske me not what I know
Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her
Bast. What you haue charg'd me with,
That haue I done,
And more, much more, the time will bring it out.
'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou
That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble,
I do forgiue thee
Edg. Let's exchange charity:
I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond,
If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne,
The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague vs:
The darke and vitious place where thee he got,
Cost him his eyes
Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true,
The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere
Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie
A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee,
Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I
Did hate thee, or thy Father
Edg. Worthy Prince I know't
Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe?
How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father?
Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale,
And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst.
The bloody proclamation to escape
That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse,
That we the paine of death would hourely dye,
Rather then die at once) taught me to shift
Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance
That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings,
Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire.
Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him,
Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd,
Not sure, though hoping of this good successe,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart
(Alacke too weake the conflict to support)
Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe,
Burst smilingly
Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me,
And shall perchance do good, but speake you on,
You looke as you had something more to say
Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in,
For I am almost ready to dissolue,
Hearing of this.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe
Edg. What kinde of helpe?
Alb. Speake man
Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife?
Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart
of- O she's dead
Alb. Who dead? Speake man
Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister
By her is poyson'd: she confesses it
Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant
Edg. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead;
Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out.
This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble.
Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he?
The time will not allow the complement
Which very manners vrges
Kent. I am come
To bid my King and Master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Alb. Great thing of vs forgot,
Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this obiect Kent?
Kent. Alacke, why thus?
Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herselfe
Alb. Euen so: couer their faces
Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do
Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send,
(Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ
Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time
Alb. Run, run, O run
Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?
Send thy token of repreeue
Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword,
Giue it the Captaine
Edg. Hast thee for thy life
Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me,
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire,
That she for-did her selfe
Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile.
Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.
Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so,
That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.
I know when one is dead, and when one liues,
She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse,
If that her breath will mist or staine the stone,
Why then she liues
Kent. Is this the promis'd end?
Edg. Or image of that horror
Alb. Fall and cease
Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so,
It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes
That euer I haue felt
Kent. O my good Master
Lear. Prythee away
Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend
Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all,
I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer:
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha:
What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee
Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did
Lear. Did I not fellow?
I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion
I would haue made him skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight
Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated,
One of them we behold
Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?
Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent,
Where is your Seruant Caius?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that,
He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten
Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man
Lear. Ile see that straight
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay,
Haue follow'd your sad steps
Lear. You are welcome hither
Kent. Nor no man else:
All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly,
Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues,
And desperately are dead
Lear. I so I thinke
Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it
That we present vs to him.
Enter a Messenger.
Edg. Very bootlesse
Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord
Alb. That's but a trifle heere:
You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,
During the life of this old Maiesty
To him our absolute power, you to your rights,
With boote, and such addition as your Honours
Haue more then merited. All Friends shall
Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes
The cup of their deseruings: O see, see
Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.
Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,
Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,
Looke there, looke there.
He dies.
Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord
Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake
Edg. Looke vp my Lord
Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him,
That would vpon the wracke of this tough world
Stretch him out longer
Edg. He is gon indeed
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long,
He but vsurpt his life
Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse
Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine,
Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine
Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go,
My Master calls me, I must not say no
Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey,
Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong,
Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.
Exeunt. with a dead March.
FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.
| Interpretation The final scene brings both plots in the play to their conclusion. Lear and Cordelia are prisoners of the evil Edmund. As they are led away to the cells, Edmund passes orders to the jailor that they are to be executed. Lear's only wish is to be with his daughter. What the evil Edmund orders the officer to do is to make Cordelia's death look like suicide. The efforts Lear makes to save his daughter can only be imagined, but they result in his death soon after Cordelia's. In this final scene we also witness the final transformation in Albany's character, which has grown at the same pace as the evil in his wife, Regan and Cornwall. At the end, Albany has that air of authority and takes full control at the battle's conclusion. He has been forewarned of his wife's treachery through the letter he received from Edgar. Edgar is also present to support Albany and confront his brother, whom he mortally wounds. Again there are similarities to 'Hamlet', which also ended in a duel. The difference is that in Hamlet it was staged as sport, but this duel is for real and of course it symbolizes the battle between good and evil. Paradoxically it was Edmund's attempt to be noble that led to his downfall. He could quite easily have avoided a duel with his brother, but deep down he wished to obtain his goal through honorable means at the very end. He agrees to fight the duel not knowing that it is his brother. He could have easily refused to fight with an unidentified stranger. At the last, Edmund does repent his evil actions and tries to rescind his orders to execute Cordelia and Lear, in stark contrast to Iago in Shakespeare's 'Othello'. As previously prophesized in the play, Goneril and Regan are consumed by the evil they helped generate. Shakespeare introduces another element of irony through the death of Goneril. Although there have been attempts at suicide and fake suicides throughout the play, the only actual suicide is Goneril's, who appeared as such a strong individual at the start of the play. The audience is left in a quandary concerning the role of divine justice in the play because of the death of Cordelia, who had previously been likened to an angel by her father. This ending has been controversial over the centuries since the play was first performed. Some productions have altered the ending in order to ease the tragic element of the play, but Shakespeare never intended this play to be other than the greatest tragedy of the English language. The audience should leave the theatre with pain arising from Cordelia's death. One can justify the deaths of Gloucester and Lear because they have made errors of judgement, but Cordelia was young and innocent. She shared this position with Edgar, the other pure character in the plot. Her death causes an immediate relapse for Lear who is lost in madness before he dies. In my view, Shakespeare deliberately decided to make this the greatest tragedy, and the play should not be viewed in isolation. Shakespeare has provided us with alternative endings in his other tragedies. 'King Lear' should not be interfered with and as well as being the greatest tragedy, the role of King Lear poses the greatest challenge for the acting profession. The closing scene provides us with a set littered with bodies, some who have deserved death, and others are innocent victims. The whole Lear dynasty has been destroyed. Those that are left have the task of picking up the pieces. The noblest figure in the play left standing closes it with words that are self-explanatory. | analysis |
Actus Primus. Scoena Prima.
Enter Kent, Gloucester, and Edmond.
Kent. I thought the King had more affected the
Duke of Albany, then Cornwall
Glou. It did alwayes seeme so to vs: But
now in the diuision of the Kingdome, it appeares
not which of the Dukes hee valewes
most, for qualities are so weigh'd, that curiosity in neither,
can make choise of eithers moity
Kent. Is not this your Son, my Lord?
Glou. His breeding Sir, hath bin at my charge. I haue
so often blush'd to acknowledge him, that now I am
braz'd too't
Kent. I cannot conceiue you
Glou. Sir, this yong Fellowes mother could; wherevpon
she grew round womb'd, and had indeede (Sir) a
Sonne for her Cradle, ere she had a husband for her bed.
Do you smell a fault?
Kent. I cannot wish the fault vndone, the issue of it,
being so proper
Glou. But I haue a Sonne, Sir, by order of Law, some
yeere elder then this; who, yet is no deerer in my account,
though this Knaue came somthing sawcily to the
world before he was sent for: yet was his Mother fayre,
there was good sport at his making, and the horson must
be acknowledged. Doe you know this Noble Gentleman,
Edmond?
Edm. No, my Lord
Glou. My Lord of Kent:
Remember him heereafter, as my Honourable Friend
Edm. My seruices to your Lordship
Kent. I must loue you, and sue to know you better
Edm. Sir, I shall study deseruing
Glou. He hath bin out nine yeares, and away he shall
againe. The King is comming.
Sennet. Enter King Lear, Cornwall, Albany, Gonerill, Regan,
Cordelia, and
attendants.
Lear. Attend the Lords of France & Burgundy, Gloster
Glou. I shall, my Lord.
Enter.
Lear. Meane time we shal expresse our darker purpose.
Giue me the Map there. Know, that we haue diuided
In three our Kingdome: and 'tis our fast intent,
To shake all Cares and Businesse from our Age,
Conferring them on yonger strengths, while we
Vnburthen'd crawle toward death. Our son of Cornwal,
And you our no lesse louing Sonne of Albany,
We haue this houre a constant will to publish
Our daughters seuerall Dowers, that future strife
May be preuented now. The Princes, France & Burgundy,
Great Riuals in our yongest daughters loue,
Long in our Court, haue made their amorous soiourne,
And heere are to be answer'd. Tell me my daughters
(Since now we will diuest vs both of Rule,
Interest of Territory, Cares of State)
Which of you shall we say doth loue vs most,
That we, our largest bountie may extend
Where Nature doth with merit challenge. Gonerill,
Our eldest borne, speake first
Gon. Sir, I loue you more then word can weild y matter,
Deerer then eye-sight, space, and libertie,
Beyond what can be valewed, rich or rare,
No lesse then life, with grace, health, beauty, honor:
As much as Childe ere lou'd, or Father found.
A loue that makes breath poore, and speech vnable,
Beyond all manner of so much I loue you
Cor. What shall Cordelia speake? Loue, and be silent
Lear. Of all these bounds euen from this Line, to this,
With shadowie Forrests, and with Champains rich'd
With plenteous Riuers, and wide-skirted Meades
We make thee Lady. To thine and Albanies issues
Be this perpetuall. What sayes our second Daughter?
Our deerest Regan, wife of Cornwall?
Reg. I am made of that selfe-mettle as my Sister,
And prize me at her worth. In my true heart,
I finde she names my very deede of loue:
Onely she comes too short, that I professe
My selfe an enemy to all other ioyes,
Which the most precious square of sense professes,
And finde I am alone felicitate
In your deere Highnesse loue
Cor. Then poore Cordelia,
And yet not so, since I am sure my loue's
More ponderous then my tongue
Lear. To thee, and thine hereditarie euer,
Remaine this ample third of our faire Kingdome,
No lesse in space, validitie, and pleasure
Then that conferr'd on Gonerill. Now our Ioy,
Although our last and least; to whose yong loue,
The Vines of France, and Milke of Burgundie,
Striue to be interest. What can you say, to draw
A third, more opilent then your Sisters? speake
Cor. Nothing my Lord
Lear. Nothing?
Cor. Nothing
Lear. Nothing will come of nothing, speake againe
Cor. Vnhappie that I am, I cannot heaue
My heart into my mouth: I loue your Maiesty
According to my bond, no more nor lesse
Lear. How, how Cordelia? Mend your speech a little,
Least you may marre your Fortunes
Cor. Good my Lord,
You haue begot me, bred me, lou'd me.
I returne those duties backe as are right fit,
Obey you, Loue you, and most Honour you.
Why haue my Sisters Husbands, if they say
They loue you all? Happily when I shall wed,
That Lord, whose hand must take my plight, shall carry
Halfe my loue with him, halfe my Care, and Dutie,
Sure I shall neuer marry like my Sisters
Lear. But goes thy heart with this?
Cor. I my good Lord
Lear. So young, and so vntender?
Cor. So young my Lord, and true
Lear. Let it be so, thy truth then be thy dowre:
For by the sacred radience of the Sunne,
The misteries of Heccat and the night:
By all the operation of the Orbes,
From whom we do exist, and cease to be,
Heere I disclaime all my Paternall care,
Propinquity and property of blood,
And as a stranger to my heart and me,
Hold thee from this for euer. The barbarous Scythian,
Or he that makes his generation messes
To gorge his appetite, shall to my bosome
Be as well neighbour'd, pittied, and releeu'd,
As thou my sometime Daughter
Kent. Good my Liege
Lear. Peace Kent,
Come not betweene the Dragon and his wrath,
I lou'd her most, and thought to set my rest
On her kind nursery. Hence and avoid my sight:
So be my graue my peace, as here I giue
Her Fathers heart from her; call France, who stirres?
Call Burgundy, Cornwall, and Albanie,
With my two Daughters Dowres, digest the third,
Let pride, which she cals plainnesse, marry her:
I doe inuest you ioyntly with my power,
Preheminence, and all the large effects
That troope with Maiesty. Our selfe by Monthly course,
With reseruation of an hundred Knights,
By you to be sustain'd, shall our abode
Make with you by due turne, onely we shall retaine
The name, and all th' addition to a King: the Sway,
Reuennew, Execution of the rest,
Beloued Sonnes be yours, which to confirme,
This Coronet part betweene you
Kent. Royall Lear,
Whom I haue euer honor'd as my King,
Lou'd as my Father, as my Master follow'd,
As my great Patron thought on in my praiers
Le. The bow is bent & drawne, make from the shaft
Kent. Let it fall rather, though the forke inuade
The region of my heart, be Kent vnmannerly,
When Lear is mad, what wouldest thou do old man?
Think'st thou that dutie shall haue dread to speake,
When power to flattery bowes?
To plainnesse honour's bound,
When Maiesty falls to folly, reserue thy state,
And in thy best consideration checke
This hideous rashnesse, answere my life, my iudgement:
Thy yongest Daughter do's not loue thee least,
Nor are those empty hearted, whose low sounds
Reuerbe no hollownesse
Lear. Kent, on thy life no more
Kent. My life I neuer held but as pawne
To wage against thine enemies, nere feare to loose it,
Thy safety being motiue
Lear. Out of my sight
Kent. See better Lear, and let me still remaine
The true blanke of thine eie
Lear. Now by Apollo,
Kent. Now by Apollo, King
Thou swear'st thy Gods in vaine
Lear. O Vassall! Miscreant
Alb. Cor. Deare Sir forbeare
Kent. Kill thy Physition, and thy fee bestow
Vpon the foule disease, reuoke thy guift,
Or whil'st I can vent clamour from my throate,
Ile tell thee thou dost euill
Lea. Heare me recreant, on thine allegeance heare me;
That thou hast sought to make vs breake our vowes,
Which we durst neuer yet; and with strain'd pride,
To come betwixt our sentences, and our power,
Which, nor our nature, nor our place can beare;
Our potencie made good, take thy reward.
Fiue dayes we do allot thee for prouision,
To shield thee from disasters of the world,
And on the sixt to turne thy hated backe
Vpon our kingdome: if on the tenth day following,
Thy banisht trunke be found in our Dominions,
The moment is thy death, away. By Iupiter,
This shall not be reuok'd,
Kent. Fare thee well King, sith thus thou wilt appeare,
Freedome liues hence, and banishment is here;
The Gods to their deere shelter take thee Maid,
That iustly think'st, and hast most rightly said:
And your large speeches, may your deeds approue,
That good effects may spring from words of loue:
Thus Kent, O Princes, bids you all adew,
Hee'l shape his old course, in a Country new.
Enter.
Flourish. Enter Gloster with France, and Burgundy, Attendants.
Cor. Heere's France and Burgundy, my Noble Lord
Lear. My Lord of Burgundie,
We first addresse toward you, who with this King
Hath riuald for our Daughter; what in the least
Will you require in present Dower with her,
Or cease your quest of Loue?
Bur. Most Royall Maiesty,
I craue no more then hath your Highnesse offer'd,
Nor will you tender lesse?
Lear. Right Noble Burgundy,
When she was deare to vs, we did hold her so,
But now her price is fallen: Sir, there she stands,
If ought within that little seeming substance,
Or all of it with our displeasure piec'd,
And nothing more may fitly like your Grace,
Shee's there, and she is yours
Bur. I know no answer
Lear. Will you with those infirmities she owes,
Vnfriended, new adopted to our hate,
Dow'rd with our curse, and stranger'd with our oath,
Take her or, leaue her
Bur. Pardon me Royall Sir,
Election makes not vp in such conditions
Le. Then leaue her sir, for by the powre that made me,
I tell you all her wealth. For you great King,
I would not from your loue make such a stray,
To match you where I hate, therefore beseech you
T' auert your liking a more worthier way,
Then on a wretch whom Nature is asham'd
Almost t' acknowledge hers
Fra. This is most strange,
That she whom euen but now, was your obiect,
The argument of your praise, balme of your age,
The best, the deerest, should in this trice of time
Commit a thing so monstrous, to dismantle
So many folds of fauour: sure her offence
Must be of such vnnaturall degree,
That monsters it: Or your fore-voucht affection
Fall into taint, which to beleeue of her
Must be a faith that reason without miracle
Should neuer plant in me
Cor. I yet beseech your Maiesty.
If for I want that glib and oylie Art,
To speake and purpose not, since what I will intend,
Ile do't before I speake, that you make knowne
It is no vicious blot, murther, or foulenesse,
No vnchaste action or dishonoured step
That hath depriu'd me of your Grace and fauour,
But euen for want of that, for which I am richer,
A still soliciting eye, and such a tongue,
That I am glad I haue not, though not to haue it,
Hath lost me in your liking
Lear. Better thou had'st
Not beene borne, then not t'haue pleas'd me better
Fra. Is it but this? A tardinesse in nature,
Which often leaues the history vnspoke
That it intends to do: my Lord of Burgundy,
What say you to the Lady? Loue's not loue
When it is mingled with regards, that stands
Aloofe from th' intire point, will you haue her?
She is herselfe a Dowrie
Bur. Royall King,
Giue but that portion which your selfe propos'd,
And here I take Cordelia by the hand,
Dutchesse of Burgundie
Lear. Nothing, I haue sworne, I am firme
Bur. I am sorry then you haue so lost a Father,
That you must loose a husband
Cor. Peace be with Burgundie,
Since that respect and Fortunes are his loue,
I shall not be his wife
Fra. Fairest Cordelia, that art most rich being poore,
Most choise forsaken, and most lou'd despis'd,
Thee and thy vertues here I seize vpon,
Be it lawfull I take vp what's cast away.
Gods, Gods! 'Tis strange, that from their cold'st neglect
My Loue should kindle to enflam'd respect.
Thy dowrelesse Daughter King, throwne to my chance,
Is Queene of vs, of ours, and our faire France:
Not all the Dukes of watrish Burgundy,
Can buy this vnpriz'd precious Maid of me.
Bid them farewell Cordelia, though vnkinde,
Thou loosest here a better where to finde
Lear. Thou hast her France, let her be thine, for we
Haue no such Daughter, nor shall euer see
That face of hers againe, therfore be gone,
Without our Grace, our Loue, our Benizon:
Come Noble Burgundie.
Flourish. Exeunt.
Fra. Bid farwell to your Sisters
Cor. The Iewels of our Father, with wash'd eies
Cordelia leaues you, I know you what you are,
And like a Sister am most loth to call
Your faults as they are named. Loue well our Father:
To your professed bosomes I commit him,
But yet alas, stood I within his Grace,
I would prefer him to a better place,
So farewell to you both
Regn. Prescribe not vs our dutie
Gon. Let your study
Be to content your Lord, who hath receiu'd you
At Fortunes almes, you haue obedience scanted,
And well are worth the want that you haue wanted
Cor. Time shall vnfold what plighted cunning hides,
Who couers faults, at last with shame derides:
Well may you prosper
Fra. Come my faire Cordelia.
Exit France and Cor.
Gon. Sister, it is not little I haue to say,
Of what most neerely appertaines to vs both,
I thinke our Father will hence to night
Reg. That's most certaine, and with you: next moneth with vs
Gon. You see how full of changes his age is, the obseruation
we haue made of it hath beene little; he alwaies
lou'd our Sister most, and with what poore iudgement he
hath now cast her off, appeares too grossely
Reg. 'Tis the infirmity of his age, yet he hath euer but
slenderly knowne himselfe
Gon. The best and soundest of his time hath bin but
rash, then must we looke from his age, to receiue not alone
the imperfections of long ingraffed condition, but
therewithall the vnruly way-wardnesse, that infirme and
cholericke yeares bring with them
Reg. Such vnconstant starts are we like to haue from
him, as this of Kents banishment
Gon. There is further complement of leaue-taking betweene
France and him, pray you let vs sit together, if our
Father carry authority with such disposition as he beares,
this last surrender of his will but offend vs
Reg. We shall further thinke of it
Gon. We must do something, and i'th' heate.
Exeunt.
| King Lear in his old age decides it is time to divide up his kingdom among his daughters. In order to decide how much each girl and her husband gets, he makes them each publicly declare their love. The oldest daughter Goneril has no problem doing this, nor does his middle daughter Regan. His youngest and favorite daughter, Cordelia, however, does not approve of the exercise and refuses to speak the words he longs to here. Because of her refusal, he disowns her, and because she is not married, he gives her no dowry. The portion he intended to give to her he divides instead between her sisters. The Earl of Kent stands up for Cordelia and is banished by the King for doing so. The King calls Cordelia's main suitors and asks if they will take her without her dowry. The Duke of Burgundy refuses, but the King of France wants to marry her anyway. The King of France takes her away, and King Lear tells his other daughters that he will alternate living with them | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Bastard.
Bast. Thou Nature art my Goddesse, to thy Law
My seruices are bound, wherefore should I
Stand in the plague of custome, and permit
The curiosity of Nations, to depriue me?
For that I am some twelue, or fourteene Moonshines
Lag of a Brother? Why Bastard? Wherefore base?
When my Dimensions are as well compact,
My minde as generous, and my shape as true
As honest Madams issue? Why brand they vs
With Base? With basenes Bastardie? Base, Base?
Who in the lustie stealth of Nature, take
More composition, and fierce qualitie,
Then doth within a dull stale tyred bed
Goe to th' creating a whole tribe of Fops
Got 'tweene a sleepe, and wake? Well then,
Legitimate Edgar, I must haue your land,
Our Fathers loue, is to the Bastard Edmond,
As to th' legitimate: fine word: Legitimate.
Well, my Legittimate, if this Letter speed,
And my inuention thriue, Edmond the base
Shall to'th' Legitimate: I grow, I prosper:
Now Gods, stand vp for Bastards.
Enter Gloucester.
Glo. Kent banish'd thus? and France in choller parted?
And the King gone to night? Prescrib'd his powre,
Confin'd to exhibition? All this done
Vpon the gad? Edmond, how now? What newes?
Bast. So please your Lordship, none
Glou. Why so earnestly seeke you to put vp y Letter?
Bast. I know no newes, my Lord
Glou. What Paper were you reading?
Bast. Nothing my Lord
Glou. No? what needed then that terrible dispatch of
it into your Pocket? The quality of nothing, hath not
such neede to hide it selfe. Let's see: come, if it bee nothing,
I shall not neede Spectacles
Bast. I beseech you Sir, pardon mee; it is a Letter
from my Brother, that I haue not all ore-read; and for so
much as I haue perus'd, I finde it not fit for your ore-looking
Glou. Giue me the Letter, Sir
Bast. I shall offend, either to detaine, or giue it:
The Contents, as in part I vnderstand them,
Are too blame
Glou. Let's see, let's see
Bast. I hope for my Brothers iustification, hee wrote
this but as an essay, or taste of my Vertue
Glou. reads. This policie, and reuerence of Age, makes the
world bitter to the best of our times: keepes our Fortunes from
vs, till our oldnesse cannot rellish them. I begin to finde an idle
and fond bondage, in the oppression of aged tyranny, who swayes
not as it hath power, but as it is suffer'd. Come to me, that of
this I may speake more. If our Father would sleepe till I wak'd
him, you should enioy halfe his Reuennew for euer, and liue the
beloued of your Brother. Edgar.
Hum? Conspiracy? Sleepe till I wake him, you should
enioy halfe his Reuennew: my Sonne Edgar, had hee a
hand to write this? A heart and braine to breede it in?
When came you to this? Who brought it?
Bast. It was not brought mee, my Lord; there's the
cunning of it. I found it throwne in at the Casement of
my Closset
Glou. You know the character to be your Brothers?
Bast. If the matter were good my Lord, I durst swear
it were his: but in respect of that, I would faine thinke it
were not
Glou. It is his
Bast. It is his hand, my Lord: but I hope his heart is
not in the Contents
Glo. Has he neuer before sounded you in this busines?
Bast. Neuer my Lord. But I haue heard him oft maintaine
it to be fit, that Sonnes at perfect age, and Fathers
declin'd, the Father should bee as Ward to the Son, and
the Sonne manage his Reuennew
Glou. O Villain, villain: his very opinion in the Letter.
Abhorred Villaine, vnnaturall, detested, brutish
Villaine; worse then brutish: Go sirrah, seeke him: Ile
apprehend him. Abhominable Villaine, where is he?
Bast. I do not well know my L[ord]. If it shall please you to
suspend your indignation against my Brother, til you can
deriue from him better testimony of his intent, you shold
run a certaine course: where, if you violently proceed against
him, mistaking his purpose, it would make a great
gap in your owne Honor, and shake in peeces, the heart of
his obedience. I dare pawne downe my life for him, that
he hath writ this to feele my affection to your Honor, &
to no other pretence of danger
Glou. Thinke you so?
Bast. If your Honor iudge it meete, I will place you
where you shall heare vs conferre of this, and by an Auricular
assurance haue your satisfaction, and that without
any further delay, then this very Euening
Glou. He cannot bee such a Monster. Edmond seeke
him out: winde me into him, I pray you: frame the Businesse
after your owne wisedome. I would vnstate my
selfe, to be in a due resolution
Bast. I will seeke him Sir, presently: conuey the businesse
as I shall find meanes, and acquaint you withall
Glou. These late Eclipses in the Sun and Moone portend
no good to vs: though the wisedome of Nature can
reason it thus, and thus, yet Nature finds it selfe scourg'd
by the sequent effects. Loue cooles, friendship falls off,
Brothers diuide. In Cities, mutinies; in Countries, discord;
in Pallaces, Treason; and the Bond crack'd, 'twixt
Sonne and Father. This villaine of mine comes vnder the
prediction; there's Son against Father, the King fals from
byas of Nature, there's Father against Childe. We haue
seene the best of our time. Machinations, hollownesse,
treacherie, and all ruinous disorders follow vs disquietly
to our Graues. Find out this Villain, Edmond, it shall lose
thee nothing, do it carefully: and the Noble & true-harted
Kent banish'd; his offence, honesty. 'Tis strange.
Exit
Bast. This is the excellent foppery of the world, that
when we are sicke in fortune, often the surfets of our own
behauiour, we make guilty of our disasters, the Sun, the
Moone, and Starres, as if we were villaines on necessitie,
Fooles by heauenly compulsion, Knaues, Theeues, and
Treachers by Sphericall predominance. Drunkards, Lyars,
and Adulterers by an inforc'd obedience of Planatary
influence; and all that we are euill in, by a diuine thrusting
on. An admirable euasion of Whore-master-man,
to lay his Goatish disposition on the charge of a Starre,
My father compounded with my mother vnder the Dragons
taile, and my Natiuity was vnder Vrsa Maior, so
that it followes, I am rough and Leacherous. I should
haue bin that I am, had the maidenlest Starre in the Firmament
twinkled on my bastardizing.
Enter Edgar.
Pat: he comes like the Catastrophe of the old Comedie:
my Cue is villanous Melancholly, with a sighe like Tom
o' Bedlam. - O these Eclipses do portend these diuisions.
Fa, Sol, La, Me
Edg. How now Brother Edmond, what serious contemplation
are you in?
Bast. I am thinking Brother of a prediction I read this
other day, what should follow these Eclipses
Edg. Do you busie your selfe with that?
Bast. I promise you, the effects he writes of, succeede
vnhappily.
When saw you my Father last?
Edg. The night gone by
Bast. Spake you with him?
Edg. I, two houres together
Bast. Parted you in good termes? Found you no displeasure
in him, by word, nor countenance?
Edg. None at all,
Bast. Bethink your selfe wherein you may haue offended
him: and at my entreaty forbeare his presence, vntill
some little time hath qualified the heat of his displeasure,
which at this instant so rageth in him, that with the mischiefe
of your person, it would scarsely alay
Edg. Some Villaine hath done me wrong
Edm. That's my feare, I pray you haue a continent
forbearance till the speed of his rage goes slower: and as
I say, retire with me to my lodging, from whence I will
fitly bring you to heare my Lord speake: pray ye goe,
there's my key: if you do stirre abroad, goe arm'd
Edg. Arm'd, Brother?
Edm. Brother, I aduise you to the best, I am no honest
man, if ther be any good meaning toward you: I haue told
you what I haue seene, and heard: But faintly. Nothing
like the image, and horror of it, pray you away
Edg. Shall I heare from you anon?
Enter.
Edm. I do serue you in this businesse:
A Credulous Father, and a Brother Noble,
Whose nature is so farre from doing harmes,
That he suspects none: on whose foolish honestie
My practises ride easie: I see the businesse.
Let me, if not by birth, haue lands by wit,
All with me's meete, that I can fashion fit.
Enter.
| Edmund, the bastard son of Gloucester, comes up with a plan to usurp his brother and gain his father's land and money. His father comes to him, and he quickly hides a forged letter from his brother, Edgar. Because of his strange behavior, his father asks to see the letter. He is disgusted by the treacherous content of his legitimate son, and Edmund defends his brother. He promises to help his father find the truth. After his father leaves, Edmund talks to Edgar and tells him that their father is angry with him. He tells his brother to be prepared to run and take solders with him. His brother believes him, and Edmund is happy that his plan is successful | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Lear, Kent, Gentleman, and Foole.
Lear. Go you before to Gloster with these Letters;
acquaint my Daughter no further with any thing you
know, then comes from her demand out of the Letter,
if your Dilligence be not speedy, I shall be there afore
you
Kent. I will not sleepe my Lord, till I haue deliuered
your Letter.
Enter.
Foole. If a mans braines were in's heeles, wert not in
danger of kybes?
Lear. I Boy
Foole. Then I prythee be merry, thy wit shall not go
slip-shod
Lear. Ha, ha, ha
Fool. Shalt see thy other Daughter will vse thee kindly,
for though she's as like this, as a Crabbe's like an
Apple, yet I can tell what I can tell
Lear. What can'st tell Boy?
Foole. She will taste as like this as, a Crabbe do's to a
Crab: thou canst, tell why ones nose stands i'th' middle
on's face?
Lear. No
Foole. Why to keepe ones eyes of either side 's nose,
that what a man cannot smell out, he may spy into
Lear. I did her wrong
Foole. Can'st tell how an Oyster makes his shell?
Lear. No
Foole. Nor I neither; but I can tell why a Snaile ha's
a house
Lear. Why?
Foole. Why to put's head in, not to giue it away to his
daughters, and leaue his hornes without a case
Lear. I will forget my Nature, so kind a Father? Be
my Horsses ready?
Foole. Thy Asses are gone about 'em; the reason why
the seuen Starres are no mo then seuen, is a pretty reason
Lear. Because they are not eight
Foole. Yes indeed, thou would'st make a good Foole
Lear. To tak't againe perforce; Monster Ingratitude!
Foole. If thou wert my Foole Nunckle, Il'd haue thee
beaten for being old before thy time
Lear. How's that?
Foole. Thou shouldst not haue bin old, till thou hadst
bin wise
Lear. O let me not be mad, not mad sweet Heauen:
keepe me in temper, I would not be mad. How now are
the Horses ready?
Gent. Ready my Lord
Lear. Come Boy
Fool. She that's a Maid now, & laughs at my departure,
Shall not be a Maid long, vnlesse things be cut shorter.
Exeunt.
| Lear sends Kent, still in disguise, ahead to his daughter Regan's house so she can prepare for his arrival. While he is gone, the Fool who is traveling with them tells the former King that he could easily be the fool. When the king asks why, the fool tells him it is because he gave away his land too soon, and made himself old before he was wise | summary |
Actus Secundus. Scena Prima.
Enter Bastard, and Curan, seuerally.
Bast. Saue thee Curan
Cur. And you Sir, I haue bin
With your Father, and giuen him notice
That the Duke of Cornwall, and Regan his Duchesse
Will be here with him this night
Bast. How comes that?
Cur. Nay I know not, you haue heard of the newes abroad,
I meane the whisper'd ones, for they are yet but
ear-kissing arguments
Bast. Not I: pray you what are they?
Cur. Haue you heard of no likely Warres toward,
'Twixt the Dukes of Cornwall, and Albany?
Bast. Not a word
Cur. You may do then in time,
Fare you well Sir.
Enter.
Bast. The Duke be here to night? The better best,
This weaues it selfe perforce into my businesse,
My Father hath set guard to take my Brother,
And I haue one thing of a queazie question
Which I must act, Briefenesse, and Fortune worke.
Enter Edgar.
Brother, a word, discend; Brother I say,
My Father watches: O Sir, fly this place,
Intelligence is giuen where you are hid;
You haue now the good aduantage of the night,
Haue you not spoken 'gainst the Duke of Cornewall?
Hee's comming hither, now i'th' night, i'th' haste,
And Regan with him, haue you nothing said
Vpon his partie 'gainst the Duke of Albany?
Aduise your selfe
Edg. I am sure on't, not a word
Bast. I heare my Father comming, pardon me:
In cunning, I must draw my Sword vpon you:
Draw, seeme to defend your selfe,
Now quit you well.
Yeeld, come before my Father, light hoa, here,
Fly Brother, Torches, Torches, so farewell.
Exit Edgar.
Some blood drawne on me, would beget opinion
Of my more fierce endeauour. I haue seene drunkards
Do more then this in sport; Father, Father,
Stop, stop, no helpe?
Enter Gloster, and Seruants with Torches.
Glo. Now Edmund, where's the villaine?
Bast. Here stood he in the dark, his sharpe Sword out,
Mumbling of wicked charmes, coniuring the Moone
To stand auspicious Mistris
Glo. But where is he?
Bast. Looke Sir, I bleed
Glo. Where is the villaine, Edmund?
Bast. Fled this way Sir, when by no meanes he could
Glo. Pursue him, ho: go after. By no meanes, what?
Bast. Perswade me to the murther of your Lordship,
But that I told him the reuenging Gods,
'Gainst Paricides did all the thunder bend,
Spoke with how manifold, and strong a Bond
The Child was bound to'th' Father; Sir in fine,
Seeing how lothly opposite I stood
To his vnnaturall purpose, in fell motion
With his prepared Sword, he charges home
My vnprouided body, latch'd mine arme;
And when he saw my best alarum'd spirits
Bold in the quarrels right, rouz'd to th' encounter,
Or whether gasted by the noyse I made,
Full sodainely he fled
Glost. Let him fly farre:
Not in this Land shall he remaine vncaught
And found; dispatch, the Noble Duke my Master,
My worthy Arch and Patron comes to night,
By his authoritie I will proclaime it,
That he which finds him shall deserue our thankes,
Bringing the murderous Coward to the stake:
He that conceales him death
Bast. When I disswaded him from his intent,
And found him pight to doe it, with curst speech
I threaten'd to discouer him; he replied,
Thou vnpossessing Bastard, dost thou thinke,
If I would stand against thee, would the reposall
Of any trust, vertue, or worth in thee
Make thy words faith'd? No, what should I denie,
(As this I would, though thou didst produce
My very Character) I'ld turne it all
To thy suggestion, plot, and damned practise:
And thou must make a dullard of the world,
If they not thought the profits of my death
Were very pregnant and potentiall spirits
To make thee seeke it.
Tucket within.
Glo. O strange and fastned Villaine,
Would he deny his Letter, said he?
Harke, the Dukes Trumpets, I know not wher he comes;
All Ports Ile barre, the villaine shall not scape,
The Duke must grant me that: besides, his picture
I will send farre and neere, that all the kingdome
May haue due note of him, and of my land,
(Loyall and naturall Boy) Ile worke the meanes
To make thee capable.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, and Attendants.
Corn. How now my Noble friend, since I came hither
(Which I can call but now,) I haue heard strangenesse
Reg. If it be true, all vengeance comes too short
Which can pursue th' offender; how dost my Lord?
Glo. O Madam, my old heart is crack'd, it's crack'd
Reg. What, did my Fathers Godsonne seeke your life?
He whom my Father nam'd, your Edgar?
Glo. O Lady, Lady, shame would haue it hid
Reg. Was he not companion with the riotous Knights
That tended vpon my Father?
Glo. I know not Madam, 'tis too bad, too bad
Bast. Yes Madam, he was of that consort
Reg. No maruaile then, though he were ill affected,
'Tis they haue put him on the old mans death,
To haue th' expence and wast of his Reuenues:
I haue this present euening from my Sister
Beene well inform'd of them, and with such cautions,
That if they come to soiourne at my house,
Ile not be there
Cor. Nor I, assure thee Regan;
Edmund, I heare that you haue shewne your Father
A Child-like Office
Bast. It was my duty Sir
Glo. He did bewray his practise, and receiu'd
This hurt you see, striuing to apprehend him
Cor. Is he pursued?
Glo. I my good Lord
Cor. If he be taken, he shall neuer more
Be fear'd of doing harme, make your owne purpose,
How in my strength you please: for you Edmund,
Whose vertue and obedience doth this instant
So much commend it selfe, you shall be ours,
Nature's of such deepe trust, we shall much need:
You we first seize on
Bast. I shall serue you Sir truely, how euer else
Glo. For him I thanke your Grace
Cor. You know not why we came to visit you?
Reg. Thus out of season, thredding darke ey'd night,
Occasions Noble Gloster of some prize,
Wherein we must haue vse of your aduise.
Our Father he hath writ, so hath our Sister,
Of differences, which I best thought it fit
To answere from our home: the seuerall Messengers
From hence attend dispatch, our good old Friend,
Lay comforts to your bosome, and bestow
Your needfull counsaile to our businesses,
Which craues the instant vse
Glo. I serue you Madam,
Your Graces are right welcome.
Exeunt. Flourish.
| Edmund hears that the Duke and Duchess of Cornwall are coming to his father's house. He decides it is time to put his plan fully into effect. He tells his brother that more evidence has come up against him. When his father comes, he makes him draw his sword. At Edmunds behest, Edgar flees making him look like a traitor. Edmund has a wound in his arm, and his father commends him for his service. Gloucester sentences Edgar to death if he is captured. The Duke and Duchess arrive and hear of the happenings and commend Edmund for his bravery. They tell Gloucester that they have come to seek refuge because of conflicting letters that they have received from Regan's sister and her father. If her father comes to her castle, they do not want to be there. Gloucester swears to give them all the aid they need until they can figure out who's message to believe and what to do about it | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Kent, and Steward seuerally.
Stew. Good dawning to thee Friend, art of this house?
Kent. I
Stew. Where may we set our horses?
Kent. I'th' myre
Stew. Prythee, if thou lou'st me, tell me
Kent. I loue thee not
Ste. Why then I care not for thee
Kent. If I had thee in Lipsbury Pinfold, I would make
thee care for me
Ste. Why do'st thou vse me thus? I know thee not
Kent. Fellow I know thee
Ste. What do'st thou know me for?
Kent. A Knaue, a Rascall, an eater of broken meates, a
base, proud, shallow, beggerly, three-suited-hundred
pound, filthy woosted-stocking knaue, a Lilly-liuered,
action-taking, whoreson glasse-gazing super-seruiceable
finicall Rogue, one Trunke-inheriting slaue, one that
would'st be a Baud in way of good seruice, and art nothing
but the composition of a Knaue, Begger, Coward,
Pandar, and the Sonne and Heire of a Mungrill Bitch,
one whom I will beate into clamours whining, if thou
deny'st the least sillable of thy addition
Stew. Why, what a monstrous Fellow art thou, thus
to raile on one, that is neither knowne of thee, nor
knowes thee?
Kent. What a brazen-fac'd Varlet art thou, to deny
thou knowest me? Is it two dayes since I tript vp thy
heeles, and beate thee before the King? Draw you rogue,
for though it be night, yet the Moone shines, Ile make a
sop oth' Moonshine of you, you whoreson Cullyenly
Barber-monger, draw
Stew. Away, I haue nothing to do with thee
Kent. Draw you Rascall, you come with Letters against
the King, and take Vanitie the puppets part, against
the Royaltie of her Father: draw you Rogue, or
Ile so carbonado your shanks, draw you Rascall, come
your waies
Ste. Helpe, ho, murther, helpe
Kent. Strike you slaue: stand rogue, stand you neat
slaue, strike
Stew. Helpe hoa, murther, murther.
Enter Bastard, Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Bast. How now, what's the matter? Part
Kent. With you goodman Boy, if you please, come,
Ile flesh ye, come on yong Master
Glo. Weapons? Armes? what's the matter here?
Cor. Keepe peace vpon your liues, he dies that strikes
againe, what is the matter?
Reg. The Messengers from our Sister, and the King?
Cor. What is your difference, speake?
Stew. I am scarce in breath my Lord
Kent. No Maruell, you haue so bestir'd your valour,
you cowardly Rascall, nature disclaimes in thee: a Taylor
made thee
Cor. Thou art a strange fellow, a Taylor make a man?
Kent. A Taylor Sir, a Stone-cutter, or a Painter, could
not haue made him so ill, though they had bin but two
yeares oth' trade
Cor. Speake yet, how grew your quarrell?
Ste. This ancient Ruffian Sir, whose life I haue spar'd
at sute of his gray-beard
Kent. Thou whoreson Zed, thou vnnecessary letter:
my Lord, if you will giue me leaue, I will tread this vnboulted
villaine into morter, and daube the wall of a
Iakes with him. Spare my gray-beard, you wagtaile?
Cor. Peace sirrah,
You beastly knaue, know you no reuerence?
Kent. Yes Sir, but anger hath a priuiledge
Cor. Why art thou angrie?
Kent. That such a slaue as this should weare a Sword,
Who weares no honesty: such smiling rogues as these,
Like Rats oft bite the holy cords a twaine,
Which are t' intrince, t' vnloose: smooth euery passion
That in the natures of their Lords rebell,
Being oile to fire, snow to the colder moodes,
Reuenge, affirme, and turne their Halcion beakes
With euery gall, and varry of their Masters,
Knowing naught (like dogges) but following:
A plague vpon your Epilepticke visage,
Smoile you my speeches, as I were a Foole?
Goose, if I had you vpon Sarum Plaine,
I'ld driue ye cackling home to Camelot
Corn. What art thou mad old Fellow?
Glost. How fell you out, say that?
Kent. No contraries hold more antipathy,
Then I, and such a knaue
Corn. Why do'st thou call him Knaue?
What is his fault?
Kent. His countenance likes me not
Cor. No more perchance do's mine, nor his, nor hers
Kent. Sir, 'tis my occupation to be plaine,
I haue seene better faces in my Time,
Then stands on any shoulder that I see
Before me, at this instant
Corn. This is some Fellow,
Who hauing beene prais'd for bluntnesse, doth affect
A saucy roughnes, and constraines the garb
Quite from his Nature. He cannot flatter he,
An honest mind and plaine, he must speake truth,
And they will take it so, if not, hee's plaine.
These kind of Knaues I know, which in this plainnesse
Harbour more craft, and more corrupter ends,
Then twenty silly-ducking obseruants,
That stretch their duties nicely
Kent. Sir, in good faith, in sincere verity,
Vnder th' allowance of your great aspect,
Whose influence like the wreath of radient fire
On flickring Phoebus front
Corn. What mean'st by this?
Kent. To go out of my dialect, which you discommend
so much; I know Sir, I am no flatterer, he that beguild
you in a plaine accent, was a plaine Knaue, which
for my part I will not be, though I should win your
displeasure to entreat me too't
Corn. What was th' offence you gaue him?
Ste. I neuer gaue him any:
It pleas'd the King his Master very late
To strike at me vpon his misconstruction,
When he compact, and flattering his displeasure
Tript me behind: being downe, insulted, rail'd,
And put vpon him such a deale of Man,
That worthied him, got praises of the King,
For him attempting, who was selfe-subdued,
And in the fleshment of this dead exploit,
Drew on me here againe
Kent. None of these Rogues, and Cowards
But Aiax is there Foole
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks?
You stubborne ancient Knaue, you reuerent Bragart,
Wee'l teach you
Kent. Sir, I am too old to learne:
Call not your Stocks for me, I serue the King.
On whose imployment I was sent to you,
You shall doe small respects, show too bold malice
Against the Grace, and Person of my Master,
Stocking his Messenger
Corn. Fetch forth the Stocks;
As I haue life and Honour, there shall he sit till Noone
Reg. Till noone? till night my Lord, and all night too
Kent. Why Madam, if I were your Fathers dog,
You should not vse me so
Reg. Sir, being his Knaue, I will.
Stocks brought out.
Cor. This is a Fellow of the selfe same colour,
Our Sister speakes of. Come, bring away the Stocks
Glo. Let me beseech your Grace, not to do so,
The King his Master, needs must take it ill
That he so slightly valued in his Messenger,
Should haue him thus restrained
Cor. Ile answere that
Reg. My Sister may recieue it much more worsse,
To haue her Gentleman abus'd, assaulted
Corn. Come my Lord, away.
Enter.
Glo. I am sorry for thee friend, 'tis the Dukes pleasure,
Whose disposition all the world well knowes
Will not be rub'd nor stopt, Ile entreat for thee
Kent. Pray do not Sir, I haue watch'd and trauail'd hard,
Some time I shall sleepe out, the rest Ile whistle:
A good mans fortune may grow out at heeles:
Giue you good morrow
Glo. The Duke's too blame in this,
'Twill be ill taken.
Enter.
Kent. Good King, that must approue the common saw,
Thou out of Heauens benediction com'st
To the warme Sun.
Approach thou Beacon to this vnder Globe,
That by thy comfortable Beames I may
Peruse this Letter. Nothing almost sees miracles
But miserie. I know 'tis from Cordelia,
Who hath most fortunately beene inform'd
Of my obscured course. And shall finde time
From this enormous State, seeking to giue
Losses their remedies. All weary and o're-watch'd,
Take vantage heauie eyes, not to behold
This shamefull lodging. Fortune goodnight,
Smile once more, turne thy wheele.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. I heard my selfe proclaim'd,
And by the happy hollow of a Tree,
Escap'd the hunt. No Port is free, no place
That guard, and most vnusall vigilance
Do's not attend my taking. Whiles I may scape
I will preserue myselfe: and am bethought
To take the basest, and most poorest shape
That euer penury in contempt of man,
Brought neere to beast; my face Ile grime with filth,
Blanket my loines, else all my haires in knots,
And with presented nakednesse out-face
The Windes, and persecutions of the skie;
The Country giues me proofe, and president
Of Bedlam beggers, who with roaring voices,
Strike in their num'd and mortified Armes.
Pins, Wodden-prickes, Nayles, Sprigs of Rosemarie:
And with this horrible obiect, from low Farmes,
Poore pelting Villages, Sheeps-Coates, and Milles,
Sometimes with Lunaticke bans, sometime with Praiers
Inforce their charitie: poore Turlygod poore Tom,
That's something yet: Edgar I nothing am.
Enter.
Enter Lear, Foole, and Gentleman.
Lea. 'Tis strange that they should so depart from home,
And not send backe my Messengers
Gent. As I learn'd,
The night before, there was no purpose in them
Of this remoue
Kent. Haile to thee Noble Master
Lear. Ha? Mak'st thou this shame thy pastime?
Kent. No my Lord
Foole. Hah, ha, he weares Cruell Garters Horses are
tide by the heads, Dogges and Beares by'th' necke,
Monkies by'th' loynes, and Men by'th' legs: when a man
ouerlustie at legs, then he weares wodden nether-stocks
Lear. What's he,
That hath so much thy place mistooke
To set thee heere?
Kent. It is both he and she,
Your Son, and Daughter
Lear. No
Kent. Yes
Lear. No I say
Kent. I say yea
Lear. By Iupiter I sweare no
Kent. By Iuno, I sweare I
Lear. They durst not do't:
They could not, would not do't: 'tis worse then murther,
To do vpon respect such violent outrage:
Resolue me with all modest haste, which way
Thou might'st deserue, or they impose this vsage,
Comming from vs
Kent. My Lord, when at their home
I did commend your Highnesse Letters to them,
Ere I was risen from the place, that shewed
My dutie kneeling, came there a reeking Poste,
Stew'd in his haste, halfe breathlesse, painting forth
From Gonerill his Mistris, salutations;
Deliuer'd Letters spight of intermission,
Which presently they read; on those contents
They summon'd vp their meiney, straight tooke Horse,
Commanded me to follow, and attend
The leisure of their answer, gaue me cold lookes,
And meeting heere the other Messenger,
Whose welcome I perceiu'd had poison'd mine,
Being the very fellow which of late
Displaid so sawcily against your Highnesse,
Hauing more man then wit about me, drew;
He rais'd the house, with loud and coward cries,
Your Sonne and Daughter found this trespasse worth
The shame which heere it suffers
Foole. Winters not gon yet, if the wil'd Geese fly that way,
Fathers that weare rags, do make their Children blind,
But Fathers that beare bags, shall see their children kind.
Fortune that arrant whore, nere turns the key toth' poore.
But for all this thou shalt haue as many Dolors for thy
Daughters, as thou canst tell in a yeare
Lear. Oh how this Mother swels vp toward my heart!
Historica passio, downe thou climing sorrow,
Thy Elements below where is this Daughter?
Kent. With the Earle Sir, here within
Lear. Follow me not, stay here.
Enter.
Gen. Made you no more offence,
But what you speake of?
Kent. None:
How chance the King comes with so small a number?
Foole. And thou hadst beene set i'th' Stockes for that
question, thoud'st well deseru'd it
Kent. Why Foole?
Foole. Wee'l set thee to schoole to an Ant, to teach
thee ther's no labouring i'th' winter. All that follow their
noses, are led by their eyes, but blinde men, and there's
not a nose among twenty, but can smell him that's stinking;
let go thy hold when a great wheele runs downe a
hill, least it breake thy necke with following. But the
great one that goes vpward, let him draw thee after:
when a wiseman giues thee better counsell giue me mine
againe, I would haue none but knaues follow it, since a
Foole giues it.
That Sir, which serues and seekes for gaine,
And followes but for forme;
Will packe, when it begins to raine,
And leaue thee in the storme,
But I will tarry, the Foole will stay,
And let the wiseman flie:
The knaue turnes Foole that runnes away,
The Foole no knaue perdie.
Enter Lear, and Gloster] :
Kent. Where learn'd you this Foole?
Foole. Not i'th' Stocks Foole
Lear. Deny to speake with me?
They are sicke, they are weary,
They haue trauail'd all the night? meere fetches,
The images of reuolt and flying off.
Fetch me a better answer
Glo. My deere Lord,
You know the fiery quality of the Duke,
How vnremoueable and fixt he is
In his owne course
Lear. Vengeance, Plague, Death, Confusion:
Fiery? What quality? Why Gloster, Gloster,
I'ld speake with the Duke of Cornewall, and his wife
Glo. Well my good Lord, I haue inform'd them so
Lear. Inform'd them? Do'st thou vnderstand me man
Glo. I my good Lord
Lear. The King would speake with Cornwall,
The deere Father
Would with his Daughter speake, commands, tends, seruice,
Are they inform'd of this? My breath and blood:
Fiery? The fiery Duke, tell the hot Duke that-
No, but not yet, may be he is not well,
Infirmity doth still neglect all office,
Whereto our health is bound, we are not our selues,
When Nature being opprest, commands the mind
To suffer with the body; Ile forbeare,
And am fallen out with my more headier will,
To take the indispos'd and sickly fit,
For the sound man. Death on my state: wherefore
Should he sit heere? This act perswades me,
That this remotion of the Duke and her
Is practise only. Giue me my Seruant forth;
Goe tell the Duke, and's wife, Il'd speake with them:
Now, presently: bid them come forth and heare me,
Or at their Chamber doore Ile beate the Drum,
Till it crie sleepe to death
Glo. I would haue all well betwixt you.
Enter.
Lear. Oh me my heart! My rising heart! But downe
Foole. Cry to it Nunckle, as the Cockney did to the
Eeles, when she put 'em i'th' Paste aliue, she knapt 'em
o'th' coxcombs with a sticke, and cryed downe wantons,
downe; 'twas her Brother, that in pure kindnesse to his
Horse buttered his Hay.
Enter Cornewall, Regan, Gloster, Seruants.
Lear. Good morrow to you both
Corn. Haile to your Grace.
Kent here set at liberty.
Reg. I am glad to see your Highnesse
Lear. Regan, I thinke you are. I know what reason
I haue to thinke so, if thou should'st not be glad,
I would diuorce me from thy Mother Tombe,
Sepulchring an Adultresse. O are you free?
Some other time for that. Beloued Regan,
Thy Sisters naught: oh Regan, she hath tied
Sharpe-tooth'd vnkindnesse, like a vulture heere,
I can scarce speake to thee, thou'lt not beleeue
With how deprau'd a quality. Oh Regan
Reg. I pray you Sir, take patience, I haue hope
You lesse know how to value her desert,
Then she to scant her dutie
Lear. Say? How is that?
Reg. I cannot thinke my Sister in the least
Would faile her Obligation. If Sir perchance
She haue restrained the Riots of your Followres,
'Tis on such ground, and to such wholesome end,
As cleeres her from all blame
Lear. My curses on her
Reg. O Sir, you are old,
Nature in you stands on the very Verge
Of his confine: you should be rul'd, and led
By some discretion, that discernes your state
Better then you your selfe: therefore I pray you,
That to our Sister, you do make returne,
Say you haue wrong'd her
Lear. Aske her forgiuenesse?
Do you but marke how this becomes the house?
Deere daughter, I confesse that I am old;
Age is vnnecessary: on my knees I begge,
That you'l vouchsafe me Rayment, Bed, and Food
Reg. Good Sir, no more: these are vnsightly trickes:
Returne you to my Sister
Lear. Neuer Regan:
She hath abated me of halfe my Traine;
Look'd blacke vpon me, strooke me with her Tongue
Most Serpent-like, vpon the very Heart.
All the stor'd Vengeances of Heauen, fall
On her ingratefull top: strike her yong bones
You taking Ayres, with Lamenesse
Corn. Fye sir, fie
Le. You nimble Lightnings, dart your blinding flames
Into her scornfull eyes: Infect her Beauty,
You Fen-suck'd Fogges, drawne by the powrfull Sunne,
To fall, and blister
Reg. O the blest Gods!
So will you wish on me, when the rash moode is on
Lear. No Regan, thou shalt neuer haue my curse:
Thy tender-hefted Nature shall not giue
Thee o're to harshnesse: Her eyes are fierce, but thine
Do comfort, and not burne. 'Tis not in thee
To grudge my pleasures, to cut off my Traine,
To bandy hasty words, to scant my sizes,
And in conclusion, to oppose the bolt
Against my comming in. Thou better know'st
The Offices of Nature, bond of Childhood,
Effects of Curtesie, dues of Gratitude:
Thy halfe o'th' Kingdome hast thou not forgot,
Wherein I thee endow'd
Reg. Good Sir, to'th' purpose.
Tucket within.
Lear. Who put my man i'th' Stockes?
Enter Steward.
Corn. What Trumpet's that?
Reg. I know't, my Sisters: this approues her Letter,
That she would soone be heere. Is your Lady come?
Lear. This is a Slaue, whose easie borrowed pride
Dwels in the sickly grace of her he followes.
Out Varlet, from my sight
Corn. What meanes your Grace?
Enter Gonerill.
Lear. Who stockt my Seruant? Regan, I haue good hope
Thou did'st not know on't.
Who comes here? O Heauens!
If you do loue old men; if your sweet sway
Allow Obedience; if you your selues are old,
Make it your cause: Send downe, and take my part.
Art not asham'd to looke vpon this Beard?
O Regan, will you take her by the hand?
Gon. Why not by'th' hand Sir? How haue I offended?
All's not offence that indiscretion findes,
And dotage termes so
Lear. O sides, you are too tough!
Will you yet hold?
How came my man i'th' Stockes?
Corn. I set him there, Sir: but his owne Disorders
Deseru'd much lesse aduancement
Lear. You? Did you?
Reg. I pray you Father being weake, seeme so.
If till the expiration of your Moneth
You will returne and soiourne with my Sister,
Dismissing halfe your traine, come then to me,
I am now from home, and out of that prouision
Which shall be needfull for your entertainement
Lear. Returne to her? and fifty men dismiss'd?
No, rather I abiure all roofes, and chuse
To wage against the enmity oth' ayre,
To be a Comrade with the Wolfe, and Owle,
Necessities sharpe pinch. Returne with her?
Why the hot-bloodied France, that dowerlesse tooke
Our yongest borne, I could as well be brought
To knee his Throne, and Squire-like pension beg,
To keepe base life a foote; returne with her?
Perswade me rather to be slaue and sumpter
To this detested groome
Gon. At your choice Sir
Lear. I prythee Daughter do not make me mad,
I will not trouble thee my Child; farewell:
Wee'l no more meete, no more see one another.
But yet thou art my flesh, my blood, my Daughter,
Or rather a disease that's in my flesh,
Which I must needs call mine. Thou art a Byle,
A plague sore, or imbossed Carbuncle
In my corrupted blood. But Ile not chide thee,
Let shame come when it will, I do not call it,
I do not bid the Thunder-bearer shoote,
Nor tell tales of thee to high-iudging Ioue,
Mend when thou can'st, be better at thy leisure,
I can be patient, I can stay with Regan,
I and my hundred Knights
Reg. Not altogether so,
I look'd not for you yet, nor am prouided
For your fit welcome, giue eare Sir to my Sister,
For those that mingle reason with your passion,
Must be content to thinke you old, and so,
But she knowes what she doe's
Lear. Is this well spoken?
Reg. I dare auouch it Sir, what fifty Followers?
Is it not well? What should you need of more?
Yea, or so many? Sith that both charge and danger,
Speake 'gainst so great a number? How in one house
Should many people, vnder two commands
Hold amity? 'Tis hard, almost impossible
Gon. Why might not you my Lord, receiue attendance
From those that she cals Seruants, or from mine?
Reg. Why not my Lord?
If then they chanc'd to slacke ye,
We could comptroll them; if you will come to me,
(For now I spie a danger) I entreate you
To bring but fiue and twentie, to no more
Will I giue place or notice
Lear. I gaue you all
Reg. And in good time you gaue it
Lear. Made you my Guardians, my Depositaries,
But kept a reseruation to be followed
With such a number? What, must I come to you
With fiue and twenty? Regan, said you so?
Reg. And speak't againe my Lord, no more with me
Lea. Those wicked Creatures yet do look wel fauor'd
When others are more wicked, not being the worst
Stands in some ranke of praise, Ile go with thee,
Thy fifty yet doth double fiue and twenty,
And thou art twice her Loue
Gon. Heare me my Lord;
What need you fiue and twenty? Ten? Or fiue?
To follow in a house, where twice so many
Haue a command to tend you?
Reg. What need one?
Lear. O reason not the need: our basest Beggers
Are in the poorest thing superfluous.
Allow not Nature, more then Nature needs:
Mans life is cheape as Beastes. Thou art a Lady;
If onely to go warme were gorgeous,
Why Nature needs not what thou gorgeous wear'st,
Which scarcely keepes thee warme, but for true need:
You Heauens, giue me that patience, patience I need,
You see me heere (you Gods) a poore old man,
As full of griefe as age, wretched in both,
If it be you that stirres these Daughters hearts
Against their Father, foole me not so much,
To beare it tamely: touch me with Noble anger,
And let not womens weapons, water drops,
Staine my mans cheekes. No you vnnaturall Hags,
I will haue such reuenges on you both,
That all the world shall- I will do such things,
What they are yet, I know not, but they shalbe
The terrors of the earth? you thinke Ile weepe,
No, Ile not weepe, I haue full cause of weeping.
Storme and Tempest.
But this heart shal break into a hundred thousand flawes
Or ere Ile weepe; O Foole, I shall go mad.
Exeunt.
Corn. Let vs withdraw, 'twill be a Storme
Reg. This house is little, the old man and's people,
Cannot be well bestow'd
Gon. 'Tis his owne blame hath put himselfe from rest,
And must needs taste his folly
Reg. For his particular, Ile receiue him gladly,
But not one follower
Gon. So am I purpos'd,
Where is my Lord of Gloster?
Enter Gloster.
Corn. Followed the old man forth, he is return'd
Glo. The King is in high rage
Corn. Whether is he going?
Glo. He cals to Horse, but will I know not whether
Corn. 'Tis best to giue him way, he leads himselfe
Gon. My Lord, entreate him by no meanes to stay
Glo. Alacke the night comes on, and the high windes
Do sorely ruffle, for many Miles about
There's scarce a Bush
Reg. O Sir, to wilfull men,
The iniuries that they themselues procure,
Must be their Schoole-Masters: shut vp your doores,
He is attended with a desperate traine,
And what they may incense him too, being apt,
To haue his eare abus'd, wisedome bids feare
Cor. Shut vp your doores my Lord, 'tis a wil'd night,
My Regan counsels well: come out oth' storme.
Exeunt.
| Kent and Oswald, messengers from Lear and Goneril, meet in the courtyard of Gloucester. Kent recognizes the steward and starts to berate him and challenges him to a fight because of his purpose against the king. Oswald refuses the fight, but Kent begins to beat him anyway. Gloucester, Regan, the Duke of Cornwall, and Edmund all appear and ask why they are fighting. When they explain, Regan sees the similarities between Kent, and the King's men her sister was complaining about, and has him put into the stocks. Everyone but Gloucester leaves Kent, and he promises the imprisoned messenger to help him in anyway possible | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Storme still. Enter Lear, and Foole.
Lear. Blow windes, & crack your cheeks; Rage, blow
You Cataracts, and Hyrricano's spout,
Till you haue drench'd our Steeples, drown the Cockes.
You Sulph'rous and Thought-executing Fires,
Vaunt-curriors of Oake-cleauing Thunder-bolts,
Sindge my white head. And thou all-shaking Thunder,
Strike flat the thicke Rotundity o'th' world,
Cracke Natures moulds, all germaines spill at once
That makes ingratefull Man
Foole. O Nunkle, Court holy-water in a dry house, is
better then this Rain-water out o' doore. Good Nunkle,
in, aske thy Daughters blessing, heere's a night pitties
neither Wisemen, nor Fooles
Lear. Rumble thy belly full: spit Fire, spowt Raine:
Nor Raine, Winde, Thunder, Fire are my Daughters;
I taxe not you, you Elements with vnkindnesse.
I neuer gaue you Kingdome, call'd you Children;
You owe me no subscription. Then let fall
Your horrible pleasure. Heere I stand your Slaue,
A poore, infirme, weake, and dispis'd old man:
But yet I call you Seruile Ministers,
That will with two pernicious Daughters ioyne
Your high-engender'd Battailes, 'gainst a head
So old, and white as this. O, ho! 'tis foule
Foole. He that has a house to put's head in, has a good
Head-peece:
The Codpiece that will house, before the head has any;
The Head, and he shall Lowse: so Beggers marry many.
The man y makes his Toe, what he his Hart shold make,
Shall of a Corne cry woe, and turne his sleepe to wake.
For there was neuer yet faire woman, but shee made
mouthes in a glasse.
Enter Kent
Lear. No, I will be the patterne of all patience,
I will say nothing
Kent. Who's there?
Foole. Marry here's Grace, and a Codpiece, that's a
Wiseman, and a Foole
Kent. Alas Sir are you here? Things that loue night,
Loue not such nights as these: The wrathfull Skies
Gallow the very wanderers of the darke
And make them keepe their Caues: Since I was man,
Such sheets of Fire, such bursts of horrid Thunder,
Such groanes of roaring Winde, and Raine, I neuer
Remember to haue heard. Mans Nature cannot carry
Th' affliction, nor the feare
Lear. Let the great Goddes
That keepe this dreadfull pudder o're our heads,
Finde out their enemies now. Tremble thou Wretch,
That hast within thee vndivulged Crimes
Vnwhipt of Iustice. Hide thee, thou Bloudy hand;
Thou Periur'd, and thou Simular of Vertue
That art Incestuous. Caytiffe, to peeces shake
That vnder couert, and conuenient seeming
Ha's practis'd on mans life. Close pent-vp guilts,
Riue your concealing Continents, and cry
These dreadfull Summoners grace. I am a man,
More sinn'd against, then sinning
Kent. Alacke, bare-headed?
Gracious my Lord, hard by heere is a Houell,
Some friendship will it lend you 'gainst the Tempest:
Repose you there, while I to this hard house,
(More harder then the stones whereof 'tis rais'd,
Which euen but now, demanding after you,
Deny'd me to come in) returne, and force
Their scanted curtesie
Lear. My wits begin to turne.
Come on my boy. How dost my boy? Art cold?
I am cold my selfe. Where is this straw, my Fellow?
The Art of our Necessities is strange,
And can make vilde things precious. Come, your Houel;
Poore Foole, and Knaue, I haue one part in my heart
That's sorry yet for thee
Foole. He that has and a little-tyne wit,
With heigh-ho, the Winde and the Raine,
Must make content with his Fortunes fit,
Though the Raine it raineth euery day
Le. True Boy: Come bring vs to this Houell.
Enter.
Foole. This is a braue night to coole a Curtizan:
Ile speake a Prophesie ere I go:
When Priests are more in word, then matter;
When Brewers marre their Malt with water;
When Nobles are their Taylors Tutors,
No Heretiques burn'd, but wenches Sutors;
When euery Case in Law, is right;
No Squire in debt, nor no poore Knight;
When Slanders do not liue in Tongues;
Nor Cut-purses come not to throngs;
When Vsurers tell their Gold i'th' Field,
And Baudes, and whores, do Churches build,
Then shal the Realme of Albion, come to great confusion:
Then comes the time, who liues to see't,
That going shalbe vs'd with feet.
This prophecie Merlin shall make, for I liue before his time.
Enter.
| Lear and the Fool are caught out in the storm. The Fool begs him to go back to his daughters to seek shelter, but he refuses. Kent finds them and tells them that he has found a hovel in which they can take shelter. He leads them there to stay throughout the storm | summary |
Enter Gloster, and Edmund.
Glo. Alacke, alacke Edmund, I like not this vnnaturall
dealing; when I desired their leaue that I might pity him,
they tooke from me the vse of mine owne house, charg'd
me on paine of perpetuall displeasure, neither to speake
of him, entreat for him, or any way sustaine him
Bast. Most sauage and vnnaturall
Glo. Go too; say you nothing. There is diuision betweene
the Dukes, and a worsse matter then that: I haue
receiued a Letter this night, 'tis dangerous to be spoken,
I haue lock'd the Letter in my Closset, these iniuries the
King now beares, will be reuenged home; ther is part of
a Power already footed, we must incline to the King, I
will looke him, and priuily relieue him; goe you and
maintaine talke with the Duke, that my charity be not of
him perceiued; If he aske for me, I am ill, and gone to
bed, if I die for it, (as no lesse is threatned me) the King
my old Master must be relieued. There is strange things
toward Edmund, pray you be carefull.
Enter.
Bast. This Curtesie forbid thee, shall the Duke
Instantly know, and of that Letter too;
This seemes a faire deseruing, and must draw me
That which my Father looses: no lesse then all,
The yonger rises, when the old doth fall.
Enter.
| Gloucester does not like the way the duke and duchesses are treating their father. He tells Edmund of a letter he received about the division happening between the dukes and the French involvement. Gloucester decides to go to the ex-kings aid, and Edmund decides to capitalize on his father's decision. With instructions to make excuses for him if he is needed, Gloucester leaves, and Edmund goes to reveal what he knows to Cornwall | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Lear, Kent, and Foole.
Kent. Here is the place my Lord, good my Lord enter,
The tirrany of the open night's too rough
For Nature to endure.
Storme still
Lear. Let me alone
Kent. Good my Lord enter heere
Lear. Wilt breake my heart?
Kent. I had rather breake mine owne,
Good my Lord enter
Lear. Thou think'st 'tis much that this contentious storme
Inuades vs to the skin so: 'tis to thee,
But where the greater malady is fixt,
The lesser is scarce felt. Thou'dst shun a Beare,
But if thy flight lay toward the roaring sea,
Thou'dst meete the Beare i'th' mouth, when the mind's free,
The bodies delicate: the tempest in my mind,
Doth from my sences take all feeling else,
Saue what beates there, Filliall ingratitude,
Is it not as this mouth should teare this hand
For lifting food too't? But I will punish home;
No, I will weepe no more; in such a night,
To shut me out? Poure on, I will endure:
In such a night as this? O Regan, Gonerill,
Your old kind Father, whose franke heart gaue all,
O that way madnesse lies, let me shun that:
No more of that
Kent. Good my Lord enter here
Lear. Prythee go in thy selfe, seeke thine owne ease,
This tempest will not giue me leaue to ponder
On things would hurt me more, but Ile goe in,
In Boy, go first. You houselesse pouertie,
Enter.
Nay get thee in; Ile pray, and then Ile sleepe.
Poore naked wretches, where so ere you are
That bide the pelting of this pittilesse storme,
How shall your House-lesse heads, and vnfed sides,
Your lop'd, and window'd raggednesse defend you
From seasons such as these? O I haue tane
Too little care of this: Take Physicke, Pompe,
Expose thy selfe to feele what wretches feele,
That thou maist shake the superflux to them,
And shew the Heauens more iust.
Enter Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fathom, and halfe, Fathom and halfe; poore Tom
Foole. Come not in heere Nuncle, here's a spirit, helpe
me, helpe me
Kent. Giue my thy hand, who's there?
Foole. A spirite, a spirite, he sayes his name's poore
Tom
Kent. What art thou that dost grumble there i'th'
straw? Come forth
Edg. Away, the foule Fiend followes me, through the
sharpe Hauthorne blow the windes. Humh, goe to thy
bed and warme thee
Lear. Did'st thou giue all to thy Daughters? And art
thou come to this?
Edgar. Who giues any thing to poore Tom? Whom
the foule fiend hath led through Fire, and through Flame,
through Sword, and Whirle-Poole, o're Bog, and Quagmire,
that hath laid Kniues vnder his Pillow, and Halters
in his Pue, set Rats-bane by his Porredge, made him
Proud of heart, to ride on a Bay trotting Horse, ouer foure
incht Bridges, to course his owne shadow for a Traitor.
Blisse thy fiue Wits, Toms a cold. O do, de, do, de, do, de,
blisse thee from Whirle-Windes, Starre-blasting, and taking,
do poore Tom some charitie, whom the foule Fiend
vexes. There could I haue him now, and there, and there
againe, and there.
Storme still.
Lear. Ha's his Daughters brought him to this passe?
Could'st thou saue nothing? Would'st thou giue 'em all?
Foole. Nay, he reseru'd a Blanket, else we had bin all
sham'd
Lea. Now all the plagues that in the pendulous ayre
Hang fated o're mens faults, light on thy Daughters
Kent. He hath no Daughters Sir
Lear. Death Traitor, nothing could haue subdu'd Nature
To such a lownesse, but his vnkind Daughters.
Is it the fashion, that discarded Fathers,
Should haue thus little mercy on their flesh:
Iudicious punishment, 'twas this flesh begot
Those Pelicane Daughters
Edg. Pillicock sat on Pillicock hill, alow: alow, loo, loo
Foole. This cold night will turne vs all to Fooles, and
Madmen
Edgar. Take heed o'th' foule Fiend, obey thy Parents,
keepe thy words Iustice, sweare not, commit not,
with mans sworne Spouse: set not thy Sweet-heart on
proud array. Tom's a cold
Lear. What hast thou bin?
Edg. A Seruingman? Proud in heart, and minde; that
curl'd my haire, wore Gloues in my cap; seru'd the Lust
of my Mistris heart, and did the acte of darkenesse with
her. Swore as many Oathes, as I spake words, & broke
them in the sweet face of Heauen. One, that slept in the
contriuing of Lust, and wak'd to doe it. Wine lou'd I
deerely, Dice deerely; and in Woman, out-Paramour'd
the Turke. False of heart, light of eare, bloody of hand;
Hog in sloth, Foxe in stealth, Wolfe in greedinesse, Dog
in madnes, Lyon in prey. Let not the creaking of shooes,
Nor the rustling of Silkes, betray thy poore heart to woman.
Keepe thy foote out of Brothels, thy hand out of
Plackets, thy pen from Lenders Bookes, and defye the
foule Fiend. Still through the Hauthorne blowes the
cold winde: Sayes suum, mun, nonny, Dolphin my Boy,
Boy Sesey: let him trot by.
Storme still.
Lear. Thou wert better in a Graue, then to answere
with thy vncouer'd body, this extremitie of the Skies. Is
man no more then this? Consider him well. Thou ow'st
the Worme no Silke; the Beast, no Hide; the Sheepe, no
Wooll; the Cat, no perfume. Ha? Here's three on's are
sophisticated. Thou art the thing it selfe; vnaccommodated
man, is no more but such a poore, bare, forked Animall
as thou art. Off, off you Lendings: Come, vnbutton
heere.
Enter Gloucester, with a Torch.
Foole. Prythee Nunckle be contented, 'tis a naughtie
night to swimme in. Now a little fire in a wilde Field,
were like an old Letchers heart, a small spark, all the rest
on's body, cold: Looke, heere comes a walking fire
Edg. This is the foule Flibbertigibbet; hee begins at
Curfew, and walkes at first Cocke: Hee giues the Web
and the Pin, squints the eye, and makes the Hare-lippe;
Mildewes the white Wheate, and hurts the poore Creature
of earth.
Swithold footed thrice the old,
He met the Night-Mare, and her nine-fold;
Bid her a-light, and her troth-plight,
And aroynt thee Witch, aroynt thee
Kent. How fares your Grace?
Lear. What's he?
Kent. Who's there? What is't you seeke?
Glou. What are you there? Your Names?
Edg. Poore Tom, that eates the swimming Frog, the
Toad, the Tod-pole, the wall-Neut, and the water: that
in the furie of his heart, when the foule Fiend rages, eats
Cow-dung for Sallets; swallowes the old Rat, and the
ditch-Dogge; drinkes the green Mantle of the standing
Poole: who is whipt from Tything to Tything, and
stockt, punish'd, and imprison'd: who hath three Suites
to his backe, sixe shirts to his body:
Horse to ride, and weapon to weare:
But Mice, and Rats, and such small Deare,
Haue bin Toms food, for seuen long yeare:
Beware my Follower. Peace Smulkin, peace thou Fiend
Glou. What, hath your Grace no better company?
Edg. The Prince of Darkenesse is a Gentleman. Modo
he's call'd, and Mahu
Glou. Our flesh and blood, my Lord, is growne so
vilde, that it doth hate what gets it
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold
Glou. Go in with me; my duty cannot suffer
T' obey in all your daughters hard commands:
Though their Iniunction be to barre my doores,
And let this Tyrannous night take hold vpon you,
Yet haue I ventured to come seeke you out,
And bring you where both fire, and food is ready
Lear. First let me talke with this Philosopher,
What is the cause of Thunder?
Kent. Good my Lord take his offer,
Go into th' house
Lear. Ile talke a word with this same lerned Theban:
What is your study?
Edg. How to preuent the Fiend, and to kill Vermine
Lear. Let me aske you one word in priuate
Kent. Importune him once more to go my Lord,
His wits begin t' vnsettle
Glou. Canst thou blame him?
Storm still
His Daughters seeke his death: Ah, that good Kent,
He said it would be thus: poore banish'd man:
Thou sayest the King growes mad, Ile tell thee Friend
I am almost mad my selfe. I had a Sonne,
Now out-law'd from my blood: he sought my life
But lately: very late: I lou'd him (Friend)
No Father his Sonne deerer: true to tell thee,
The greefe hath craz'd my wits. What a night's this?
I do beseech your grace
Lear. O cry you mercy, Sir:
Noble Philosopher, your company
Edg. Tom's a cold
Glou. In fellow there, into th' Houel; keep thee warm
Lear. Come, let's in all
Kent. This way, my Lord
Lear. With him;
I will keepe still with my Philosopher
Kent. Good my Lord, sooth him:
Let him take the Fellow
Glou. Take him you on
Kent. Sirra, come on: go along with vs
Lear. Come, good Athenian
Glou. No words, no words, hush
Edg. Childe Rowland to the darke Tower came,
His word was still, fie, foh, and fumme,
I smell the blood of a Brittish man.
Exeunt.
| Lear and his men reach the hovel, and he mourns that his daughters have betrayed him. When they enter the hovel, they find Edgar disguised as a madman. When the madman speaks, Lear wonders if it was the man's daughters that drove him mad. He laments on how daughters are the roots of the evils in his life. The men begin talking to the beggar, and Gloucester enters telling them that he doesn't approve of the way they have been treated. Lear decides that he likes the beggar and continues having conversations with him while Gloucester tries to get the men to come to a house he has prepared for them. Kent and Gloucester think that Lear is beginning to go mad, and Gloucester himself admits that he feels like he's going mad with everything that happened with Edgar. They all remove to the house Gloucester has prepared, and Lear decides that he must take the beggar too because he enjoys talking to him | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Cornwall, and Edmund.
Corn. I will haue my reuenge, ere I depart his house
Bast. How my Lord, I may be censured, that Nature
thus giues way to Loyaltie, something feares mee to
thinke of
Cornw. I now perceiue, it was not altogether your
Brothers euill disposition made him seeke his death: but
a prouoking merit set a-worke by a reprouable badnesse
in himselfe
Bast. How malicious is my fortune, that I must repent
to be iust? This is the Letter which hee spoake of;
which approues him an intelligent partie to the aduantages
of France. O Heauens! that this Treason were not;
or not I the detector
Corn. Go with me to the Dutchesse
Bast. If the matter of this Paper be certain, you haue
mighty businesse in hand
Corn. True or false, it hath made thee Earle of Gloucester:
seeke out where thy Father is, that hee may bee
ready for our apprehension
Bast. If I finde him comforting the King, it will stuffe
his suspition more fully. I will perseuer in my course of
Loyalty, though the conflict be sore betweene that, and
my blood
Corn. I will lay trust vpon thee: and thou shalt finde
a deere Father in my loue.
Exeunt.
| Edmund gives Cornwall the incriminating letter from the French and he is very angry. For the bastard's loyalty, Cornwall makes him the Earl of Gloucester, and his father an outlaw. Cornwall tells Edmund that he must accompany him to see Regan | summary |
Scena Sexta.
Enter Kent, and Gloucester.
Glou. Heere is better then the open ayre, take it thankfully:
I will peece out the comfort with what addition I
can: I will not be long from you.
Exit
Kent. All the powre of his wits, haue giuen way to his
impatience: the Gods reward your kindnesse.
Enter Lear, Edgar, and Foole.
Edg. Fraterretto cals me, and tells me Nero is an Angler
in the Lake of Darknesse: pray Innocent, and beware
the foule Fiend
Foole. Prythee Nunkle tell me, whether a madman be
a Gentleman, or a Yeoman
Lear. A King, a King
Foole. No, he's a Yeoman, that ha's a Gentleman to
his Sonne: for hee's a mad Yeoman that sees his Sonne a
Gentleman before him
Lear. To haue a thousand with red burning spits
Come hizzing in vpon 'em
Edg. Blesse thy fiue wits
Kent. O pitty: Sir, where is the patience now
That you so oft haue boasted to retaine?
Edg. My teares begin to take his part so much,
They marre my counterfetting
Lear. The little dogges, and all;
Trey, Blanch, and Sweet-heart: see, they barke at me
Edg. Tom, will throw his head at them: Auaunt you
Curres, be thy mouth or blacke or white:
Tooth that poysons if it bite:
Mastiffe, Grey-hound, Mongrill, Grim,
Hound or Spaniell, Brache, or Hym:
Or Bobtaile tight, or Troudle taile,
Tom will make him weepe and waile,
For with throwing thus my head;
Dogs leapt the hatch, and all are fled.
Do, de, de, de: sese: Come, march to Wakes and Fayres,
And Market Townes: poore Tom thy horne is dry,
Lear. Then let them Anatomize Regan: See what
breeds about her heart. Is there any cause in Nature that
make these hard-hearts. You sir, I entertaine for one of
my hundred; only, I do not like the fashion of your garments.
You will say they are Persian; but let them bee
chang'd.
Enter Gloster.
Kent. Now good my Lord, lye heere, and rest awhile
Lear. Make no noise, make no noise, draw the Curtaines:
so, so, wee'l go to Supper i'th' morning
Foole. And Ile go to bed at noone
Glou. Come hither Friend:
Where is the King my Master?
Kent. Here Sir, but trouble him not, his wits are gon
Glou. Good friend, I prythee take him in thy armes;
I haue ore-heard a plot of death vpon him:
There is a Litter ready, lay him in't,
And driue toward Douer friend, where thou shalt meete
Both welcome, and protection. Take vp thy Master,
If thou should'st dally halfe an houre, his life
With thine, and all that offer to defend him,
Stand in assured losse. Take vp, take vp,
And follow me, that will to some prouision
Giue thee quicke conduct. Come, come, away.
Exeunt.
| When the men in the storm arrive at the house that Gloucester has prepared for them, the king decides to put his daughters to a mock trial. Kent urges him to sleep, but in his madness he can only think about punishing his children. Gloucester has left them to go back to his castle, but promises to be back soon. When their trial is over, Lear decides to finally sleep. Gloucester returns and tells Kent that he overheard a plot to kill the king. He urges the men to take him to Dover and meet up with the French forces where he will be safe | summary |
Scena Septima.
Enter Cornwall, Regan, Gonerill, Bastard, and Seruants.
Corn. Poste speedily to my Lord your husband, shew
him this Letter, the Army of France is landed: seeke out
the Traitor Glouster
Reg. Hang him instantly
Gon. Plucke out his eyes
Corn. Leaue him to my displeasure. Edmond, keepe
you our Sister company: the reuenges wee are bound to
take vppon your Traitorous Father, are not fit for your
beholding. Aduice the Duke where you are going, to a
most festinate preparation: we are bound to the like. Our
Postes shall be swift, and intelligent betwixt vs. Farewell
deere Sister, farewell my Lord of Glouster.
Enter Steward.
How now? Where's the King?
Stew. My Lord of Glouster hath conuey'd him hence
Some fiue or six and thirty of his Knights
Hot Questrists after him, met him at gate,
Who, with some other of the Lords, dependants,
Are gone with him toward Douer; where they boast
To haue well armed Friends
Corn. Get horses for your Mistris
Gon. Farewell sweet Lord, and Sister.
Exit
Corn. Edmund farewell: go seek the Traitor Gloster,
Pinnion him like a Theefe, bring him before vs:
Though well we may not passe vpon his life
Without the forme of Iustice: yet our power
Shall do a curt'sie to our wrath, which men
May blame, but not comptroll.
Enter Gloucester, and Seruants.
Who's there? the Traitor?
Reg. Ingratefull Fox, 'tis he
Corn. Binde fast his corky armes
Glou. What meanes your Graces?
Good my Friends consider you are my Ghests:
Do me no foule play, Friends
Corn. Binde him I say
Reg. Hard, hard: O filthy Traitor
Glou. Vnmercifull Lady, as you are, I'me none
Corn. To this Chaire binde him,
Villaine, thou shalt finde
Glou. By the kinde Gods, 'tis most ignobly done
To plucke me by the Beard
Reg. So white, and such a Traitor?
Glou. Naughty Ladie,
These haires which thou dost rauish from my chin
Will quicken and accuse thee. I am your Host,
With Robbers hands, my hospitable fauours
You should not ruffle thus. What will you do?
Corn. Come Sir.
What Letters had you late from France?
Reg. Be simple answer'd, for we know the truth
Corn. And what confederacie haue you with the Traitors,
late footed in the Kingdome?
Reg. To whose hands
You haue sent the Lunaticke King: Speake
Glou. I haue a Letter guessingly set downe
Which came from one that's of a newtrall heart,
And not from one oppos'd
Corn. Cunning
Reg. And false
Corn. Where hast thou sent the King?
Glou. To Douer
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Was't thou not charg'd at perill
Corn. Wherefore to Douer? Let him answer that
Glou. I am tyed to'th' Stake,
And I must stand the Course
Reg. Wherefore to Douer?
Glou. Because I would not see thy cruell Nailes
Plucke out his poore old eyes: nor thy fierce Sister,
In his Annointed flesh, sticke boarish phangs.
The Sea, with such a storme as his bare head,
In Hell-blacke-night indur'd, would haue buoy'd vp
And quench'd the Stelled fires:
Yet poore old heart, he holpe the Heauens to raine.
If Wolues had at thy Gate howl'd that sterne time,
Thou should'st haue said, good Porter turne the Key:
All Cruels else subscribe: but I shall see
The winged Vengeance ouertake such Children
Corn. See't shalt thou neuer. Fellowes hold y Chaire,
Vpon these eyes of thine, Ile set my foote
Glou. He that will thinke to liue, till he be old,
Giue me some helpe. - O cruell! O you Gods
Reg. One side will mocke another: Th' other too
Corn. If you see vengeance
Seru. Hold your hand, my Lord:
I haue seru'd you euer since I was a Childe:
But better seruice haue I neuer done you,
Then now to bid you hold
Reg. How now, you dogge?
Ser. If you did weare a beard vpon your chin,
I'ld shake it on this quarrell. What do you meane?
Corn. My Villaine?
Seru. Nay then come on, and take the chance of anger
Reg. Giue me thy Sword. A pezant stand vp thus?
Killes him.
Ser. Oh I am slaine: my Lord, you haue one eye left
To see some mischefe on him. Oh
Corn. Lest it see more, preuent it; Out vilde gelly:
Where is thy luster now?
Glou. All darke and comfortlesse?
Where's my Sonne Edmund?
Edmund, enkindle all the sparkes of Nature
To quit this horrid acte
Reg. Out treacherous Villaine,
Thou call'st on him, that hates thee. It was he
That made the ouerture of thy Treasons to vs:
Who is too good to pitty thee
Glou. O my Follies! then Edgar was abus'd,
Kinde Gods, forgiue me that, and prosper him
Reg. Go thrust him out at gates, and let him smell
His way to Douer.
Exit with Glouster.
How is't my Lord? How looke you?
Corn. I haue receiu'd a hurt: Follow me Lady;
Turne out that eyelesse Villaine: throw this Slaue
Vpon the Dunghill: Regan, I bleed apace,
Vntimely comes this hurt. Giue me your arme.
Exeunt.
| Cornwall gives a copy of the incriminating French letter to Goneril and instructs her to take it to her husband, the Duke of Albany. He sends men to find the traitor Duke of Gloucester and sends Edmund with Goneril so he will not have to witness his father's demise. Word comes in that the king is being taken to Dover to meet up with the French forces. Cornwall issues more orders and Gloucester enters no knowing he is considered a traitor. They bind him and torture him by forcing out his eyes. One of the servants tries to stop Cornwall but is killed. Gloucester calls for Edmund, but the Duchess tells him that his son was their informant. The Earl realizes that Edgar was innocent and it was his brother who betrayed him. The Duke was hurt in the skirmish however, and they have to retreat into the castle to take care of his wounds releasing the eyeless Earl | summary |
Actus Quartus. Scena Prima.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. Yet better thus, and knowne to be contemn'd,
Then still contemn'd and flatter'd, to be worst:
The lowest, and most deiected thing of Fortune,
Stands still in esperance, liues not in feare:
The lamentable change is from the best,
The worst returnes to laughter. Welcome then,
Thou vnsubstantiall ayre that I embrace:
The Wretch that thou hast blowne vnto the worst,
Owes nothing to thy blasts.
Enter Glouster, and an Oldman.
But who comes heere? My Father poorely led?
World, World, O world!
But that thy strange mutations make vs hate thee,
Life would not yeelde to age
Oldm. O my good Lord, I haue bene your Tenant,
And your Fathers Tenant, these fourescore yeares
Glou. Away, get thee away: good Friend be gone,
Thy comforts can do me no good at all,
Thee, they may hurt
Oldm. You cannot see your way
Glou. I haue no way, and therefore want no eyes:
I stumbled when I saw. Full oft 'tis seene,
Our meanes secure vs, and our meere defects
Proue our Commodities. Oh deere Sonne Edgar,
The food of thy abused Fathers wrath:
Might I but liue to see thee in my touch,
I'ld say I had eyes againe
Oldm. How now? who's there?
Edg. O Gods! Who is't can say I am at the worst?
I am worse then ere I was
Old. 'Tis poore mad Tom
Edg. And worse I may be yet: the worst is not,
So long as we can say this is the worst
Oldm. Fellow, where goest?
Glou. Is it a Beggar-man?
Oldm. Madman, and beggar too
Glou. He has some reason, else he could not beg.
I'th' last nights storme, I such a fellow saw;
Which made me thinke a Man, a Worme. My Sonne
Came then into my minde, and yet my minde
Was then scarse Friends with him.
I haue heard more since:
As Flies to wanton Boyes, are we to th' Gods,
They kill vs for their sport
Edg. How should this be?
Bad is the Trade that must play Foole to sorrow,
Ang'ring it selfe, and others. Blesse thee Master
Glou. Is that the naked Fellow?
Oldm. I, my Lord
Glou. Get thee away: If for my sake
Thou wilt ore-take vs hence a mile or twaine
I'th' way toward Douer, do it for ancient loue,
And bring some couering for this naked Soule,
Which Ile intreate to leade me
Old. Alacke sir, he is mad
Glou. 'Tis the times plague,
When Madmen leade the blinde:
Do as I bid thee, or rather do thy pleasure:
Aboue the rest, be gone
Oldm. Ile bring him the best Parrell that I haue
Come on't what will.
Exit
Glou. Sirrah, naked fellow
Edg. Poore Tom's a cold. I cannot daub it further
Glou. Come hither fellow
Edg. And yet I must:
Blesse thy sweete eyes, they bleede
Glou. Know'st thou the way to Douer?
Edg. Both style, and gate; Horseway, and foot-path:
poore Tom hath bin scarr'd out of his good wits. Blesse
thee good mans sonne, from the foule Fiend
Glou. Here take this purse, y whom the heau'ns plagues
Haue humbled to all strokes: that I am wretched
Makes thee the happier: Heauens deale so still:
Let the superfluous, and Lust-dieted man,
That slaues your ordinance, that will not see
Because he do's not feele, feele your powre quickly:
So distribution should vndoo excesse,
And each man haue enough. Dost thou know Douer?
Edg. I Master
Glou. There is a Cliffe, whose high and bending head
Lookes fearfully in the confined Deepe:
Bring me but to the very brimme of it,
And Ile repayre the misery thou do'st beare
With something rich about me: from that place,
I shall no leading neede
Edg. Giue me thy arme;
Poore Tom shall leade thee.
Exeunt.
| Gloucester is brought out of the castle by an old man who is a tenant of his. While on the road they run into Edgar disguised still as the beggar. Edgar hears his father's laments about how he wronged his rightful son. Gloucester tells the old man to let him go with Edgar to Dover, and Edgar agrees happily to take him. They journey, and Gloucester says that once they arrive to take him to a cliff | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Enter Gonerill, Bastard, and Steward.
Gon. Welcome my Lord. I meruell our mild husband
Not met vs on the way. Now, where's your Master?
Stew. Madam within, but neuer man so chang'd:
I told him of the Army that was Landed:
He smil'd at it. I told him you were comming,
His answer was, the worse. Of Glosters Treachery,
And of the loyall Seruice of his Sonne
When I inform'd him, then he call'd me Sot,
And told me I had turn'd the wrong side out:
What most he should dislike, seemes pleasant to him;
What like, offensiue
Gon. Then shall you go no further.
It is the Cowish terror of his spirit
That dares not vndertake: Hee'l not feele wrongs
Which tye him to an answer: our wishes on the way
May proue effects. Backe Edmond to my Brother,
Hasten his Musters, and conduct his powres.
I must change names at home, and giue the Distaffe
Into my Husbands hands. This trustie Seruant
Shall passe betweene vs: ere long you are like to heare
(If you dare venture in your owne behalfe)
A Mistresses command. Weare this; spare speech,
Decline your head. This kisse, if it durst speake
Would stretch thy Spirits vp into the ayre:
Conceiue, and fare thee well
Bast. Yours in the rankes of death.
Enter.
Gon. My most deere Gloster.
Oh, the difference of man, and man,
To thee a Womans seruices are due,
My Foole vsurpes my body
Stew. Madam, here come's my Lord.
Enter Albany.
Gon. I haue beene worth the whistle
Alb. Oh Gonerill,
You are not worth the dust which the rude winde
Blowes in your face
Gon. Milke-Liuer'd man,
That bear'st a cheeke for blowes, a head for wrongs,
Who hast not in thy browes an eye-discerning
Thine Honor, from thy suffering
Alb. See thy selfe diuell:
Proper deformitie seemes not in the Fiend
So horrid as in woman
Gon. Oh vaine Foole.
Enter a Messenger.
Mes. Oh my good Lord, the Duke of Cornwals dead,
Slaine by his Seruant, going to put out
The other eye of Glouster
Alb. Glousters eyes
Mes. A Seruant that he bred, thrill'd with remorse,
Oppos'd against the act: bending his Sword
To his great Master, who, threat-enrag'd
Flew on him, and among'st them fell'd him dead,
But not without that harmefull stroke, which since
Hath pluckt him after
Alb. This shewes you are aboue
You Iustices, that these our neather crimes
So speedily can venge. But (O poore Glouster)
Lost he his other eye?
Mes. Both, both, my Lord.
This Leter Madam, craues a speedy answer:
'Tis from your Sister
Gon. One way I like this well.
But being widdow, and my Glouster with her,
May all the building in my fancie plucke
Vpon my hatefull life. Another way
The Newes is not so tart. Ile read, and answer
Alb. Where was his Sonne,
When they did take his eyes?
Mes. Come with my Lady hither
Alb. He is not heere
Mes. No my good Lord, I met him backe againe
Alb. Knowes he the wickednesse?
Mes. I my good Lord: 'twas he inform'd against him
And quit the house on purpose, that their punishment
Might haue the freer course
Alb. Glouster, I liue
To thanke thee for the loue thou shew'dst the King,
And to reuenge thine eyes. Come hither Friend,
Tell me what more thou know'st.
Exeunt.
| When Goneril and Edmund return to Goneril's castle, they are met by Oswald and informed of the Duke of Albany's position on the French landing, and the happenings at Gloucester. Goneril, realizing that her husband feels opposite than she, sends Edmund back to her brother in law. When Albany sees his wife he berates her for her treatment of her father and they fight until a messenger enters with news of the Duke of Cornwall's death. He also tells Albany about Gloucester losing his eyes, and the Duke feels sorry for the blind Earl. With him the messenger sends a letter from Regan to Goneril, and she takes it to another room to read. Albany swears to avenge Gloucester's eyes, and goes off with the Messenger to learn more details | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Cordelia, Gentlemen, and
Souldiours.
Cor. Alacke, 'tis he: why he was met euen now
As mad as the vext Sea, singing alowd.
Crown'd with ranke Fenitar, and furrow weeds,
With Hardokes, Hemlocke, Nettles, Cuckoo flowres,
Darnell, and all the idle weedes that grow
In our sustaining Corne. A Centery send forth;
Search euery Acre in the high-growne field,
And bring him to our eye. What can mans wisedome
In the restoring his bereaued Sense; he that helpes him,
Take all my outward worth
Gent. There is meanes Madam:
Our foster Nurse of Nature, is repose,
The which he lackes: that to prouoke in him
Are many Simples operatiue, whose power
Will close the eye of Anguish
Cord. All blest Secrets,
All you vnpublish'd Vertues of the earth
Spring with my teares; be aydant, and remediate
In the Goodmans desires: seeke, seeke for him,
Least his vngouern'd rage, dissolue the life
That wants the meanes to leade it.
Enter Messenger.
Mes. Newes Madam,
The Brittish Powres are marching hitherward
Cor. 'Tis knowne before. Our preparation stands
In expectation of them. O deere Father,
It is thy businesse that I go about: Therfore great France
My mourning, and importun'd teares hath pittied:
No blowne Ambition doth our Armes incite,
But loue, deere loue, and our ag'd Fathers Rite:
Soone may I heare, and see him.
Exeunt.
| Kent and the Gentleman meet in Dover to exchange news. The Gentleman tells Kent that the King of France is not present, but leaves his army to the Marshal and his wife. He also tells him of Cordelia's reaction to her sister's treatment of her father. She is devastated for him, and angry at the things they inflicted upon him. Kent informs the Gentleman that Lear is in Dover, but refuses to see his daughter because the way he treated her. He is wracked with guilt that he cheated her out of her dowry. Kent then takes him to take care of Lear | summary |
Scena Quarta.
Enter Regan, and Steward.
Reg. But are my Brothers Powres set forth?
Stew. I Madam
Reg. Himselfe in person there?
Stew. Madam with much ado:
Your Sister is the better Souldier
Reg. Lord Edmund spake not with your Lord at home?
Stew. No Madam
Reg. What might import my Sisters Letter to him?
Stew. I know not, Lady
Reg. Faith he is poasted hence on serious matter:
It was great ignorance, Glousters eyes being out
To let him liue. Where he arriues, he moues
All hearts against vs: Edmund, I thinke is gone
In pitty of his misery, to dispatch
His nighted life: Moreouer to descry
The strength o'th' Enemy
Stew. I must needs after him, Madam, with my Letter
Reg. Our troopes set forth to morrow, stay with vs:
The wayes are dangerous
Stew. I may not Madam:
My Lady charg'd my dutie in this busines
Reg. Why should she write to Edmund?
Might not you transport her purposes by word? Belike,
Some things, I know not what. Ile loue thee much
Let me vnseale the Letter
Stew. Madam, I had rather-
Reg. I know your Lady do's not loue her Husband,
I am sure of that: and at her late being heere,
She gaue strange Eliads, and most speaking lookes
To Noble Edmund. I know you are of her bosome
Stew. I, Madam?
Reg. I speake in vnderstanding: Y'are: I know't,
Therefore I do aduise you take this note:
My Lord is dead: Edmond, and I haue talk'd,
And more conuenient is he for my hand
Then for your Ladies: You may gather more:
If you do finde him, pray you giue him this;
And when your Mistris heares thus much from you,
I pray desire her call her wisedome to her.
So fare you well:
If you do chance to heare of that blinde Traitor,
Preferment fals on him, that cuts him off
Stew. Would I could meet Madam, I should shew
What party I do follow
Reg. Fare thee well.
Exeunt.
| Cordelia speaks with the doctor in her camp and sends out men to find her father. A messenger brings her news of the British forces advancing upon them, and she says that they are prepared for them | summary |
Scena Quinta.
Enter Gloucester, and Edgar.
Glou. When shall I come to th' top of that same hill?
Edg. You do climbe vp it now. Look how we labor
Glou. Me thinkes the ground is eeuen
Edg. Horrible steepe.
Hearke, do you heare the Sea?
Glou. No truly
Edg. Why then your other Senses grow imperfect
By your eyes anguish
Glou. So may it be indeed.
Me thinkes thy voyce is alter'd, and thou speak'st
In better phrase, and matter then thou did'st
Edg. Y'are much deceiu'd: In nothing am I chang'd
But in my Garments
Glou. Me thinkes y'are better spoken
Edg. Come on Sir,
Heere's the place: stand still: how fearefull
And dizie 'tis, to cast ones eyes so low,
The Crowes and Choughes, that wing the midway ayre
Shew scarse so grosse as Beetles. Halfe way downe
Hangs one that gathers Sampire: dreadfull Trade:
Me thinkes he seemes no bigger then his head.
The Fishermen, that walk'd vpon the beach
Appeare like Mice: and yond tall Anchoring Barke,
Diminish'd to her Cocke: her Cocke, a Buoy
Almost too small for sight. The murmuring Surge,
That on th' vnnumbred idle Pebble chafes
Cannot be heard so high. Ile looke no more,
Least my braine turne, and the deficient sight
Topple downe headlong
Glou. Set me where you stand
Edg. Giue me your hand:
You are now within a foote of th' extreme Verge:
For all beneath the Moone would I not leape vpright
Glou. Let go my hand:
Heere Friend's another purse: in it, a Iewell
Well worth a poore mans taking. Fayries, and Gods
Prosper it with thee. Go thou further off,
Bid me farewell, and let me heare thee going
Edg. Now fare ye well, good Sir
Glou. With all my heart
Edg. Why I do trifle thus with his dispaire,
Is done to cure it
Glou. O you mighty Gods!
This world I do renounce, and in your sights
Shake patiently my great affliction off:
If I could beare it longer, and not fall
To quarrell with your great opposelesse willes,
My snuffe, and loathed part of Nature should
Burne it selfe out. If Edgar liue, O blesse him:
Now Fellow, fare thee well
Edg. Gone Sir, farewell:
And yet I know not how conceit may rob
The Treasury of life, when life it selfe
Yeelds to the Theft. Had he bin where he thought,
By this had thought bin past. Aliue, or dead?
Hoa, you Sir: Friend, heare you Sir, speake:
Thus might he passe indeed: yet he reuiues.
What are you Sir?
Glou. Away, and let me dye
Edg. Had'st thou beene ought
But Gozemore, Feathers, Ayre,
(So many fathome downe precipitating)
Thou'dst shiuer'd like an Egge: but thou do'st breath:
Hast heauy substance, bleed'st not, speak'st, art sound,
Ten Masts at each, make not the altitude
Which thou hast perpendicularly fell,
Thy life's a Myracle. Speake yet againe
Glou. But haue I falne, or no?
Edg. From the dread Somnet of this Chalkie Bourne
Looke vp a height, the shrill-gorg'd Larke so farre
Cannot be seene, or heard: Do but looke vp
Glou. Alacke, I haue no eyes:
Is wretchednesse depriu'd that benefit
To end it selfe by death? 'Twas yet some comfort,
When misery could beguile the Tyrants rage,
And frustrate his proud will
Edg. Giue me your arme.
Vp, so: How is't? Feele you your Legges? You stand
Glou. Too well, too well
Edg. This is aboue all strangenesse,
Vpon the crowne o'th' Cliffe. What thing was that
Which parted from you?
Glou. A poore vnfortunate Beggar
Edg. As I stood heere below, me thought his eyes
Were two full Moones: he had a thousand Noses,
Hornes wealk'd, and waued like the enraged Sea:
It was some Fiend: Therefore thou happy Father,
Thinke that the cleerest Gods, who make them Honors
Of mens Impossibilities, haue preserued thee
Glou. I do remember now: henceforth Ile beare
Affliction, till it do cry out it selfe
Enough, enough, and dye. That thing you speake of,
I tooke it for a man: often 'twould say
The Fiend, the Fiend, he led me to that place
Edgar. Beare free and patient thoughts.
Enter Lear.
But who comes heere?
The safer sense will ne're accommodate
His Master thus
Lear. No, they cannot touch me for crying. I am the
King himselfe
Edg. O thou side-piercing sight!
Lear. Nature's aboue Art, in that respect. Ther's your
Presse-money. That fellow handles his bow, like a Crowkeeper:
draw mee a Cloathiers yard. Looke, looke, a
Mouse: peace, peace, this peece of toasted Cheese will
doo't. There's my Gauntlet, Ile proue it on a Gyant.
Bring vp the browne Billes. O well flowne Bird: i'th'
clout, i'th' clout: Hewgh. Giue the word
Edg. Sweet Mariorum
Lear. Passe
Glou. I know that voice
Lear. Ha! Gonerill with a white beard? They flatter'd
me like a Dogge, and told mee I had the white hayres in
my Beard, ere the blacke ones were there. To say I, and
no, to euery thing that I said: I, and no too, was no good
Diuinity. When the raine came to wet me once, and the
winde to make me chatter: when the Thunder would not
peace at my bidding, there I found 'em, there I smelt 'em
out. Go too, they are not men o'their words; they told
me, I was euery thing: 'Tis a Lye, I am not Agu-proofe
Glou. The tricke of that voyce, I do well remember:
Is't not the King?
Lear. I, euery inch a King.
When I do stare, see how the Subiect quakes.
I pardon that mans life. What was thy cause?
Adultery? thou shalt not dye: dye for Adultery?
No, the Wren goes too't, and the small gilded Fly
Do's letcher in my sight. Let Copulation thriue:
For Glousters bastard Son was kinder to his Father,
Then my Daughters got 'tweene the lawfull sheets.
Too't Luxury pell-mell, for I lacke Souldiers.
Behold yond simpring Dame, whose face betweene her
Forkes presages Snow; that minces Vertue, & do's shake
the head to heare of pleasures name. The Fitchew, nor
the soyled Horse goes too't with a more riotous appetite:
Downe from the waste they are Centaures, though
Women all aboue: but to the Girdle do the Gods inherit,
beneath is all the Fiends. There's hell, there's darkenes,
there is the sulphurous pit; burning, scalding, stench,
consumption: Fye, fie, fie; pah, pah: Giue me an Ounce
of Ciuet; good Apothecary sweeten my immagination:
There's money for thee
Glou. O let me kisse that hand
Lear. Let me wipe it first,
It smelles of Mortality
Glou. O ruin'd peece of Nature, this great world
Shall so weare out to naught.
Do'st thou know me?
Lear. I remember thine eyes well enough: dost thou
squiny at me? No, doe thy worst blinde Cupid, Ile not
loue. Reade thou this challenge, marke but the penning
of it
Glou. Were all thy Letters Sunnes, I could not see
Edg. I would not take this from report,
It is, and my heart breakes at it
Lear. Read
Glou. What with the Case of eyes?
Lear. Oh ho, are you there with me? No eies in your
head, nor no mony in your purse? Your eyes are in a heauy
case, your purse in a light, yet you see how this world
goes
Glou. I see it feelingly
Lear. What, art mad? A man may see how this world
goes, with no eyes. Looke with thine eares: See how
yond Iustice railes vpon yond simple theefe. Hearke in
thine eare: Change places, and handy-dandy, which is
the Iustice, which is the theefe: Thou hast seene a Farmers
dogge barke at a Beggar?
Glou. I Sir
Lear. And the Creature run from the Cur: there thou
might'st behold the great image of Authoritie, a Dogg's
obey'd in Office. Thou, Rascall Beadle, hold thy bloody
hand: why dost thou lash that Whore? Strip thy owne
backe, thou hotly lusts to vse her in that kind, for which
thou whip'st her. The Vsurer hangs the Cozener. Thorough
tatter'd cloathes great Vices do appeare: Robes,
and Furr'd gownes hide all. Place sinnes with Gold, and
the strong Lance of Iustice, hurtlesse breakes: Arme it in
ragges, a Pigmies straw do's pierce it. None do's offend,
none, I say none, Ile able 'em; take that of me my Friend,
who haue the power to seale th' accusers lips. Get thee
glasse-eyes, and like a scuruy Politician, seeme to see the
things thou dost not. Now, now, now, now. Pull off my
Bootes: harder, harder, so
Edg. O matter, and impertinency mixt,
Reason in Madnesse
Lear. If thou wilt weepe my Fortunes, take my eyes.
I know thee well enough, thy name is Glouster:
Thou must be patient; we came crying hither:
Thou know'st, the first time that we smell the Ayre
We wawle, and cry. I will preach to thee: Marke
Glou. Alacke, alacke the day
Lear. When we are borne, we cry that we are come
To this great stage of Fooles. This a good blocke:
It were a delicate stratagem to shoo
A Troope of Horse with Felt: Ile put't in proofe,
And when I haue stolne vpon these Son in Lawes,
Then kill, kill, kill, kill, kill, kill.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gent. Oh heere he is: lay hand vpon him, Sir.
Your most deere Daughter-
Lear. No rescue? What, a Prisoner? I am euen
The Naturall Foole of Fortune. Vse me well,
You shall haue ransome. Let me haue Surgeons,
I am cut to'th' Braines
Gent. You shall haue any thing
Lear. No Seconds? All my selfe?
Why, this would make a man, a man of Salt
To vse his eyes for Garden water-pots. I wil die brauely,
Like a smugge Bridegroome. What? I will be Iouiall:
Come, come, I am a King, Masters, know you that?
Gent. You are a Royall one, and we obey you
Lear. Then there's life in't. Come, and you get it,
You shall get it by running: Sa, sa, sa, sa.
Enter.
Gent. A sight most pittifull in the meanest wretch,
Past speaking of in a King. Thou hast a Daughter
Who redeemes Nature from the generall curse
Which twaine haue brought her to
Edg. Haile gentle Sir
Gent. Sir, speed you: what's your will?
Edg. Do you heare ought (Sir) of a Battell toward
Gent. Most sure, and vulgar:
Euery one heares that, which can distinguish sound
Edg. But by your fauour:
How neere's the other Army?
Gent. Neere, and on speedy foot: the maine descry
Stands on the hourely thought
Edg. I thanke you Sir, that's all
Gent. Though that the Queen on special cause is here
Her Army is mou'd on.
Enter.
Edg. I thanke you Sir
Glou. You euer gentle Gods, take my breath from me,
Let not my worser Spirit tempt me againe
To dye before you please
Edg. Well pray you Father
Glou. Now good sir, what are you?
Edg. A most poore man, made tame to Fortunes blows
Who, by the Art of knowne, and feeling sorrowes,
Am pregnant to good pitty. Giue me your hand,
Ile leade you to some biding
Glou. Heartie thankes:
The bountie, and the benizon of Heauen
To boot, and boot.
Enter Steward.
Stew. A proclaim'd prize: most happie
That eyelesse head of thine, was first fram'd flesh
To raise my fortunes. Thou old, vnhappy Traitor,
Breefely thy selfe remember: the Sword is out
That must destroy thee
Glou. Now let thy friendly hand
Put strength enough too't
Stew. Wherefore, bold Pezant,
Dar'st thou support a publish'd Traitor? Hence,
Least that th' infection of his fortune take
Like hold on thee. Let go his arme
Edg. Chill not let go Zir,
Without vurther 'casion
Stew. Let go Slaue, or thou dy'st
Edg. Good Gentleman goe your gate, and let poore
volke passe: and 'chud ha' bin zwaggerd out of my life,
'twould not ha' bin zo long as 'tis, by a vortnight. Nay,
come not neere th' old man: keepe out che vor' ye, or Ile
try whither your Costard, or my Ballow be the harder;
chill be plaine with you
Stew. Out Dunghill
Edg. Chill picke your teeth Zir: come, no matter vor
your foynes
Stew. Slaue thou hast slaine me: Villain, take my purse;
If euer thou wilt thriue, bury my bodie,
And giue the Letters which thou find'st about me,
To Edmund Earle of Glouster: seeke him out
Vpon the English party. Oh vntimely death, death
Edg. I know thee well. A seruiceable Villaine,
As duteous to the vices of thy Mistris,
As badnesse would desire
Glou. What, is he dead?
Edg. Sit you downe Father: rest you.
Let's see these Pockets; the Letters that he speakes of
May be my Friends: hee's dead; I am onely sorry
He had no other Deathsman. Let vs see:
Leaue gentle waxe, and manners: blame vs not
To know our enemies mindes, we rip their hearts,
Their Papers is more lawfull.
Reads the Letter.
Let our reciprocall vowes be remembred. You haue manie
opportunities to cut him off: if your will want not, time and
place will be fruitfully offer'd. There is nothing done. If hee
returne the Conqueror, then am I the Prisoner, and his bed, my
Gaole, from the loathed warmth whereof, deliuer me, and supply
the place for your Labour.
Your (Wife, so I would say) affectionate
Seruant. Gonerill.
Oh indistinguish'd space of Womans will,
A plot vpon her vertuous Husbands life,
And the exchange my Brother: heere, in the sands
Thee Ile rake vp, the poste vnsanctified
Of murtherous Letchers: and in the mature time,
With this vngracious paper strike the sight
Of the death-practis'd Duke: for him 'tis well,
That of thy death, and businesse, I can tell
Glou. The King is mad:
How stiffe is my vilde sense
That I stand vp, and haue ingenious feeling
Of my huge Sorrowes? Better I were distract,
So should my thoughts be seuer'd from my greefes,
Drum afarre off.
And woes, by wrong imaginations loose
The knowledge of themselues
Edg. Giue me your hand:
Farre off methinkes I heare the beaten Drumme.
Come Father, Ile bestow you with a Friend.
Exeunt.
| Oswald carries a message back to Regan from Goneril and Regan finds out that she has also sent a message to Edmund. Regan, now that her husband is dead, decides that she should marry Edmund. Thinking that her sister also has affection for him and not for her husband, she wants to win him before Goneril can get him. She sends a note back to her sister and sends someone out to find Edmund | summary |
Scaena Septima.
Enter Cordelia, Kent, and Gentleman.
Cor. O thou good Kent,
How shall I liue and worke
To match thy goodnesse?
My life will be too short,
And euery measure faile me
Kent. To be acknowledg'd Madam is ore-pai'd,
All my reports go with the modest truth,
Nor more, nor clipt, but so
Cor. Be better suited,
These weedes are memories of those worser houres:
I prythee put them off
Kent. Pardon deere Madam,
Yet to be knowne shortens my made intent,
My boone I make it, that you know me not,
Till time, and I, thinke meet
Cor. Then be't so my good Lord:
How do's the King?
Gent. Madam sleepes still
Cor. O you kind Gods!
Cure this great breach in his abused Nature,
Th' vntun'd and iarring senses, O winde vp,
Of this childe-changed Father
Gent. So please your Maiesty,
That we may wake the King, he hath slept long?
Cor. Be gouern'd by your knowledge, and proceede
I'th' sway of your owne will: is he array'd?
Enter Lear in a chaire carried by Seruants]
Gent. I Madam: in the heauinesse of sleepe,
We put fresh garments on him.
Be by good Madam when we do awake him,
I doubt of his Temperance
Cor. O my deere Father, restauratian hang
Thy medicine on my lippes, and let this kisse
Repaire those violent harmes, that my two Sisters
Haue in thy Reuerence made
Kent. Kind and deere Princesse
Cor. Had you not bin their Father, these white flakes
Did challenge pitty of them. Was this a face
To be oppos'd against the iarring windes?
Mine Enemies dogge, though he had bit me,
Should haue stood that night against my fire,
And was't thou faine (poore Father)
To houell thee with Swine and Rogues forlorne,
In short, and musty straw? Alacke, alacke,
'Tis wonder that thy life and wits, at once
Had not concluded all. He wakes, speake to him
Gen. Madam do you, 'tis fittest
Cor. How does my Royall Lord?
How fares your Maiesty?
Lear. You do me wrong to take me out o'th' graue,
Thou art a Soule in blisse, but I am bound
Vpon a wheele of fire, that mine owne teares
Do scal'd, like molten Lead
Cor. Sir, do you know me?
Lear. You are a spirit I know, where did you dye?
Cor. Still, still, farre wide
Gen. He's scarse awake,
Let him alone a while
Lear. Where haue I bin?
Where am I? Faire day light?
I am mightily abus'd; I should eu'n dye with pitty
To see another thus. I know not what to say:
I will not sweare these are my hands: let's see,
I feele this pin pricke, would I were assur'd
Of my condition
Cor. O looke vpon me Sir,
And hold your hand in benediction o're me,
You must not kneele
Lear. Pray do not mocke me:
I am a very foolish fond old man,
Fourescore and vpward,
Not an houre more, nor lesse:
And to deale plainely,
I feare I am not in my perfect mind.
Me thinkes I should know you, and know this man,
Yet I am doubtfull: For I am mainely ignorant
What place this is: and all the skill I haue
Remembers not these garments: nor I know not
Where I did lodge last night. Do not laugh at me,
For (as I am a man) I thinke this Lady
To be my childe Cordelia
Cor. And so I am: I am
Lear. Be your teares wet?
Yes faith: I pray weepe not,
If you haue poyson for me, I will drinke it:
I know you do not loue me, for your Sisters
Haue (as I do remember) done me wrong.
You haue some cause, they haue not
Cor. No cause, no cause
Lear. Am I in France?
Kent. In your owne kingdome Sir
Lear. Do not abuse me
Gent. Be comforted good Madam, the great rage
You see is kill'd in him: desire him to go in,
Trouble him no more till further setling
Cor. Wilt please your Highnesse walke?
Lear. You must beare with me:
Pray you now forget, and forgiue,
I am old and foolish.
Exeunt.
| Back in the French camp, Cordelia recognizes Kent, but he asks her to keep his identity a secret still. She agrees, and tells the doctor it is ok if he wakes her father who has been sleeping in their care. He awakens, and at first thinks he is dead. He then recognizes Cordelia, but thinks that she will do him harm because of all the sisters, she has the best motive. They tell him he is safe and take him away. Only the Gentleman and Kent stay and they discuss the battle that is about to brew. Edmund is leading the Duke of Cornwall's forces, and it is rumored that Edgar is in Germany | summary |
Actus Quintus. Scena Prima.
Enter with Drumme and Colours, Edmund, Regan. Gentlemen, and
Souldiers.
Bast. Know of the Duke if his last purpose hold,
Or whether since he is aduis'd by ought
To change the course, he's full of alteration,
And selfereprouing, bring his constant pleasure
Reg. Our Sisters man is certainely miscarried
Bast. 'Tis to be doubted Madam
Reg. Now sweet Lord,
You know the goodnesse I intend vpon you:
Tell me but truly, but then speake the truth,
Do you not loue my Sister?
Bast. In honour'd Loue
Reg. But haue you neuer found my Brothers way,
To the fore-fended place?
Bast. No by mine honour, Madam
Reg. I neuer shall endure her, deere my Lord
Be not familiar with her
Bast. Feare not, she and the Duke her husband.
Enter with Drum and Colours, Albany, Gonerill, Soldiers.
Alb. Our very louing Sister, well be-met:
Sir, this I heard, the King is come to his Daughter
With others, whom the rigour of our State
Forc'd to cry out
Regan. Why is this reasond?
Gone. Combine together 'gainst the Enemie:
For these domesticke and particular broiles,
Are not the question heere
Alb. Let's then determine with th' ancient of warre
On our proceeding
Reg. Sister you'le go with vs?
Gon. No
Reg. 'Tis most conuenient, pray go with vs
Gon. Oh ho, I know the Riddle, I will goe.
Exeunt. both the Armies.
Enter Edgar.
Edg. If ere your Grace had speech with man so poore,
Heare me one word
Alb. Ile ouertake you, speake
Edg. Before you fight the Battaile, ope this Letter:
If you haue victory, let the Trumpet sound
For him that brought it: wretched though I seeme,
I can produce a Champion, that will proue
What is auouched there. If you miscarry,
Your businesse of the world hath so an end,
And machination ceases. Fortune loues you
Alb. Stay till I haue read the Letter
Edg. I was forbid it:
When time shall serue, let but the Herald cry,
And Ile appeare againe.
Enter.
Alb. Why farethee well, I will o're-looke thy paper.
Enter Edmund.
Bast. The Enemy's in view, draw vp your powers,
Heere is the guesse of their true strength and Forces,
By dilligent discouerie, but your hast
Is now vrg'd on you
Alb. We will greet the time.
Enter.
Bast. To both these Sisters haue I sworne my loue:
Each iealous of the other, as the stung
Are of the Adder. Which of them shall I take?
Both? One? Or neither? Neither can be enioy'd
If both remaine aliue: To take the Widdow,
Exasperates, makes mad her Sister Gonerill,
And hardly shall I carry out my side,
Her husband being aliue. Now then, wee'l vse
His countenance for the Battaile, which being done,
Let her who would be rid of him, deuise
His speedy taking off. As for the mercie
Which he intends to Lear and to Cordelia,
The Battaile done, and they within our power,
Shall neuer see his pardon: for my state,
Stands on me to defend, not to debate.
Enter.
| Edmund and Regan are speaking, and Regan asks Edmund if he loves Goneril. He answers that he does, and Regan is disappointed. The Duke of Albany and Edmund decide to join forces against the invading French army when Edgar comes to them dressed in his disguise and gives a paper to Albany. Edmund enters and gives another paper to Albany all the while, trying to figure out which sister he will choose since he's sworn his love to both. He decides to wait until the battle is over, and unlike Albany intends to show no mercy to Cordelia or Lear | summary |
Scena Secunda.
Alarum within. Enter with Drumme and Colours, Lear, Cordelia,
and
Souldiers, ouer the Stage, and Exeunt. Enter Edgar, and Gloster.
Edg. Heere Father, take the shadow of this Tree
For your good hoast: pray that the right may thriue:
If euer I returne to you againe,
Ile bring you comfort
Glo. Grace go with you Sir.
Enter.
Alarum and Retreat within. Enter Edgar.
Edgar. Away old man, giue me thy hand, away:
King Lear hath lost, he and his Daughter tane,
Giue me thy hand: Come on
Glo. No further Sir, a man may rot euen heere
Edg. What in ill thoughts againe?
Men must endure
Their going hence, euen as their comming hither,
Ripenesse is all come on
Glo. And that's true too.
Exeunt.
| Edgar drags his father along and tells him that the French army has been defeated, and Cordelia and Lear wear captured | summary |
Scena Tertia.
Enter in conquest with Drum and Colours, Edmund, Lear, and
Cordelia, as
prisoners, Souldiers, Captaine.
Bast. Some Officers take them away: good guard,
Vntill their greater pleasures first be knowne
That are to censure them
Cor. We are not the first,
Who with best meaning haue incurr'd the worst:
For thee oppressed King I am cast downe,
My selfe could else out-frowne false Fortunes frowne.
Shall we not see these Daughters, and these Sisters?
Lear. No, no, no, no: come let's away to prison,
We two alone will sing like Birds i'th' Cage:
When thou dost aske me blessing, Ile kneele downe
And aske of thee forgiuenesse: So wee'l liue,
And pray, and sing, and tell old tales, and laugh
At gilded Butterflies: and heere (poore Rogues)
Talke of Court newes, and wee'l talke with them too,
Who looses, and who wins; who's in, who's out;
And take vpon's the mystery of things,
As if we were Gods spies: And wee'l weare out
In a wall'd prison, packs and sects of great ones,
That ebbe and flow by th' Moone
Bast. Take them away
Lear. Vpon such sacrifices my Cordelia,
The Gods themselues throw Incense.
Haue I caught thee?
He that parts vs, shall bring a Brand from Heauen,
And fire vs hence, like Foxes: wipe thine eyes,
The good yeares shall deuoure them, flesh and fell,
Ere they shall make vs weepe?
Weele see 'em staru'd first: come.
Enter.
Bast. Come hither Captaine, hearke.
Take thou this note, go follow them to prison,
One step I haue aduanc'd thee, if thou do'st
As this instructs thee, thou dost make thy way
To Noble Fortunes: know thou this, that men
Are as the time is; to be tender minded
Do's not become a Sword, thy great imployment
Will not beare question: either say thou'lt do't,
Or thriue by other meanes
Capt. Ile do't my Lord
Bast. About it, and write happy, when th'hast done,
Marke I say instantly, and carry it so
As I haue set it downe.
Exit Captaine.
Flourish. Enter Albany, Gonerill, Regan, Soldiers.
Alb. Sir, you haue shew'd to day your valiant straine
And Fortune led you well: you haue the Captiues
Who were the opposites of this dayes strife:
I do require them of you so to vse them,
As we shall find their merites, and our safety
May equally determine
Bast. Sir, I thought it fit,
To send the old and miserable King to some retention,
Whose age had Charmes in it, whose Title more,
To plucke the common bosome on his side,
And turne our imprest Launces in our eies
Which do command them. With him I sent the Queen:
My reason all the same, and they are ready
To morrow, or at further space, t' appeare
Where you shall hold your Session
Alb. Sir, by your patience,
I hold you but a subiect of this Warre,
Not as a Brother
Reg. That's as we list to grace him.
Methinkes our pleasure might haue bin demanded
Ere you had spoke so farre. He led our Powers,
Bore the Commission of my place and person,
The which immediacie may well stand vp,
And call it selfe your Brother
Gon. Not so hot:
In his owne grace he doth exalt himselfe,
More then in your addition
Reg. In my rights,
By me inuested, he compeeres the best
Alb. That were the most, if he should husband you
Reg. Iesters do oft proue Prophets
Gon. Hola, hola,
That eye that told you so, look'd but a squint
Rega. Lady I am not well, else I should answere
From a full flowing stomack. Generall,
Take thou my Souldiers, prisoners, patrimony,
Dispose of them, of me, the walls is thine:
Witnesse the world, that I create thee heere
My Lord, and Master
Gon. Meane you to enioy him?
Alb. The let alone lies not in your good will
Bast. Nor in thine Lord
Alb. Halfe-blooded fellow, yes
Reg. Let the Drum strike, and proue my title thine
Alb. Stay yet, heare reason: Edmund, I arrest thee
On capitall Treason; and in thy arrest,
This guilded Serpent: for your claime faire Sisters,
I bare it in the interest of my wife,
'Tis she is sub-contracted to this Lord,
And I her husband contradict your Banes.
If you will marry, make your loues to me,
My Lady is bespoke
Gon. An enterlude
Alb. Thou art armed Gloster,
Let the Trumpet sound:
If none appeare to proue vpon thy person,
Thy heynous, manifest, and many Treasons,
There is my pledge: Ile make it on thy heart
Ere I taste bread, thou art in nothing lesse
Then I haue heere proclaim'd thee
Reg. Sicke, O sicke
Gon. If not, Ile nere trust medicine
Bast. There's my exchange, what in the world hes
That names me Traitor, villain-like he lies,
Call by the Trumpet: he that dares approach;
On him, on you, who not, I will maintaine
My truth and honor firmely.
Enter a Herald.
Alb. A Herald, ho.
Trust to thy single vertue, for thy Souldiers
All leuied in my name, haue in my name
Tooke their discharge
Regan. My sicknesse growes vpon me
Alb. She is not well, conuey her to my Tent.
Come hither Herald, let the Trumpet sound,
And read out this.
A Trumpet sounds.
Herald reads.
If any man of qualitie or degree, within the lists of the Army,
will maintaine vpon Edmund, supposed Earle of Gloster,
that he is a manifold Traitor, let him appeare by the third
sound of the Trumpet: he is bold in his defence.
1 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
2 Trumpet.
Her. Againe.
3 Trumpet.
Trumpet answers within.
Enter Edgar armed.
Alb. Aske him his purposes, why he appeares
Vpon this Call o'th' Trumpet
Her. What are you?
Your name, your quality, and why you answer
This present Summons?
Edg. Know my name is lost
By Treasons tooth: bare-gnawne, and Canker-bit,
Yet am I Noble as the Aduersary
I come to cope
Alb. Which is that Aduersary?
Edg. What's he that speakes for Edmund Earle of Gloster?
Bast. Himselfe, what saist thou to him?
Edg. Draw thy Sword,
That if my speech offend a Noble heart,
Thy arme may do thee Iustice, heere is mine:
Behold it is my priuiledge,
The priuiledge of mine Honours,
My oath, and my profession. I protest,
Maugre thy strength, place, youth, and eminence,
Despise thy victor-Sword, and fire new Fortune,
Thy valor, and thy heart, thou art a Traitor:
False to thy Gods, thy Brother, and thy Father,
Conspirant 'gainst this high illustrious Prince,
And from th' extremest vpward of thy head,
To the discent and dust below thy foote,
A most Toad-spotted Traitor. Say thou no,
This Sword, this arme, and my best spirits are bent
To proue vpon thy heart, where to I speake,
Thou lyest
Bast. In wisedome I should aske thy name,
But since thy out-side lookes so faire and Warlike,
And that thy tongue (some say) of breeding breathes,
What safe, and nicely I might well delay,
By rule of Knight-hood, I disdaine and spurne:
Backe do I tosse these Treasons to thy head,
With the hell-hated Lye, ore-whelme thy heart,
Which for they yet glance by, and scarcely bruise,
This Sword of mine shall giue them instant way,
Where they shall rest for euer. Trumpets speake
Alb. Saue him, saue him.
Alarums. Fights.
Gon. This is practise Gloster,
By th' law of Warre, thou wast not bound to answer
An vnknowne opposite: thou art not vanquish'd,
But cozend, and beguild
Alb. Shut your mouth Dame,
Or with this paper shall I stop it: hold Sir,
Thou worse then any name, reade thine owne euill:
No tearing Lady, I perceiue you know it
Gon. Say if I do, the Lawes are mine not thine,
Who can araigne me for't?
Enter.
Alb. Most monstrous! O, know'st thou this paper?
Bast. Aske me not what I know
Alb. Go after her, she's desperate, gouerne her
Bast. What you haue charg'd me with,
That haue I done,
And more, much more, the time will bring it out.
'Tis past, and so am I: But what art thou
That hast this Fortune on me? If thou'rt Noble,
I do forgiue thee
Edg. Let's exchange charity:
I am no lesse in blood then thou art Edmond,
If more, the more th'hast wrong'd me.
My name is Edgar and thy Fathers Sonne,
The Gods are iust, and of our pleasant vices
Make instruments to plague vs:
The darke and vitious place where thee he got,
Cost him his eyes
Bast. Th'hast spoken right, 'tis true,
The Wheele is come full circle, I am heere
Alb. Me thought thy very gate did prophesie
A Royall Noblenesse: I must embrace thee,
Let sorrow split my heart, if euer I
Did hate thee, or thy Father
Edg. Worthy Prince I know't
Alb. Where haue you hid your selfe?
How haue you knowne the miseries of your Father?
Edg. By nursing them my Lord. List a breefe tale,
And when 'tis told, O that my heart would burst.
The bloody proclamation to escape
That follow'd me so neere, (O our liues sweetnesse,
That we the paine of death would hourely dye,
Rather then die at once) taught me to shift
Into a mad-mans rags, t' assume a semblance
That very Dogges disdain'd: and in this habit
Met I my Father with his bleeding Rings,
Their precious Stones new lost: became his guide,
Led him, begg'd for him, sau'd him from dispaire.
Neuer (O fault) reueal'd my selfe vnto him,
Vntill some halfe houre past when I was arm'd,
Not sure, though hoping of this good successe,
I ask'd his blessing, and from first to last
Told him our pilgrimage. But his flaw'd heart
(Alacke too weake the conflict to support)
Twixt two extremes of passion, ioy and greefe,
Burst smilingly
Bast. This speech of yours hath mou'd me,
And shall perchance do good, but speake you on,
You looke as you had something more to say
Alb. If there be more, more wofull, hold it in,
For I am almost ready to dissolue,
Hearing of this.
Enter a Gentleman.
Gen. Helpe, helpe: O helpe
Edg. What kinde of helpe?
Alb. Speake man
Edg. What meanes this bloody Knife?
Gen. 'Tis hot, it smoakes, it came euen from the heart
of- O she's dead
Alb. Who dead? Speake man
Gen. Your Lady Sir, your Lady; and her Sister
By her is poyson'd: she confesses it
Bast. I was contracted to them both, all three
Now marry in an instant
Edg. Here comes Kent.
Enter Kent.
Alb. Produce the bodies, be they aliue or dead;
Gonerill and Regans bodies brought out.
This iudgement of the Heauens that makes vs tremble.
Touches vs not with pitty: O, is this he?
The time will not allow the complement
Which very manners vrges
Kent. I am come
To bid my King and Master aye good night.
Is he not here?
Alb. Great thing of vs forgot,
Speake Edmund, where's the King? and where's Cordelia?
Seest thou this obiect Kent?
Kent. Alacke, why thus?
Bast. Yet Edmund was belou'd:
The one the other poison'd for my sake,
And after slew herselfe
Alb. Euen so: couer their faces
Bast. I pant for life: some good I meane to do
Despight of mine owne Nature. Quickly send,
(Be briefe in it) to'th' Castle, for my Writ
Is on the life of Lear, and on Cordelia:
Nay, send in time
Alb. Run, run, O run
Edg. To who my Lord? Who ha's the Office?
Send thy token of repreeue
Bast. Well thought on, take my Sword,
Giue it the Captaine
Edg. Hast thee for thy life
Bast. He hath Commission from thy Wife and me,
To hang Cordelia in the prison, and
To lay the blame vpon her owne dispaire,
That she for-did her selfe
Alb. The Gods defend her, beare him hence awhile.
Enter Lear with Cordelia in his armes.
Lear. Howle, howle, howle: O you are men of stones,
Had I your tongues and eyes, Il'd vse them so,
That Heauens vault should crack: she's gone for euer.
I know when one is dead, and when one liues,
She's dead as earth: Lend me a Looking-glasse,
If that her breath will mist or staine the stone,
Why then she liues
Kent. Is this the promis'd end?
Edg. Or image of that horror
Alb. Fall and cease
Lear. This feather stirs, she liues: if it be so,
It is a chance which do's redeeme all sorrowes
That euer I haue felt
Kent. O my good Master
Lear. Prythee away
Edg. 'Tis Noble Kent your Friend
Lear. A plague vpon you Murderors, Traitors all,
I might haue sau'd her, now she's gone for euer:
Cordelia, Cordelia, stay a little. Ha:
What is't thou saist? Her voice was euer soft,
Gentle, and low, an excellent thing in woman.
I kill'd the Slaue that was a hanging thee
Gent. 'Tis true (my Lords) he did
Lear. Did I not fellow?
I haue seene the day, with my good biting Faulchion
I would haue made him skip: I am old now,
And these same crosses spoile me. Who are you?
Mine eyes are not o'th' best, Ile tell you straight
Kent. If Fortune brag of two, she lou'd and hated,
One of them we behold
Lear. This is a dull sight, are you not Kent?
Kent. The same: your Seruant Kent,
Where is your Seruant Caius?
Lear. He's a good fellow, I can tell you that,
He'le strike and quickly too, he's dead and rotten
Kent. No my good Lord, I am the very man
Lear. Ile see that straight
Kent. That from your first of difference and decay,
Haue follow'd your sad steps
Lear. You are welcome hither
Kent. Nor no man else:
All's cheerlesse, darke, and deadly,
Your eldest Daughters haue fore-done themselues,
And desperately are dead
Lear. I so I thinke
Alb. He knowes not what he saies, and vaine is it
That we present vs to him.
Enter a Messenger.
Edg. Very bootlesse
Mess. Edmund is dead my Lord
Alb. That's but a trifle heere:
You Lords and Noble Friends, know our intent,
What comfort to this great decay may come,
Shall be appli'd. For vs we will resigne,
During the life of this old Maiesty
To him our absolute power, you to your rights,
With boote, and such addition as your Honours
Haue more then merited. All Friends shall
Taste the wages of their vertue, and all Foes
The cup of their deseruings: O see, see
Lear. And my poore Foole is hang'd: no, no, no life?
Why should a Dog, a Horse, a Rat haue life,
And thou no breath at all? Thou'lt come no more,
Neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer, neuer.
Pray you vndo this Button. Thanke you Sir,
Do you see this? Looke on her? Looke her lips,
Looke there, looke there.
He dies.
Edg. He faints, my Lord, my Lord
Kent. Breake heart, I prythee breake
Edg. Looke vp my Lord
Kent. Vex not his ghost, O let him passe, he hates him,
That would vpon the wracke of this tough world
Stretch him out longer
Edg. He is gon indeed
Kent. The wonder is, he hath endur'd so long,
He but vsurpt his life
Alb. Beare them from hence, our present businesse
Is generall woe: Friends of my soule, you twaine,
Rule in this Realme, and the gor'd state sustaine
Kent. I haue a iourney Sir, shortly to go,
My Master calls me, I must not say no
Edg. The waight of this sad time we must obey,
Speake what we feele, not what we ought to say:
The oldest hath borne most, we that are yong,
Shall neuer see so much, nor liue so long.
Exeunt. with a dead March.
FINIS. THE TRAGEDIE OF KING LEAR.
| Cordelia and Lear are sent to prison but plan happy ways to spend their time there. Edmund tells his captain as he's taking them that they are to be assassinated. Albany enters to discuss the conditions of the prisoners, and Edmund tells him they will discuss it later. The women then get in a fight over Edmund, and Albany challenges him for trying to steal his wife. Goneril poisons Regan, and Edgar comes forward to fight Edmund in hand-to-hand combat. They battle and Edmund is wounded. Albany then asks Goneril about her involvement in the plot to kill him and she refuses to answer. Edmund then asks his challengers name, and Edgar reveals himself. He tells his tale of dressing as a madman, and how he just witnessed his father's death. Afterwards, he pleads for Kent because of all he's done for the king. A man enters with a bloody knife and says that Goneril has killed her self and confessed to poisoning her sister. Kent arrives and asks after the king. Edmund admits that he ordered the king and Cordelia killed, and they send a man after them to prevent it. Lear comes out with a dead Cordelia in his arms, and Kent reveals himself to his king and Albany decides to give Lear back his thrown. But because of his sadness at Cordelia's death, Lear dies as well much to the sadness of his loyal followers | summary |
To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well
as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan
no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with
itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its
flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such
trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality.
On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing
up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that
whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of
his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which
succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his
voice as he sang in a rural cadence:
"With the rose and the lily
And the daffodowndilly,
The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of
Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes,
casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their
characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced
elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein
the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like
the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower
than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the
sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this
season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the
channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes.
After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white
surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a
ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary
accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side.
The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the
place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had
its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the
shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on
the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees.
"Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no
idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured.
"Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness.
"Ay, sure, Michael Mail."
"Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house
too, as we be, and knowen us so well?"
Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle,
implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a
moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship.
Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the
sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a
gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat,
an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary
shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of
sky low enough to picture him on.
Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard
coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally
five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of
the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the
daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested
some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented
the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir.
The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm,
and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the
surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to
Dick.
The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who,
though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to
his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed
on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower
waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His
features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint
moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes,
denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form.
The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically.
The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive
appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like
form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head
inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if
they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf.
"Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched
assembly.
The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great
depth.
"We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be
wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on."
"Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have
just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my
feet."
"To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little
barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap."
"'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of
delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing
parenthetically--
"The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
"Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore
bedtime?" said Mail.
"True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman
cheerfully.
This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the
varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their
toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering
indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper
Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church-
bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the
breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the
other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden,
and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house.
| The book begins on a cold and starry Christmas Eve in Mellstock. Dick Dewy, an ordinary looking young man, is singing on his way home through the woods. Five other villagers, also traveling towards the Dewy house, join Dick, including Michael Mail , Robert Penny , Elias Spinks , Joseph Bowman , and Thomas Leaf . Dick tells all five of them that his father and grandfather have been eagerly awaiting their arrival. In fact, all of the Mellstock men's choir will be meeting at Dick's house, assembling for the annual carol sing. The five villagers tell Dick that they are delighted at the thought of drinking from the new barrel of cider that Dick's father is going to tap for them. | summary |
To dwellers in a wood almost every species of tree has its voice as well
as its feature. At the passing of the breeze the fir-trees sob and moan
no less distinctly than they rock; the holly whistles as it battles with
itself; the ash hisses amid its quiverings; the beech rustles while its
flat boughs rise and fall. And winter, which modifies the note of such
trees as shed their leaves, does not destroy its individuality.
On a cold and starry Christmas-eve within living memory a man was passing
up a lane towards Mellstock Cross in the darkness of a plantation that
whispered thus distinctively to his intelligence. All the evidences of
his nature were those afforded by the spirit of his footsteps, which
succeeded each other lightly and quickly, and by the liveliness of his
voice as he sang in a rural cadence:
"With the rose and the lily
And the daffodowndilly,
The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
The lonely lane he was following connected one of the hamlets of
Mellstock parish with Upper Mellstock and Lewgate, and to his eyes,
casually glancing upward, the silver and black-stemmed birches with their
characteristic tufts, the pale grey boughs of beech, the dark-creviced
elm, all appeared now as black and flat outlines upon the sky, wherein
the white stars twinkled so vehemently that their flickering seemed like
the flapping of wings. Within the woody pass, at a level anything lower
than the horizon, all was dark as the grave. The copse-wood forming the
sides of the bower interlaced its branches so densely, even at this
season of the year, that the draught from the north-east flew along the
channel with scarcely an interruption from lateral breezes.
After passing the plantation and reaching Mellstock Cross the white
surface of the lane revealed itself between the dark hedgerows like a
ribbon jagged at the edges; the irregularity being caused by temporary
accumulations of leaves extending from the ditch on either side.
The song (many times interrupted by flitting thoughts which took the
place of several bars, and resumed at a point it would have reached had
its continuity been unbroken) now received a more palpable check, in the
shape of "Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" from the crossing lane to Lower Mellstock, on
the right of the singer who had just emerged from the trees.
"Ho-i-i-i-i-i!" he answered, stopping and looking round, though with no
idea of seeing anything more than imagination pictured.
"Is that thee, young Dick Dewy?" came from the darkness.
"Ay, sure, Michael Mail."
"Then why not stop for fellow-craters--going to thy own father's house
too, as we be, and knowen us so well?"
Dick Dewy faced about and continued his tune in an under-whistle,
implying that the business of his mouth could not be checked at a
moment's notice by the placid emotion of friendship.
Having come more into the open he could now be seen rising against the
sky, his profile appearing on the light background like the portrait of a
gentleman in black cardboard. It assumed the form of a low-crowned hat,
an ordinary-shaped nose, an ordinary chin, an ordinary neck, and ordinary
shoulders. What he consisted of further down was invisible from lack of
sky low enough to picture him on.
Shuffling, halting, irregular footsteps of various kinds were now heard
coming up the hill, and presently there emerged from the shade severally
five men of different ages and gaits, all of them working villagers of
the parish of Mellstock. They, too, had lost their rotundity with the
daylight, and advanced against the sky in flat outlines, which suggested
some processional design on Greek or Etruscan pottery. They represented
the chief portion of Mellstock parish choir.
The first was a bowed and bent man, who carried a fiddle under his arm,
and walked as if engaged in studying some subject connected with the
surface of the road. He was Michael Mail, the man who had hallooed to
Dick.
The next was Mr. Robert Penny, boot- and shoemaker; a little man, who,
though rather round-shouldered, walked as if that fact had not come to
his own knowledge, moving on with his back very hollow and his face fixed
on the north-east quarter of the heavens before him, so that his lower
waist-coat-buttons came first, and then the remainder of his figure. His
features were invisible; yet when he occasionally looked round, two faint
moons of light gleamed for an instant from the precincts of his eyes,
denoting that he wore spectacles of a circular form.
The third was Elias Spinks, who walked perpendicularly and dramatically.
The fourth outline was Joseph Bowman's, who had now no distinctive
appearance beyond that of a human being. Finally came a weak lath-like
form, trotting and stumbling along with one shoulder forward and his head
inclined to the left, his arms dangling nervelessly in the wind as if
they were empty sleeves. This was Thomas Leaf.
"Where be the boys?" said Dick to this somewhat indifferently-matched
assembly.
The eldest of the group, Michael Mail, cleared his throat from a great
depth.
"We told them to keep back at home for a time, thinken they wouldn't be
wanted yet awhile; and we could choose the tuens, and so on."
"Father and grandfather William have expected ye a little sooner. I have
just been for a run round by Ewelease Stile and Hollow Hill to warm my
feet."
"To be sure father did! To be sure 'a did expect us--to taste the little
barrel beyond compare that he's going to tap."
"'Od rabbit it all! Never heard a word of it!" said Mr. Penny, gleams of
delight appearing upon his spectacle-glasses, Dick meanwhile singing
parenthetically--
"The lads and the lasses a-sheep-shearing go."
"Neighbours, there's time enough to drink a sight of drink now afore
bedtime?" said Mail.
"True, true--time enough to get as drunk as lords!" replied Bowman
cheerfully.
This opinion being taken as convincing they all advanced between the
varying hedges and the trees dotting them here and there, kicking their
toes occasionally among the crumpled leaves. Soon appeared glimmering
indications of the few cottages forming the small hamlet of Upper
Mellstock for which they were bound, whilst the faint sound of church-
bells ringing a Christmas peal could be heard floating over upon the
breeze from the direction of Longpuddle and Weatherbury parishes on the
other side of the hills. A little wicket admitted them to the garden,
and they proceeded up the path to Dick's house.
| Notes This first chapter is largely introductory. Hardy begins his description of the lovely Mellstock landscape in the very first paragraph of the novel. He also establishes the harmonious co- existence of the villagers with one another and with nature. In fact, the song that Dick Dewy is singing recalls the kinship between human life and the seasons. The structure of the novel will actually follow the seasons. The mood is immediately light and cheerful. The night is cold, crisp, and starry. Dick Dewy is obviously in a jovial mood as he sings a happy song. When he encounters other villagers, he is genuinely delighted to see them and tells them that his family eagerly awaits their arrival. The unusual physical characteristics of the rustic villagers are even humorously described by the author, adding to the light mood. There is a sense of festivity about everything, for the choir is gathering to have cider at the Dewy home and then proceeding to have their annual Christmas carol sing. This first chapter clearly establishes that Hardy is writing about a setting that he knows and loves. | analysis |
It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer
windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of
the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet
closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the
thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon
the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various
distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with
careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the
dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were
rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and
scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of
an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of
outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a
fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright
attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle
and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this
direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching
and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding
within it.
The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots
any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house
and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open
doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between
pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a
"tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty
years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their
acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object
during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and
turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending
over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of
broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the
entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the
expected old comrades.
The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other
evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung
the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending
so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it
in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment
contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children,
Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide
stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the
series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal
interval.
Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just
previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a
small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human
countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to
pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily
striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was
leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of
the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the
material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret
that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy
sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing
that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise
and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney,
to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a
misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time.
"Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length,
standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood
do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was
just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind
a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in
the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a
real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards,
Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael
nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard-
rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails
they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is
as good as most people's best cider is."
"Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung
it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an
excuse. Watered cider is too common among us."
"Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his
eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at
the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very
melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent."
"Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said
Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the
door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan,
you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger
candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and
sit here in the settle."
This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly
of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his
movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before
he had had time to get used to his height he was higher.
"Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for
some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in
view as the most conspicuous members of his body.
"Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's
your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?"
"Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a
quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's
better, 'a b'lieve."
"Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?"
"Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a
maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well.
However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it."
Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?"
she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night."
"Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy.
"Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the
tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again
established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork.
"Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made
in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred
without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting
job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man
indoors."
"Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two
hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the
wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam
Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor
heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,'
says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,'
he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as
new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have
been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens,
Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if
he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones
will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'"
"I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore
I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner
enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to
be deceived."
"That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben.
Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and
refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little
Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to
conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement
of some more brown paper for the broaching operation.
"Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a
carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of
affairs.
"No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing
with everybody.
"Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as
a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very
friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the
front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a'
open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I
jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and
thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by
fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a
feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's
sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded
to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that
that was coming it very close, Reuben?"
"'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice.
"Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam
Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so
be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty,
first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his
elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these."
"Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively.
"Sam was!" said Bowman.
"Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter.
"Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny.
The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready,
"Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!"
The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal
shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and
neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure
of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his
father.
"There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider
should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend
me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger
tap, my sonnies."
"Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he
continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole.
"What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!"
Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he
thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts
of the world put together."
All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the
cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The
operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and
stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body
would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out
his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the
relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to
table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread
knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board
upon which the gaze might precipitate itself.
"Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the
tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old
dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life
between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it.
"Father!"
"Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner.
"Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!"
A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past,
now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and
made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family
appeared.
| The Dewy's house, a low-roofed cottage, has three chimneys and a thatched roof. The walls of the house are covered with creeping plants, and the door appears to be worn out from the coming and going of many people. A little away from the cottage is a building from which comes the sound of woodcutting. The sound of horses can also be heard. The men's church choir enters the house, wiping their boots clean on the doorstep. As they enter, they spy Dick's father, Reuben Dewy. Known to the townsfolk as the Tranter, Reuben, a stout, red-faced man of about forty, is busily engaged in opening a barrel of cider. He does not bother to look up when they enter, but he welcomes the men and tells them that the cider is made from the finest apples. The main room to the left of the cottage is decorated with a Christmas tree. The Tranter's wife and four of his children are gathered there; Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley are all between the ages of four and sixteen; Dick, the oldest, is twenty years old. Mrs. Dewy invites the choir to sit round the fire. She warmly asks Thomas Leaf to sit beside her and inquires about Mr. Penny's daughter, who is expecting her fifth baby. As Reuben is about to open the barrel, he remembers the deceased Sam Lawson, who had given him the cider. When the cider shoots out in a stream, he sends his daughter to get mugs and tells Michael to put his thumb over the hole while he retrieves a cork. The choir sits drinking around the table. Reuben wonders if his father, known as Grandfather William, is cutting wood or playing the violin. He goes to find him and ask him to join the party. | summary |
It was a long low cottage with a hipped roof of thatch, having dormer
windows breaking up into the eaves, a chimney standing in the middle of
the ridge and another at each end. The window-shutters were not yet
closed, and the fire- and candle-light within radiated forth upon the
thick bushes of box and laurestinus growing in clumps outside, and upon
the bare boughs of several codlin-trees hanging about in various
distorted shapes, the result of early training as espaliers combined with
careless climbing into their boughs in later years. The walls of the
dwelling were for the most part covered with creepers, though these were
rather beaten back from the doorway--a feature which was worn and
scratched by much passing in and out, giving it by day the appearance of
an old keyhole. Light streamed through the cracks and joints of
outbuildings a little way from the cottage, a sight which nourished a
fancy that the purpose of the erection must be rather to veil bright
attractions than to shelter unsightly necessaries. The noise of a beetle
and wedges and the splintering of wood was periodically heard from this
direction; and at some little distance further a steady regular munching
and the occasional scurr of a rope betokened a stable, and horses feeding
within it.
The choir stamped severally on the door-stone to shake from their boots
any fragment of earth or leaf adhering thereto, then entered the house
and looked around to survey the condition of things. Through the open
doorway of a small inner room on the right hand, of a character between
pantry and cellar, was Dick Dewy's father Reuben, by vocation a
"tranter," or irregular carrier. He was a stout florid man about forty
years of age, who surveyed people up and down when first making their
acquaintance, and generally smiled at the horizon or other distant object
during conversations with friends, walking about with a steady sway, and
turning out his toes very considerably. Being now occupied in bending
over a hogshead, that stood in the pantry ready horsed for the process of
broaching, he did not take the trouble to turn or raise his eyes at the
entry of his visitors, well knowing by their footsteps that they were the
expected old comrades.
The main room, on the left, was decked with bunches of holly and other
evergreens, and from the middle of the beam bisecting the ceiling hung
the mistletoe, of a size out of all proportion to the room, and extending
so low that it became necessary for a full-grown person to walk round it
in passing, or run the risk of entangling his hair. This apartment
contained Mrs. Dewy the tranter's wife, and the four remaining children,
Susan, Jim, Bessy, and Charley, graduating uniformly though at wide
stages from the age of sixteen to that of four years--the eldest of the
series being separated from Dick the firstborn by a nearly equal
interval.
Some circumstance had apparently caused much grief to Charley just
previous to the entry of the choir, and he had absently taken down a
small looking-glass, holding it before his face to learn how the human
countenance appeared when engaged in crying, which survey led him to
pause at the various points in each wail that were more than ordinarily
striking, for a thorough appreciation of the general effect. Bessy was
leaning against a chair, and glancing under the plaits about the waist of
the plaid frock she wore, to notice the original unfaded pattern of the
material as there preserved, her face bearing an expression of regret
that the brightness had passed away from the visible portions. Mrs. Dewy
sat in a brown settle by the side of the glowing wood fire--so glowing
that with a heedful compression of the lips she would now and then rise
and put her hand upon the hams and flitches of bacon lining the chimney,
to reassure herself that they were not being broiled instead of smoked--a
misfortune that had been known to happen now and then at Christmas-time.
"Hullo, my sonnies, here you be, then!" said Reuben Dewy at length,
standing up and blowing forth a vehement gust of breath. "How the blood
do puff up in anybody's head, to be sure, a-stooping like that! I was
just going out to gate to hark for ye." He then carefully began to wind
a strip of brown paper round a brass tap he held in his hand. "This in
the cask here is a drop o' the right sort" (tapping the cask); "'tis a
real drop o' cordial from the best picked apples--Sansoms, Stubbards,
Five-corners, and such-like--you d'mind the sort, Michael?" (Michael
nodded.) "And there's a sprinkling of they that grow down by the orchard-
rails--streaked ones--rail apples we d'call 'em, as 'tis by the rails
they grow, and not knowing the right name. The water-cider from 'em is
as good as most people's best cider is."
"Ay, and of the same make too," said Bowman. "'It rained when we wrung
it out, and the water got into it,' folk will say. But 'tis on'y an
excuse. Watered cider is too common among us."
"Yes, yes; too common it is!" said Spinks with an inward sigh, whilst his
eyes seemed to be looking at the case in an abstract form rather than at
the scene before him. "Such poor liquor do make a man's throat feel very
melancholy--and is a disgrace to the name of stimmilent."
"Come in, come in, and draw up to the fire; never mind your shoes," said
Mrs. Dewy, seeing that all except Dick had paused to wipe them upon the
door-mat. "I am glad that you've stepped up-along at last; and, Susan,
you run down to Grammer Kaytes's and see if you can borrow some larger
candles than these fourteens. Tommy Leaf, don't ye be afeard! Come and
sit here in the settle."
This was addressed to the young man before mentioned, consisting chiefly
of a human skeleton and a smock-frock, who was very awkward in his
movements, apparently on account of having grown so very fast that before
he had had time to get used to his height he was higher.
"Hee--hee--ay!" replied Leaf, letting his mouth continue to smile for
some time after his mind had done smiling, so that his teeth remained in
view as the most conspicuous members of his body.
"Here, Mr. Penny," resumed Mrs. Dewy, "you sit in this chair. And how's
your daughter, Mrs. Brownjohn?"
"Well, I suppose I must say pretty fair." He adjusted his spectacles a
quarter of an inch to the right. "But she'll be worse before she's
better, 'a b'lieve."
"Indeed--poor soul! And how many will that make in all, four or five?"
"Five; they've buried three. Yes, five; and she not much more than a
maid yet. She do know the multiplication table onmistakable well.
However, 'twas to be, and none can gainsay it."
Mrs. Dewy resigned Mr. Penny. "Wonder where your grandfather James is?"
she inquired of one of the children. "He said he'd drop in to-night."
"Out in fuel-house with grandfather William," said Jimmy.
"Now let's see what we can do," was heard spoken about this time by the
tranter in a private voice to the barrel, beside which he had again
established himself, and was stooping to cut away the cork.
"Reuben, don't make such a mess o' tapping that barrel as is mostly made
in this house," Mrs. Dewy cried from the fireplace. "I'd tap a hundred
without wasting more than you do in one. Such a squizzling and squirting
job as 'tis in your hands! There, he always was such a clumsy man
indoors."
"Ay, ay; I know you'd tap a hundred beautiful, Ann--I know you would; two
hundred, perhaps. But I can't promise. This is a' old cask, and the
wood's rotted away about the tap-hole. The husbird of a feller Sam
Lawson--that ever I should call'n such, now he's dead and gone, poor
heart!--took me in completely upon the feat of buying this cask. 'Reub,'
says he--'a always used to call me plain Reub, poor old heart!--'Reub,'
he said, says he, 'that there cask, Reub, is as good as new; yes, good as
new. 'Tis a wine-hogshead; the best port-wine in the commonwealth have
been in that there cask; and you shall have en for ten shillens,
Reub,'--'a said, says he--'he's worth twenty, ay, five-and-twenty, if
he's worth one; and an iron hoop or two put round en among the wood ones
will make en worth thirty shillens of any man's money, if--'"
"I think I should have used the eyes that Providence gave me to use afore
I paid any ten shillens for a jimcrack wine-barrel; a saint is sinner
enough not to be cheated. But 'tis like all your family was, so easy to
be deceived."
"That's as true as gospel of this member," said Reuben.
Mrs. Dewy began a smile at the answer, then altering her lips and
refolding them so that it was not a smile, commenced smoothing little
Bessy's hair; the tranter having meanwhile suddenly become oblivious to
conversation, occupying himself in a deliberate cutting and arrangement
of some more brown paper for the broaching operation.
"Ah, who can believe sellers!" said old Michael Mail in a
carefully-cautious voice, by way of tiding-over this critical point of
affairs.
"No one at all," said Joseph Bowman, in the tone of a man fully agreeing
with everybody.
"Ay," said Mail, in the tone of a man who did not agree with everybody as
a rule, though he did now; "I knowed a' auctioneering feller once--a very
friendly feller 'a was too. And so one hot day as I was walking down the
front street o' Casterbridge, jist below the King's Arms, I passed a'
open winder and see him inside, stuck upon his perch, a-selling off. I
jist nodded to en in a friendly way as I passed, and went my way, and
thought no more about it. Well, next day, as I was oilen my boots by
fuel-house door, if a letter didn't come wi' a bill charging me with a
feather-bed, bolster, and pillers, that I had bid for at Mr. Taylor's
sale. The slim-faced martel had knocked 'em down to me because I nodded
to en in my friendly way; and I had to pay for 'em too. Now, I hold that
that was coming it very close, Reuben?"
"'Twas close, there's no denying," said the general voice.
"Too close, 'twas," said Reuben, in the rear of the rest. "And as to Sam
Lawson--poor heart! now he's dead and gone too!--I'll warrant, that if so
be I've spent one hour in making hoops for that barrel, I've spent fifty,
first and last. That's one of my hoops"--touching it with his
elbow--"that's one of mine, and that, and that, and all these."
"Ah, Sam was a man," said Mr. Penny, contemplatively.
"Sam was!" said Bowman.
"Especially for a drap o' drink," said the tranter.
"Good, but not religious-good," suggested Mr. Penny.
The tranter nodded. Having at last made the tap and hole quite ready,
"Now then, Suze, bring a mug," he said. "Here's luck to us, my sonnies!"
The tap went in, and the cider immediately squirted out in a horizontal
shower over Reuben's hands, knees, and leggings, and into the eyes and
neck of Charley, who, having temporarily put off his grief under pressure
of more interesting proceedings, was squatting down and blinking near his
father.
"There 'tis again!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"Devil take the hole, the cask, and Sam Lawson too, that good cider
should be wasted like this!" exclaimed the tranter. "Your thumb! Lend
me your thumb, Michael! Ram it in here, Michael! I must get a bigger
tap, my sonnies."
"Idd it cold inthide te hole?" inquired Charley of Michael, as he
continued in a stooping posture with his thumb in the cork-hole.
"What wonderful odds and ends that chiel has in his head to be sure!"
Mrs. Dewy admiringly exclaimed from the distance. "I lay a wager that he
thinks more about how 'tis inside that barrel than in all the other parts
of the world put together."
All persons present put on a speaking countenance of admiration for the
cleverness alluded to, in the midst of which Reuben returned. The
operation was then satisfactorily performed; when Michael arose and
stretched his head to the extremest fraction of height that his body
would allow of, to re-straighten his back and shoulders--thrusting out
his arms and twisting his features to a mass of wrinkles to emphasize the
relief aquired. A quart or two of the beverage was then brought to
table, at which all the new arrivals reseated themselves with wide-spread
knees, their eyes meditatively seeking out any speck or knot in the board
upon which the gaze might precipitate itself.
"Whatever is father a-biding out in fuel-house so long for?" said the
tranter. "Never such a man as father for two things--cleaving up old
dead apple-tree wood and playing the bass-viol. 'A'd pass his life
between the two, that 'a would." He stepped to the door and opened it.
"Father!"
"Ay!" rang thinly from round the corner.
"Here's the barrel tapped, and we all a-waiting!"
A series of dull thuds, that had been heard without for some time past,
now ceased; and after the light of a lantern had passed the window and
made wheeling rays upon the ceiling inside the eldest of the Dewy family
appeared.
| Notes In this chapter, traditional rustic hospitality and family life are introduced. The Dewy home is warmly described in careful detail. Even though the Dewys are not wealthy, they are a close family unit. They have put up a Christmas tree in the big room of their picturesque cottage and have gathered around it, anxiously awaiting the arrival of the choir. Mrs. Dewy and four of her children are also eager for the return of Dick, the oldest son. As they wait, Reuben Dewy, Dick's father, is attempting to open a barrel of cider, which he plans to share with the men from the church choir. When the choir members enter, they are warmly welcomed with familiarity, even though Reuben never looks up from the task at hand. He feels totally comfortable with these rustics and feels no need to be formal. The group gathers around the table to enjoy the cider and good-humored conversation about their lives, past and present; it is obvious that they like and enjoy one another. When Reuben realizes that his own father, Grandfather William, has not yet joined them, he calls him to the party. In totality, the chapter is a warm picture of close community filled with a festive mood. | analysis |
William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet
an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his
face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe
ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected
from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to
belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a
humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and
he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character
in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been
bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men
who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning
him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw
him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting
fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded
man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he
passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely
thought him old William Dewy.
"Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too,
Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire
directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving
'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the
chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the
admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very
obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James."
Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a
visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered
him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward
from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well-
illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade
a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy
breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints
of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also
wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders
as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the
ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a
shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small
ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large
side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether
empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far
away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner,
by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he
carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister
of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of
pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals,
hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a
passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My
buttery," he said, with a pinched smile.
"Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said
William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table.
"Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally.
"Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever
since I was growing up a hard boy-chap."
"But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael.
"He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en
and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no
denying that."
"The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to
'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't."
"We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel.
Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll
warn it."
"'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his
spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a
large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and
thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a
boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate
at all!"
"The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head
ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a
night-school, and always spoke up to that level.
"Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my
pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a
last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four
followed it.
"Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the
object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the
last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose
this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at
Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well,
when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a
little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured
last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly.
"Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to
the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a
boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to
the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that
squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on
this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know
if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm
making."
During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered
towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person
speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the
extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim
of the vessel.
"However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I
ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the
depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the
first thing to-morrow will do."
He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and
prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating.
"The new schoolmistress's!"
"Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I
see, and just husband-high."
"Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present
converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them.
"Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were
his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his
daughter was in training?"
"Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?"
"Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve."
"I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children.
"Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest.
"Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the
dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand
about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's
what she's come for!"
"And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that
she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I
don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father
always comes to me."
There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting
receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A
character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded
localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers
now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a
nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had
no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's
permission.
"Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went
on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that
last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's
creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and-
sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and
daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses."
"I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a
fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough
to see it, perhaps."
Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles.
"Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used
to know Johnson the dairyman, William?"
"Ay, sure; I did."
"Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his
paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards
Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the
Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it
just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women
looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered
wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they
carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in
my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family
voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving,
'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'"
"Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks.
"'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis
true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that
man's heart."
"You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the
tranter.
"Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man
lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't
wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have."
"Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that
ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of
young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master
Spinks."
"I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I
know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time
a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground.
I am over forty-five."
Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished,
nobody's head ever could be.
"Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my
sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put
together, oftentimes."
"But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently,
moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose
was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a
miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he
continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the
schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as
fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her."
"What about her face?" said young Dewy.
"Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly
gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a
face, when all is said and done."
"Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi'
her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel.
| Even though Grandfather William is seventy, he is still very active although sometimes weak-minded. His bright face would remind a gardener of the "sunny side of a ripe ribstone - pippin." William, a religious man, is also very good-hearted. When he joins the party, he wishes everyone a merry Christmas and throws an armful of logs on the fire. Before coming in, William has invited Grandfather James, Mrs. Dewy's father, to join them. He is a miserly stone mason who lives alone in his cottage. Grandfather William and the choir talk about which carols they will sing, for they need to practice in order to do well. Robert Penny, the local shoemaker, interrupts to exclaim that he has forgotten to deliver a pair of boots to the schoolhouse; he curses his weak-mindedness in forgetting important matters. Seeing that the mention of the boots has generated greater interest than expected, Penny explains that he has made boots for Geoffrey Day, Geoffrey's father, and Geoffrey's sister, Fancy Day. The boots that he has forgotten to deliver are the ones for Miss Day, who wanted to wear them to church the next morning. Talk turns to the new schoolmistress, whom they call "a figure of fun" and "just husband-high." Penny then tells the story of John Woodward's brother. When he drowned, no one could identify the body; but Penny was able to identify his boots. Spinks, considered the town scholar and a good teacher, says that he can identify the ways of a man's heart from his feet. Reuben expresses surprise at the fact that a person's character could be read from his feet. Grandfather William again turns the talk to the carol sing. He wonders whether they should sing for the new schoolmistress. Dick Dewy's interest is aroused because he has heard that Fancy Day is young and beautiful. | summary |
William Dewy--otherwise grandfather William--was now about seventy; yet
an ardent vitality still preserved a warm and roughened bloom upon his
face, which reminded gardeners of the sunny side of a ripe
ribstone-pippin; though a narrow strip of forehead, that was protected
from the weather by lying above the line of his hat-brim, seemed to
belong to some town man, so gentlemanly was its whiteness. His was a
humorous and kindly nature, not unmixed with a frequent melancholy; and
he had a firm religious faith. But to his neighbours he had no character
in particular. If they saw him pass by their windows when they had been
bottling off old mead, or when they had just been called long-headed men
who might do anything in the world if they chose, they thought concerning
him, "Ah, there's that good-hearted man--open as a child!" If they saw
him just after losing a shilling or half-a-crown, or accidentally letting
fall a piece of crockery, they thought, "There's that poor weak-minded
man Dewy again! Ah, he's never done much in the world either!" If he
passed when fortune neither smiled nor frowned on them, they merely
thought him old William Dewy.
"Ah, so's--here you be!--Ah, Michael and Joseph and John--and you too,
Leaf! a merry Christmas all! We shall have a rare log-wood fire
directly, Reub, to reckon by the toughness of the job I had in cleaving
'em." As he spoke he threw down an armful of logs which fell in the
chimney-corner with a rumble, and looked at them with something of the
admiring enmity he would have bestowed on living people who had been very
obstinate in holding their own. "Come in, grandfather James."
Old James (grandfather on the maternal side) had simply called as a
visitor. He lived in a cottage by himself, and many people considered
him a miser; some, rather slovenly in his habits. He now came forward
from behind grandfather William, and his stooping figure formed a well-
illuminated picture as he passed towards the fire-place. Being by trade
a mason, he wore a long linen apron reaching almost to his toes, corduroy
breeches and gaiters, which, together with his boots, graduated in tints
of whitish-brown by constant friction against lime and stone. He also
wore a very stiff fustian coat, having folds at the elbows and shoulders
as unvarying in their arrangement as those in a pair of bellows: the
ridges and the projecting parts of the coat collectively exhibiting a
shade different from that of the hollows, which were lined with small
ditch-like accumulations of stone and mortar-dust. The extremely large
side-pockets, sheltered beneath wide flaps, bulged out convexly whether
empty or full; and as he was often engaged to work at buildings far
away--his breakfasts and dinners being eaten in a strange chimney-corner,
by a garden wall, on a heap of stones, or walking along the road--he
carried in these pockets a small tin canister of butter, a small canister
of sugar, a small canister of tea, a paper of salt, and a paper of
pepper; the bread, cheese, and meat, forming the substance of his meals,
hanging up behind him in his basket among the hammers and chisels. If a
passer-by looked hard at him when he was drawing forth any of these, "My
buttery," he said, with a pinched smile.
"Better try over number seventy-eight before we start, I suppose?" said
William, pointing to a heap of old Christmas-carol books on a side table.
"Wi' all my heart," said the choir generally.
"Number seventy-eight was always a teaser--always. I can mind him ever
since I was growing up a hard boy-chap."
"But he's a good tune, and worth a mint o' practice," said Michael.
"He is; though I've been mad enough wi' that tune at times to seize en
and tear en all to linnit. Ay, he's a splendid carrel--there's no
denying that."
"The first line is well enough," said Mr. Spinks; "but when you come to
'O, thou man,' you make a mess o't."
"We'll have another go into en, and see what we can make of the martel.
Half-an-hour's hammering at en will conquer the toughness of en; I'll
warn it."
"'Od rabbit it all!" said Mr. Penny, interrupting with a flash of his
spectacles, and at the same time clawing at something in the depths of a
large side-pocket. "If so be I hadn't been as scatter-brained and
thirtingill as a chiel, I should have called at the schoolhouse wi' a
boot as I cam up along. Whatever is coming to me I really can't estimate
at all!"
"The brain has its weaknesses," murmured Mr. Spinks, waving his head
ominously. Mr. Spinks was considered to be a scholar, having once kept a
night-school, and always spoke up to that level.
"Well, I must call with en the first thing to-morrow. And I'll empt my
pocket o' this last too, if you don't mind, Mrs. Dewy." He drew forth a
last, and placed it on a table at his elbow. The eyes of three or four
followed it.
"Well," said the shoemaker, seeming to perceive that the interest the
object had excited was greater than he had anticipated, and warranted the
last's being taken up again and exhibited; "now, whose foot do ye suppose
this last was made for? It was made for Geoffrey Day's father, over at
Yalbury Wood. Ah, many's the pair o' boots he've had off the last! Well,
when 'a died, I used the last for Geoffrey, and have ever since, though a
little doctoring was wanted to make it do. Yes, a very queer natured
last it is now, 'a b'lieve," he continued, turning it over caressingly.
"Now, you notice that there" (pointing to a lump of leather bradded to
the toe), "that's a very bad bunion that he've had ever since 'a was a
boy. Now, this remarkable large piece" (pointing to a patch nailed to
the side), "shows a' accident he received by the tread of a horse, that
squashed his foot a'most to a pomace. The horseshoe cam full-butt on
this point, you see. And so I've just been over to Geoffrey's, to know
if he wanted his bunion altered or made bigger in the new pair I'm
making."
During the latter part of this speech, Mr. Penny's left hand wandered
towards the cider-cup, as if the hand had no connection with the person
speaking; and bringing his sentence to an abrupt close, all but the
extreme margin of the bootmaker's face was eclipsed by the circular brim
of the vessel.
"However, I was going to say," continued Penny, putting down the cup, "I
ought to have called at the school"--here he went groping again in the
depths of his pocket--"to leave this without fail, though I suppose the
first thing to-morrow will do."
He now drew forth and placed upon the table a boot--small, light, and
prettily shaped--upon the heel of which he had been operating.
"The new schoolmistress's!"
"Ay, no less, Miss Fancy Day; as neat a little figure of fun as ever I
see, and just husband-high."
"Never Geoffrey's daughter Fancy?" said Bowman, as all glances present
converged like wheel-spokes upon the boot in the centre of them.
"Yes, sure," resumed Mr. Penny, regarding the boot as if that alone were
his auditor; "'tis she that's come here schoolmistress. You knowed his
daughter was in training?"
"Strange, isn't it, for her to be here Christmas night, Master Penny?"
"Yes; but here she is, 'a b'lieve."
"I know how she comes here--so I do!" chirruped one of the children.
"Why?" Dick inquired, with subtle interest.
"Pa'son Maybold was afraid he couldn't manage us all to-morrow at the
dinner, and he talked o' getting her jist to come over and help him hand
about the plates, and see we didn't make pigs of ourselves; and that's
what she's come for!"
"And that's the boot, then," continued its mender imaginatively, "that
she'll walk to church in to-morrow morning. I don't care to mend boots I
don't make; but there's no knowing what it may lead to, and her father
always comes to me."
There, between the cider-mug and the candle, stood this interesting
receptacle of the little unknown's foot; and a very pretty boot it was. A
character, in fact--the flexible bend at the instep, the rounded
localities of the small nestling toes, scratches from careless scampers
now forgotten--all, as repeated in the tell-tale leather, evidencing a
nature and a bias. Dick surveyed it with a delicate feeling that he had
no right to do so without having first asked the owner of the foot's
permission.
"Now, neighbours, though no common eye can see it," the shoemaker went
on, "a man in the trade can see the likeness between this boot and that
last, although that is so deformed as hardly to recall one of God's
creatures, and this is one of as pretty a pair as you'd get for ten-and-
sixpence in Casterbridge. To you, nothing; but 'tis father's voot and
daughter's voot to me, as plain as houses."
"I don't doubt there's a likeness, Master Penny--a mild likeness--a
fantastical likeness," said Spinks. "But I han't got imagination enough
to see it, perhaps."
Mr. Penny adjusted his spectacles.
"Now, I'll tell ye what happened to me once on this very point. You used
to know Johnson the dairyman, William?"
"Ay, sure; I did."
"Well, 'twasn't opposite his house, but a little lower down--by his
paddock, in front o' Parkmaze Pool. I was a-bearing across towards
Bloom's End, and lo and behold, there was a man just brought out o' the
Pool, dead; he had un'rayed for a dip, but not being able to pitch it
just there had gone in flop over his head. Men looked at en; women
looked at en; children looked at en; nobody knowed en. He was covered
wi' a sheet; but I catched sight of his voot, just showing out as they
carried en along. 'I don't care what name that man went by,' I said, in
my way, 'but he's John Woodward's brother; I can swear to the family
voot.' At that very moment up comes John Woodward, weeping and teaving,
'I've lost my brother! I've lost my brother!'"
"Only to think of that!" said Mrs. Dewy.
"'Tis well enough to know this foot and that foot," said Mr. Spinks.
"'Tis long-headed, in fact, as far as feet do go. I know little, 'tis
true--I say no more; but show me a man's foot, and I'll tell you that
man's heart."
"You must be a cleverer feller, then, than mankind in jineral," said the
tranter.
"Well, that's nothing for me to speak of," returned Mr. Spinks. "A man
lives and learns. Maybe I've read a leaf or two in my time. I don't
wish to say anything large, mind you; but nevertheless, maybe I have."
"Yes, I know," said Michael soothingly, "and all the parish knows, that
ye've read sommat of everything a'most, and have been a great filler of
young folks' brains. Learning's a worthy thing, and ye've got it, Master
Spinks."
"I make no boast, though I may have read and thought a little; and I
know--it may be from much perusing, but I make no boast--that by the time
a man's head is finished, 'tis almost time for him to creep underground.
I am over forty-five."
Mr. Spinks emitted a look to signify that if his head was not finished,
nobody's head ever could be.
"Talk of knowing people by their feet!" said Reuben. "Rot me, my
sonnies, then, if I can tell what a man is from all his members put
together, oftentimes."
"But still, look is a good deal," observed grandfather William absently,
moving and balancing his head till the tip of grandfather James's nose
was exactly in a right line with William's eye and the mouth of a
miniature cavern he was discerning in the fire. "By the way," he
continued in a fresher voice, and looking up, "that young crater, the
schoolmis'ess, must be sung to to-night wi' the rest? If her ear is as
fine as her face, we shall have enough to do to be up-sides with her."
"What about her face?" said young Dewy.
"Well, as to that," Mr. Spinks replied, "'tis a face you can hardly
gainsay. A very good pink face, as far as that do go. Still, only a
face, when all is said and done."
"Come, come, Elias Spinks, say she's a pretty maid, and have done wi'
her," said the tranter, again preparing to visit the cider-barrel.
| Notes In this chapter the Mellstock rustics are brought to life through their conversation and the stories that they tell. They perform an almost choric function as they give information on various characters and events. Penny's discussion on boot making and his digression on John Woodward's brother are very interesting and earthy, lending realism to the dialogue. The discussion of Fancy Day is humorous, but significant, since she will become the protagonist of the story and the object of Dick's affection. Much time is spent in the description of Grandfather William, Reuben's father. He is a kind-hearted man of seventy; although he is still very active, he is often forgetful. His cheerfulness is a sharp contrast to Mrs. Dewy's father, Grandfather James, who is a miserly loner. | analysis |
Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his
mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.
Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted
that of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the
sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to
himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was
paternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial.
She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted
on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered
perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her
thoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the
other nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities of
performance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed
for dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made
him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about her
husband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving no
very brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever
convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate.
In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of
his mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his
own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he
absented himself for a considerable part of each year.
He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,
a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as
subordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he
gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long
residence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a
simple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had
no intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his
only son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a
problem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to
him equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on the
grey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify
this light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph
spent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an
American university, after which, as he struck his father on his return
as even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years in
residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became
at last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners that
surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed
its independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless
liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; at
Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction,
and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a
fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career
by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in
uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with
him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put
a watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he
regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father,
he admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel
Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself
had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learning
enough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was
not this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface,
polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to
possibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither at
Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his
son's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full
of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for the
latter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for
the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr.
Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the ground
of his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of
his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted with
pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the
end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as he
was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the disposition
superficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he had
never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It
was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic
consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English
life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There
were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had
never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these
latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less
well of him.
Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;
after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father's
bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I
believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other
considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of
standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise,
however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end
of some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out
of health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs
and threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply,
to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he
slighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least
he was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person
with whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved
on acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging
tolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes
strange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something
at stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation for
ordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of
which note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping
the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other
promised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather
a dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which
consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of
London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he
cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ
grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand.
He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home
when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when
it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.
A secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse might
have slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped to
reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught
but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing
he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced the
field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit
seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of
pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading
a good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a young
man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good
winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes
the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled
some three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this
history opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in
England and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers.
He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between
life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he
made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He
said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to
keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the
interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation.
With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties became
an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had
never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard
that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself;
an idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the less
delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts
of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more
cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their
heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but
the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.
It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing
in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interest
in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was
consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough
for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the
imagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--had
still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the
riot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with a
passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one.
"And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his mother. "What do
you mean to do with her?"
Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her to
stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."
"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My father
will ask her as a matter of course."
"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his."
"Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the more
reason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months
(for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four
paltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?"
"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing."
"Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?"
"I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence."
"You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should like
to know what you mean to do with her in a general way."
"My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very much,"
she added.
"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting
compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a
hint of where you see your duty."
"In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice of
two of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in
French, which she already knows very well."
Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry--even allowing her the
choice of two of the countries."
"If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel alone
to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day."
"Do you mean she's a gifted being?"
"I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever
girl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being
bored."
"I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How do
you two get on?"
"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one.
Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think I
greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort
of girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just what
to expect of each other."
"Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expect
of you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--in
presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never
suspected."
"Do you think her so very pretty?"
"Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her general
air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare
creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make
her acquaintance?"
"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a
rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn't
know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very
grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--I
should have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted
conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It
occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and
introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of
it--like most American girls; but like most American girls she's
ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me
credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there's
no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You
know I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapproved
entirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when
he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be
found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There
are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the
elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name
is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she
said it was just what her sister needed--that some one should take
an interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young
person of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that
Isabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special
line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;
they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a
refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very
glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little
difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being
under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes
herself to be travelling at her own expense."
Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his
interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a genius,"
he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for
flirting?"
"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong.
You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her."
"Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He flatters
himself he has made that discovery."
His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her. He
needn't try."
"He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should be
puzzled once in a while."
"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.
Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?"
"Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."
Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.
Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked.
"At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour then.
Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined
his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, "Well," he
pursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give you
trouble?"
"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do
that."
"She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph.
"Natural people are not the most trouble."
"No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremely
natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble
to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of
making herself disagreeable?"
"Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out for
yourself."
His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he said,
"you've not told me what you intend to do with her."
"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do
absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she
chooses. She gave me notice of that."
"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's
independent."
"I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send from
America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father."
"It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph.
"I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew
what to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he
offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they
descended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the
staircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak
which was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. "You've no
plan of marrying her?" he smiled.
"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart
from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every
facility."
"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?"
"I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!"
Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston.
"As my father says, they're always engaged!"
His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the
source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He
had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been
left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over
from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his
departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and
Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their
forms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective
apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had
been travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was
really tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow;
but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest
point and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A fine
hypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as
she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures;
there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing.
The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions,
which had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening
was usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures
to advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow.
This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked
disappointed--smiling still, however--and said: "If you please I should
like to see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eager
and now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions,"
Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure
amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,
and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague
squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made
a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick
and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to
one picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs.
She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with
that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there;
she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the
middle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures
than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering
glances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art.
She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when
people had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers
they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark
even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light
grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an
enchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of the
gallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now I know more
than I did when I began!"
"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousin
returned.
"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant."
"You strike me as different from most girls."
"Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!" murmured
Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a
moment, to change the subject, "Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?"
she went on.
"A ghost?"
"A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in
America."
"So we do here, when we see them."
"You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house."
"It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed if
you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance here
but what you may have brought with you."
"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to the
right place."
"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here,
between my father and me."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but your
father and you?"
"My mother, of course."
"Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?"
"Very few."
"I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people."
"Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph.
"Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely. "Who
was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?"
"A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often."
"I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel.
"Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected.
"Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,
immensely."
"You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear."
"I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.
"You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse."
"I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too many
theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added.
Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my father
and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother."
"I like your mother very much, because--because--" And Isabel found
herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.
Touchett.
"Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing.
"I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't expect
one to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not."
"So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my
mother," said Ralph.
"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try
to make them do it."
"Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that was
not altogether jocular.
"But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to clinch
the matter will be to show me the ghost."
Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never see
it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It has
never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must
have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable
knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,"
said Ralph.
"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered.
"Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't
suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the
ghost!"
She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with
a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck
him as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and he
wondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know," she said: which
seemed quite presumptuous enough.
"You're not afraid of suffering?"
"Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I think
people suffer too easily," she added.
"I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in
his pockets.
"I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutely
necessary to suffer; we were not made for that."
"You were not, certainly."
"I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little.
"No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be strong."
"Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked.
They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had
returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the
staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle,
which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call you. When
you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happy
as possible."
She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot
on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came to Europe for,
to be as happy as possible. Good-night."
"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to
contribute to it!"
She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with
his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.
| At the opening of Chapter 5, Ralph Touchett knocks on his mother's door eagerly. His mother is described as being more fatherly, her father, as more motherly. Ralph's father, Mr. Daniel Touchett, is described as having adopted England as his country because he found it sane and accommodating. Yet he also had no great desire to render himself less American. Ralph therefore spent many terms at an American school, has a degree from an American university, but he also spent three years at Oxford. Ralph is therefore well accustomed to English manners, and appeared English from the outside, but his mind is described as enjoying independence. He did well at Oxford, but he was prevented from having a successful career in England because he was American. Ralph admires his father but has no aptitude for banking himself. Ralph appreciates his father's "fine ivory surface" mostly -- that is, his father's impenetrability to the ideas of others, his father's "originality". Mr. Daniel Touchett has been successful because he is less pliant than many other Americans. Ralph had worked briefly at his father's bank before he caught a violent sickness; he is a consumptive. This is a deadly disease, but it is described optimistically, insofar as Ralph believes he will survive quite a few winters. He always goes abroad during the winter because of this disease. He comforts himself with the thought that he had not really had ambition to do much in his life in the first place. One winter though, he stayed too long in England, and arrived more "dead than alive" in Algiers. After this scare, his attitude changed: he no longer felt he had to struggle to distinguish himself. His friends then know him as more serene. He though does still have the prospect of being in love in his future, although he has forbidden himself an "expression" of this. Ralph Touchett converses with his mother about Isabel, and he jokes that he speaks about her like a piece of "property". He asks what she means to do with her. Mrs. Touchett answers practically, when Ralph has asked the question in the abstract. Mrs. Touchett talks about buying her clothing, bringing her to Paris, and so forth. I should like to know what you mean to do with her in a general way," Ralph responds. Mrs. Touchett tells Ralph where she found Isabel. She thinks Isabel may be a "genius," but she does not yet know in what. Ralph asks if she is a genius in flirting, as Lord Warburton has suggested that to him, but Mrs. Touchett thinks that is not where Isabel's talents lie. Ralph delights in the idea that Isabel might be a "puzzle" to Lord Warburton. Ralph persists in asking what Mrs. Touchett plans to "do" with her, and then asks if she plans to get her to marry someone in Europe. Mrs. Touchett responds, "She's perfectly able to marry herself," implying that she does not plan on assisting her in that regard. Mrs. Touchett does not know if Isabel is already engaged. Ralph then goes to show Isabel around the house. He watches her inspecting some of the art in their gallery, and he notes that she has "taste" and a judging eye. He also notes that she has a great passion for knowledge. Isabel wants to know if there is a ghost in their mansion. Ralph responds that their house is "dismally prosaic" and that there is no romance there "but what you may have brought with you ". Isabel asks if there are more people around there house, saying that she liked Ralph's father and his friend, Lord Warburton. She also likes Mrs. Touchett, she declares, because Mrs. Touchett does not expect one to like her. She goes on to assert that she likes Ralph too, even though he is the opposite of Mrs. Touchett in caring what others think of him. Isabel and Ralph conclude the conversation by agreeing that the great point is to be as happy as possible, and that one does not need to suffer | summary |
Ralph Touchett was a philosopher, but nevertheless he knocked at his
mother's door (at a quarter to seven) with a good deal of eagerness.
Even philosophers have their preferences, and it must be admitted
that of his progenitors his father ministered most to his sense of the
sweetness of filial dependence. His father, as he had often said to
himself, was the more motherly; his mother, on the other hand, was
paternal, and even, according to the slang of the day, gubernatorial.
She was nevertheless very fond of her only child and had always insisted
on his spending three months of the year with her. Ralph rendered
perfect justice to her affection and knew that in her thoughts and her
thoroughly arranged and servanted life his turn always came after the
other nearest subjects of her solicitude, the various punctualities of
performance of the workers of her will. He found her completely dressed
for dinner, but she embraced her boy with her gloved hands and made
him sit on the sofa beside her. She enquired scrupulously about her
husband's health and about the young man's own, and, receiving no
very brilliant account of either, remarked that she was more than ever
convinced of her wisdom in not exposing herself to the English climate.
In this case she also might have given way. Ralph smiled at the idea of
his mother's giving way, but made no point of reminding her that his
own infirmity was not the result of the English climate, from which he
absented himself for a considerable part of each year.
He had been a very small boy when his father, Daniel Tracy Touchett,
a native of Rutland, in the State of Vermont, came to England as
subordinate partner in a banking-house where some ten years later he
gained preponderant control. Daniel Touchett saw before him a life-long
residence in his adopted country, of which, from the first, he took a
simple, sane and accommodating view. But, as he said to himself, he had
no intention of disamericanising, nor had he a desire to teach his
only son any such subtle art. It had been for himself so very soluble a
problem to live in England assimilated yet unconverted that it seemed to
him equally simple his lawful heir should after his death carry on the
grey old bank in the white American light. He was at pains to intensify
this light, however, by sending the boy home for his education. Ralph
spent several terms at an American school and took a degree at an
American university, after which, as he struck his father on his return
as even redundantly native, he was placed for some three years in
residence at Oxford. Oxford swallowed up Harvard, and Ralph became
at last English enough. His outward conformity to the manners that
surrounded him was none the less the mask of a mind that greatly enjoyed
its independence, on which nothing long imposed itself, and which,
naturally inclined to adventure and irony, indulged in a boundless
liberty of appreciation. He began with being a young man of promise; at
Oxford he distinguished himself, to his father's ineffable satisfaction,
and the people about him said it was a thousand pities so clever a
fellow should be shut out from a career. He might have had a career
by returning to his own country (though this point is shrouded in
uncertainty) and even if Mr. Touchett had been willing to part with
him (which was not the case) it would have gone hard with him to put
a watery waste permanently between himself and the old man whom he
regarded as his best friend. Ralph was not only fond of his father,
he admired him--he enjoyed the opportunity of observing him. Daniel
Touchett, to his perception, was a man of genius, and though he himself
had no aptitude for the banking mystery he made a point of learning
enough of it to measure the great figure his father had played. It was
not this, however, he mainly relished; it was the fine ivory surface,
polished as by the English air, that the old man had opposed to
possibilities of penetration. Daniel Touchett had been neither at
Harvard nor at Oxford, and it was his own fault if he had placed in his
son's hands the key to modern criticism. Ralph, whose head was full
of ideas which his father had never guessed, had a high esteem for the
latter's originality. Americans, rightly or wrongly, are commended for
the ease with which they adapt themselves to foreign conditions; but Mr.
Touchett had made of the very limits of his pliancy half the ground
of his general success. He had retained in their freshness most of
his marks of primary pressure; his tone, as his son always noted with
pleasure, was that of the more luxuriant parts of New England. At the
end of his life he had become, on his own ground, as mellow as he
was rich; he combined consummate shrewdness with the disposition
superficially to fraternise, and his "social position," on which he had
never wasted a care, had the firm perfection of an unthumbed fruit. It
was perhaps his want of imagination and of what is called the historic
consciousness; but to many of the impressions usually made by English
life upon the cultivated stranger his sense was completely closed. There
were certain differences he had never perceived, certain habits he had
never formed, certain obscurities he had never sounded. As regards these
latter, on the day he had sounded them his son would have thought less
well of him.
Ralph, on leaving Oxford, had spent a couple of years in travelling;
after which he had found himself perched on a high stool in his father's
bank. The responsibility and honour of such positions is not, I
believe, measured by the height of the stool, which depends upon other
considerations: Ralph, indeed, who had very long legs, was fond of
standing, and even of walking about, at his work. To this exercise,
however, he was obliged to devote but a limited period, for at the end
of some eighteen months he had become aware of his being seriously out
of health. He had caught a violent cold, which fixed itself on his lungs
and threw them into dire confusion. He had to give up work and apply,
to the letter, the sorry injunction to take care of himself. At first he
slighted the task; it appeared to him it was not himself in the least
he was taking care of, but an uninteresting and uninterested person
with whom he had nothing in common. This person, however, improved
on acquaintance, and Ralph grew at last to have a certain grudging
tolerance, even an undemonstrative respect, for him. Misfortune makes
strange bedfellows, and our young man, feeling that he had something
at stake in the matter--it usually struck him as his reputation for
ordinary wit--devoted to his graceless charge an amount of attention of
which note was duly taken and which had at least the effect of keeping
the poor fellow alive. One of his lungs began to heal, the other
promised to follow its example, and he was assured he might outweather
a dozen winters if he would betake himself to those climates in which
consumptives chiefly congregate. As he had grown extremely fond of
London, he cursed the flatness of exile: but at the same time that he
cursed he conformed, and gradually, when he found his sensitive organ
grateful even for grim favours, he conferred them with a lighter hand.
He wintered abroad, as the phrase is; basked in the sun, stopped at home
when the wind blew, went to bed when it rained, and once or twice, when
it had snowed overnight, almost never got up again.
A secret hoard of indifference--like a thick cake a fond old nurse might
have slipped into his first school outfit--came to his aid and helped to
reconcile him to sacrifice; since at the best he was too ill for aught
but that arduous game. As he said to himself, there was really nothing
he had wanted very much to do, so that he had at least not renounced the
field of valour. At present, however, the fragrance of forbidden fruit
seemed occasionally to float past him and remind him that the finest of
pleasures is the rush of action. Living as he now lived was like reading
a good book in a poor translation--a meagre entertainment for a young
man who felt that he might have been an excellent linguist. He had good
winters and poor winters, and while the former lasted he was sometimes
the sport of a vision of virtual recovery. But this vision was dispelled
some three years before the occurrence of the incidents with which this
history opens: he had on that occasion remained later than usual in
England and had been overtaken by bad weather before reaching Algiers.
He arrived more dead than alive and lay there for several weeks between
life and death. His convalescence was a miracle, but the first use he
made of it was to assure himself that such miracles happen but once. He
said to himself that his hour was in sight and that it behoved him to
keep his eyes upon it, yet that it was also open to him to spend the
interval as agreeably as might be consistent with such a preoccupation.
With the prospect of losing them the simple use of his faculties became
an exquisite pleasure; it seemed to him the joys of contemplation had
never been sounded. He was far from the time when he had found it hard
that he should be obliged to give up the idea of distinguishing himself;
an idea none the less importunate for being vague and none the less
delightful for having had to struggle in the same breast with bursts
of inspiring self-criticism. His friends at present judged him more
cheerful, and attributed it to a theory, over which they shook their
heads knowingly, that he would recover his health. His serenity was but
the array of wild flowers niched in his ruin.
It was very probably this sweet-tasting property of the observed thing
in itself that was mainly concerned in Ralph's quickly-stirred interest
in the advent of a young lady who was evidently not insipid. If he was
consideringly disposed, something told him, here was occupation enough
for a succession of days. It may be added, in summary fashion, that the
imagination of loving--as distinguished from that of being loved--had
still a place in his reduced sketch. He had only forbidden himself the
riot of expression. However, he shouldn't inspire his cousin with a
passion, nor would she be able, even should she try, to help him to one.
"And now tell me about the young lady," he said to his mother. "What do
you mean to do with her?"
Mrs. Touchett was prompt. "I mean to ask your father to invite her to
stay three or four weeks at Gardencourt."
"You needn't stand on any such ceremony as that," said Ralph. "My father
will ask her as a matter of course."
"I don't know about that. She's my niece; she's not his."
"Good Lord, dear mother; what a sense of property! That's all the more
reason for his asking her. But after that--I mean after three months
(for its absurd asking the poor girl to remain but for three or four
paltry weeks)--what do you mean to do with her?"
"I mean to take her to Paris. I mean to get her clothing."
"Ah yes, that's of course. But independently of that?"
"I shall invite her to spend the autumn with me in Florence."
"You don't rise above detail, dear mother," said Ralph. "I should like
to know what you mean to do with her in a general way."
"My duty!" Mrs. Touchett declared. "I suppose you pity her very much,"
she added.
"No, I don't think I pity her. She doesn't strike me as inviting
compassion. I think I envy her. Before being sure, however, give me a
hint of where you see your duty."
"In showing her four European countries--I shall leave her the choice of
two of them--and in giving her the opportunity of perfecting herself in
French, which she already knows very well."
Ralph frowned a little. "That sounds rather dry--even allowing her the
choice of two of the countries."
"If it's dry," said his mother with a laugh, "you can leave Isabel alone
to water it! She is as good as a summer rain, any day."
"Do you mean she's a gifted being?"
"I don't know whether she's a gifted being, but she's a clever
girl--with a strong will and a high temper. She has no idea of being
bored."
"I can imagine that," said Ralph; and then he added abruptly: "How do
you two get on?"
"Do you mean by that that I'm a bore? I don't think she finds me one.
Some girls might, I know; but Isabel's too clever for that. I think I
greatly amuse her. We get on because I understand her, I know the sort
of girl she is. She's very frank, and I'm very frank: we know just what
to expect of each other."
"Ah, dear mother," Ralph exclaimed, "one always knows what to expect
of you! You've never surprised me but once, and that's to-day--in
presenting me with a pretty cousin whose existence I had never
suspected."
"Do you think her so very pretty?"
"Very pretty indeed; but I don't insist upon that. It's her general
air of being some one in particular that strikes me. Who is this rare
creature, and what is she? Where did you find her, and how did you make
her acquaintance?"
"I found her in an old house at Albany, sitting in a dreary room on a
rainy day, reading a heavy book and boring herself to death. She didn't
know she was bored, but when I left her no doubt of it she seemed very
grateful for the service. You may say I shouldn't have enlightened he--I
should have let her alone. There's a good deal in that, but I acted
conscientiously; I thought she was meant for something better. It
occurred to me that it would be a kindness to take her about and
introduce her to the world. She thinks she knows a great deal of
it--like most American girls; but like most American girls she's
ridiculously mistaken. If you want to know, I thought she would do me
credit. I like to be well thought of, and for a woman of my age there's
no greater convenience, in some ways, than an attractive niece. You
know I had seen nothing of my sister's children for years; I disapproved
entirely of the father. But I always meant to do something for them when
he should have gone to his reward. I ascertained where they were to be
found and, without any preliminaries, went and introduced myself. There
are two others of them, both of whom are married; but I saw only the
elder, who has, by the way, a very uncivil husband. The wife, whose name
is Lily, jumped at the idea of my taking an interest in Isabel; she
said it was just what her sister needed--that some one should take
an interest in her. She spoke of her as you might speak of some young
person of genius--in want of encouragement and patronage. It may be that
Isabel's a genius; but in that case I've not yet learned her special
line. Mrs. Ludlow was especially keen about my taking her to Europe;
they all regard Europe over there as a land of emigration, of rescue, a
refuge for their superfluous population. Isabel herself seemed very
glad to come, and the thing was easily arranged. There was a little
difficulty about the money-question, as she seemed averse to being
under pecuniary obligations. But she has a small income and she supposes
herself to be travelling at her own expense."
Ralph had listened attentively to this judicious report, by which his
interest in the subject of it was not impaired. "Ah, if she's a genius,"
he said, "we must find out her special line. Is it by chance for
flirting?"
"I don't think so. You may suspect that at first, but you'll be wrong.
You won't, I think, in any way, be easily right about her."
"Warburton's wrong then!" Ralph rejoicingly exclaimed. "He flatters
himself he has made that discovery."
His mother shook her head. "Lord Warburton won't understand her. He
needn't try."
"He's very intelligent," said Ralph; "but it's right he should be
puzzled once in a while."
"Isabel will enjoy puzzling a lord," Mrs. Touchett remarked.
Her son frowned a little. "What does she know about lords?"
"Nothing at all: that will puzzle him all the more."
Ralph greeted these words with a laugh and looked out of the window.
Then, "Are you not going down to see my father?" he asked.
"At a quarter to eight," said Mrs. Touchett.
Her son looked at his watch. "You've another quarter of an hour then.
Tell me some more about Isabel." After which, as Mrs. Touchett declined
his invitation, declaring that he must find out for himself, "Well," he
pursued, "she'll certainly do you credit. But won't she also give you
trouble?"
"I hope not; but if she does I shall not shrink from it. I never do
that."
"She strikes me as very natural," said Ralph.
"Natural people are not the most trouble."
"No," said Ralph; "you yourself are a proof of that. You're extremely
natural, and I'm sure you have never troubled any one. It takes trouble
to do that. But tell me this; it just occurs to me. Is Isabel capable of
making herself disagreeable?"
"Ah," cried his mother, "you ask too many questions! Find that out for
yourself."
His questions, however, were not exhausted. "All this time," he said,
"you've not told me what you intend to do with her."
"Do with her? You talk as if she were a yard of calico. I shall do
absolutely nothing with her, and she herself will do everything she
chooses. She gave me notice of that."
"What you meant then, in your telegram, was that her character's
independent."
"I never know what I mean in my telegrams--especially those I send from
America. Clearness is too expensive. Come down to your father."
"It's not yet a quarter to eight," said Ralph.
"I must allow for his impatience," Mrs. Touchett answered. Ralph knew
what to think of his father's impatience; but, making no rejoinder, he
offered his mother his arm. This put it in his power, as they
descended together, to stop her a moment on the middle landing of the
staircase--the broad, low, wide-armed staircase of time-blackened oak
which was one of the most striking features of Gardencourt. "You've no
plan of marrying her?" he smiled.
"Marrying her? I should be sorry to play her such a trick! But apart
from that, she's perfectly able to marry herself. She has every
facility."
"Do you mean to say she has a husband picked out?"
"I don't know about a husband, but there's a young man in Boston--!"
Ralph went on; he had no desire to hear about the young man in Boston.
"As my father says, they're always engaged!"
His mother had told him that he must satisfy his curiosity at the
source, and it soon became evident he should not want for occasion. He
had a good deal of talk with his young kinswoman when the two had been
left together in the drawing-room. Lord Warburton, who had ridden over
from his own house, some ten miles distant, remounted and took his
departure before dinner; and an hour after this meal was ended Mr. and
Mrs. Touchett, who appeared to have quite emptied the measure of their
forms, withdrew, under the valid pretext of fatigue, to their respective
apartments. The young man spent an hour with his cousin; though she had
been travelling half the day she appeared in no degree spent. She was
really tired; she knew it, and knew she should pay for it on the morrow;
but it was her habit at this period to carry exhaustion to the furthest
point and confess to it only when dissimulation broke down. A fine
hypocrisy was for the present possible; she was interested; she was, as
she said to herself, floated. She asked Ralph to show her the pictures;
there were a great many in the house, most of them of his own choosing.
The best were arranged in an oaken gallery, of charming proportions,
which had a sitting-room at either end of it and which in the evening
was usually lighted. The light was insufficient to show the pictures
to advantage, and the visit might have stood over to the morrow.
This suggestion Ralph had ventured to make; but Isabel looked
disappointed--smiling still, however--and said: "If you please I should
like to see them just a little." She was eager, she knew she was eager
and now seemed so; she couldn't help it. "She doesn't take suggestions,"
Ralph said to himself; but he said it without irritation; her pressure
amused and even pleased him. The lamps were on brackets, at intervals,
and if the light was imperfect it was genial. It fell upon the vague
squares of rich colour and on the faded gilding of heavy frames; it made
a sheen on the polished floor of the gallery. Ralph took a candlestick
and moved about, pointing out the things he liked; Isabel, inclining to
one picture after another, indulged in little exclamations and murmurs.
She was evidently a judge; she had a natural taste; he was struck with
that. She took a candlestick herself and held it slowly here and there;
she lifted it high, and as she did so he found himself pausing in the
middle of the place and bending his eyes much less upon the pictures
than on her presence. He lost nothing, in truth, by these wandering
glances, for she was better worth looking at than most works of art.
She was undeniably spare, and ponderably light, and proveably tall; when
people had wished to distinguish her from the other two Miss Archers
they had always called her the willowy one. Her hair, which was dark
even to blackness, had been an object of envy to many women; her light
grey eyes, a little too firm perhaps in her graver moments, had an
enchanting range of concession. They walked slowly up one side of the
gallery and down the other, and then she said: "Well, now I know more
than I did when I began!"
"You apparently have a great passion for knowledge," her cousin
returned.
"I think I have; most girls are horridly ignorant."
"You strike me as different from most girls."
"Ah, some of them would--but the way they're talked to!" murmured
Isabel, who preferred not to dilate just yet on herself. Then in a
moment, to change the subject, "Please tell me--isn't there a ghost?"
she went on.
"A ghost?"
"A castle-spectre, a thing that appears. We call them ghosts in
America."
"So we do here, when we see them."
"You do see them then? You ought to, in this romantic old house."
"It's not a romantic old house," said Ralph. "You'll be disappointed if
you count on that. It's a dismally prosaic one; there's no romance here
but what you may have brought with you."
"I've brought a great deal; but it seems to me I've brought it to the
right place."
"To keep it out of harm, certainly; nothing will ever happen to it here,
between my father and me."
Isabel looked at him a moment. "Is there never any one here but your
father and you?"
"My mother, of course."
"Oh, I know your mother; she's not romantic. Haven't you other people?"
"Very few."
"I'm sorry for that; I like so much to see people."
"Oh, we'll invite all the county to amuse you," said Ralph.
"Now you're making fun of me," the girl answered rather gravely. "Who
was the gentleman on the lawn when I arrived?"
"A county neighbour; he doesn't come very often."
"I'm sorry for that; I liked him," said Isabel.
"Why, it seemed to me that you barely spoke to him," Ralph objected.
"Never mind, I like him all the same. I like your father too,
immensely."
"You can't do better than that. He's the dearest of the dear."
"I'm so sorry he is ill," said Isabel.
"You must help me to nurse him; you ought to be a good nurse."
"I don't think I am; I've been told I'm not; I'm said to have too many
theories. But you haven't told me about the ghost," she added.
Ralph, however, gave no heed to this observation. "You like my father
and you like Lord Warburton. I infer also that you like my mother."
"I like your mother very much, because--because--" And Isabel found
herself attempting to assign a reason for her affection for Mrs.
Touchett.
"Ah, we never know why!" said her companion, laughing.
"I always know why," the girl answered. "It's because she doesn't expect
one to like her. She doesn't care whether one does or not."
"So you adore her--out of perversity? Well, I take greatly after my
mother," said Ralph.
"I don't believe you do at all. You wish people to like you, and you try
to make them do it."
"Good heavens, how you see through one!" he cried with a dismay that was
not altogether jocular.
"But I like you all the same," his cousin went on. "The way to clinch
the matter will be to show me the ghost."
Ralph shook his head sadly. "I might show it to you, but you'd never see
it. The privilege isn't given to every one; it's not enviable. It has
never been seen by a young, happy, innocent person like you. You must
have suffered first, have suffered greatly, have gained some miserable
knowledge. In that way your eyes are opened to it. I saw it long ago,"
said Ralph.
"I told you just now I'm very fond of knowledge," Isabel answered.
"Yes, of happy knowledge--of pleasant knowledge. But you haven't
suffered, and you're not made to suffer. I hope you'll never see the
ghost!"
She had listened to him attentively, with a smile on her lips, but with
a certain gravity in her eyes. Charming as he found her, she had struck
him as rather presumptuous--indeed it was a part of her charm; and he
wondered what she would say. "I'm not afraid, you know," she said: which
seemed quite presumptuous enough.
"You're not afraid of suffering?"
"Yes, I'm afraid of suffering. But I'm not afraid of ghosts. And I think
people suffer too easily," she added.
"I don't believe you do," said Ralph, looking at her with his hands in
his pockets.
"I don't think that's a fault," she answered. "It's not absolutely
necessary to suffer; we were not made for that."
"You were not, certainly."
"I'm not speaking of myself." And she wandered off a little.
"No, it isn't a fault," said her cousin. "It's a merit to be strong."
"Only, if you don't suffer they call you hard," Isabel remarked.
They passed out of the smaller drawing-room, into which they had
returned from the gallery, and paused in the hall, at the foot of the
staircase. Here Ralph presented his companion with her bedroom candle,
which he had taken from a niche. "Never mind what they call you. When
you do suffer they call you an idiot. The great point's to be as happy
as possible."
She looked at him a little; she had taken her candle and placed her foot
on the oaken stair. "Well," she said, "that's what I came to Europe for,
to be as happy as possible. Good-night."
"Good-night! I wish you all success, and shall be very glad to
contribute to it!"
She turned away, and he watched her as she slowly ascended. Then, with
his hands always in his pockets, he went back to the empty drawing-room.
| The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the "American theme" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's "success," the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be "successful" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques "conventionality" in a general sense. | analysis |
Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was
remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind
than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger
perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was
tinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries
she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these
excellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of
intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of
Isabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read the
classic authors--in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once
spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book--Mrs. Varian having a
reverence for books, and averred that the girl would distinguish herself
in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she
entertained that esteem that is connected with a sense of privation.
Her own large house, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and
decorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of
printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on
a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs.
Varian's acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York
Interviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer
you had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather
to keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was
determined to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her
impression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl
had never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels
of authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the
consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were
right when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or
no she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought
her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly
than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might easily be
confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that
Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often
surveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the
habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, that she was right;
she treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile her errors and
delusions were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving
the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts
were a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the
judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion
she had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous
zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then
she treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she
held her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an
unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it
was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should
be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (she
couldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm
of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully
chronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one's self
as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should try to be one's
own best friend and to give one's self, in this manner, distinguished
company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered
her a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent
half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had
a fixed determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of
free expansion, of irresistible action: she held it must be detestable
to be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never
do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them,
her mere errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if
she had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered
her) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another
person, presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold
her breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen
to her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about
the things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when
she fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be
jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil
of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt
each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed
indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was
the danger of inconsistency--the danger of keeping up the flag after the
place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost
a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of
artillery to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such
contradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Her life should
always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should
produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she
was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself
some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure
of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre
knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and
dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of
curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire
to look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination
to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory,
flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she
would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended
to awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely
expectant.
It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in
being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use
of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of
singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister
Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose
acquaintance she had made shortly before her father's death, who offered
so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her
as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability;
she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the
Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other
places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence
"ephemeral," but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the
writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three
of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their
school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was
in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her
cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of
letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view--an enterprise
the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions
would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay
open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once;
thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel
together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise.
She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly
in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her
friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular
student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof
that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were
of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and
a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to
want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation,
no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being
frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If
one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work
to one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not
without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on
the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it.
From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might
be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself,
in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly
possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded
person of another sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered;
something pure and proud that there was in her--something cold and dry
an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called
it--had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the
article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a
ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them
should present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience.
Deep in her soul--it was the deepest thing there--lay a belief that if
a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but
this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's
thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a
little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too
much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the
year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her
development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature
had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of
perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas,
which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise
in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was
harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was
often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of
her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places
which were not gardens at all--only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted
thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity
on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this
beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often
checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were
less happy than herself--a thought which for the moment made her fine,
full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with
the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It
must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too
young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always
returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one
thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life.
This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should
be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject
of special attention.
England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a
child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had
seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not
London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his
children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had
grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that
she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a
picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon
Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and
gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky
corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on
dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always
peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a
"property"--a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where
the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all
friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk--these
things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a
considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her
uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the
lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like
a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work
and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months
made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected--the
effect she produced upon people was often different from what she
supposed--and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her
chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which
had much of the "point" observable in that of the young ladies of her
country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to
their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had
been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended
to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her
opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed
away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit
of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to
her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many
people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think
that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was
because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak--so
many characteristics of her niece--that he had fallen in love with Mrs.
Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however;
for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all
like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a
long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house;
and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable
to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something
for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but
questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had
a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms
that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the
British constitution, the English character, the state of politics,
the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the
aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in
begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether
they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always
looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down
the shawl spread across his legs.
"The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books. You
must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself--got my
information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even;
I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good
opportunities--better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm
of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you were
to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you
more. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years,
and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable information.
It's a very fine country on the whole--finer perhaps than what we give
it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to
see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generally
felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they
usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty
comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among
them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it's because
I've had a considerable degree of success. When you're successful you
naturally feel more at home."
"Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?" Isabel
asked.
"I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful.
They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them
a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much at home, you
know."
"Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judicially
emphasised. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like
the people."
"The people are very good people; especially if you like them."
"I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are they pleasant
in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves
agreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't hesitate to
say so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe they're very
nice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels."
"I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believe the
novels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're very accurate.
We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend
of Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to
everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on
for evidence. Too free a fancy--I suppose that was it. She afterwards
published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given
a representation--something in the nature of a caricature, as you might
say--of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph just handed me
the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be
a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang,
Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate;
she couldn't have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her
giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the
idea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk
like an American--I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've
made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the
old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't
have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you
that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters,
and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance
to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young
women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their
position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle."
"Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they? About fifty,
I suppose."
"Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice
of the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here; you
don't belong to any class."
"I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an English class!"
"Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable--especially towards
the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and
the people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the
first."
"I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way of taking
compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly
as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was
thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to
show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much.
"I'm sure the English are very conventional," she added.
"They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett admitted. "It's
all settled beforehand--they don't leave it to the last moment."
"I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said the girl. "I
like more unexpectedness."
Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. "Well, it's
settled beforehand that you'll have great success," he rejoined. "I
suppose you'll like that."
"I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional. I'm not
in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary. That's what
they won't like."
"No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tell what
they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal
interest."
"Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands
clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the
lawn--"that will suit me perfectly!"
| In Chapter 6, the narrator embarks on more description of Isabel's history, and other's perceptions of her. He describes Isabel as being an active young person "of many theories" with a "finer mind" than most others, and a "larger perception" of facts. One of her aunts, Mrs. Varian, once started a rumor that she was writing a novel, but Isabel had never attempted to do so. She is not a novelist, for she has no talent for expression. She is not exactly a genius, but she does regard herself highly, thinking that people are right in treating her as superior. Thus the narrator says she might be guilty of the "sin of self-esteem". Her actual thoughts though are described as a "tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the judgment of people speaking with authority" and she had her own, stubborn way in her own unclear opinions. It seems to be her philosophy that life was only worth living if one thinks well of one's self. According to her, the worst thing that could happen to her seems to be that she might cause injury to someone else. She is unaware of the evil in the world, and flattered herself that she would never sink to the dangers of inconsistency which high self-esteem often brought: "Her life should always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she could produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she was". She sometimes even imagines herself finding herself in a difficult, so that she might arise as a hero of the occasion, and prove herself. The narrator muses that Isabel might be a subject worthy of a scientific criticism were it not for her tendency to awaken the reader's tenderness. Isabel has a friend named Henrietta Stackpole, who is a journalist and financially independent. Henrietta is representative of a progressive woman who has "clear cut views" and is very radically liberal. Isabel thinks Henrietta is proof that a woman can be independent and happy. In respect to her own independence, Isabel's "deepest" thought in her mind is described as being the belief that she could give herself completely if a man should present herself as a husband, but she also finds the image "formidable" more than "attractive". Her mind only hovers around this thought. She sometimes even feels that she is immodest in being so happy, thinking others less unfortunate than herself. Overall she returns to the general theory that a young woman who everyone thinks is clever needs to get a "general impression of life". Isabel and her uncle get along quite well. She asks him many questions, and he provides her with a great number of answers about British politics and manners, neighborhood gossip. Isabel wonders if his description of things accords with the descriptions in books; and he responds that he would not know, having been always interested in finding things out in their natural form. Isabel notes that the people in Europe are not very kind to girls in novels, and wonders if they will similarly abuse her. Mr. Touchett notes that he was once incorporated into a novelist's description of England in a caricatured form -- and thus, people in novels are not always depicted accurately. He also expresses to Isabel that one advantage of being an American in Europe is that one does not belong to any class, unlike Europeans, who all belong to a class. Isabel thinks she will not be successful in Europe if Europeans prove to be conventional. Mr. Touchett thinks it's already been settled that Isabel will be a "success" in Europe | summary |
Isabel Archer was a young person of many theories; her imagination was
remarkably active. It had been her fortune to possess a finer mind
than most of the persons among whom her lot was cast; to have a larger
perception of surrounding facts and to care for knowledge that was
tinged with the unfamiliar. It is true that among her contemporaries
she passed for a young woman of extraordinary profundity; for these
excellent people never withheld their admiration from a reach of
intellect of which they themselves were not conscious, and spoke of
Isabel as a prodigy of learning, a creature reported to have read the
classic authors--in translations. Her paternal aunt, Mrs. Varian, once
spread the rumour that Isabel was writing a book--Mrs. Varian having a
reverence for books, and averred that the girl would distinguish herself
in print. Mrs. Varian thought highly of literature, for which she
entertained that esteem that is connected with a sense of privation.
Her own large house, remarkable for its assortment of mosaic tables and
decorated ceilings, was unfurnished with a library, and in the way of
printed volumes contained nothing but half a dozen novels in paper on
a shelf in the apartment of one of the Miss Varians. Practically, Mrs.
Varian's acquaintance with literature was confined to The New York
Interviewer; as she very justly said, after you had read the Interviewer
you had lost all faith in culture. Her tendency, with this, was rather
to keep the Interviewer out of the way of her daughters; she was
determined to bring them up properly, and they read nothing at all. Her
impression with regard to Isabel's labours was quite illusory; the girl
had never attempted to write a book and had no desire for the laurels
of authorship. She had no talent for expression and too little of the
consciousness of genius; she only had a general idea that people were
right when they treated her as if she were rather superior. Whether or
no she were superior, people were right in admiring her if they thought
her so; for it seemed to her often that her mind moved more quickly
than theirs, and this encouraged an impatience that might easily be
confounded with superiority. It may be affirmed without delay that
Isabel was probably very liable to the sin of self-esteem; she often
surveyed with complacency the field of her own nature; she was in the
habit of taking for granted, on scanty evidence, that she was right;
she treated herself to occasions of homage. Meanwhile her errors and
delusions were frequently such as a biographer interested in preserving
the dignity of his subject must shrink from specifying. Her thoughts
were a tangle of vague outlines which had never been corrected by the
judgement of people speaking with authority. In matters of opinion
she had had her own way, and it had led her into a thousand ridiculous
zigzags. At moments she discovered she was grotesquely wrong, and then
she treated herself to a week of passionate humility. After this she
held her head higher than ever again; for it was of no use, she had an
unquenchable desire to think well of herself. She had a theory that it
was only under this provision life was worth living; that one should
be one of the best, should be conscious of a fine organisation (she
couldn't help knowing her organisation was fine), should move in a realm
of light, of natural wisdom, of happy impulse, of inspiration gracefully
chronic. It was almost as unnecessary to cultivate doubt of one's self
as to cultivate doubt of one's best friend: one should try to be one's
own best friend and to give one's self, in this manner, distinguished
company. The girl had a certain nobleness of imagination which rendered
her a good many services and played her a great many tricks. She spent
half her time in thinking of beauty and bravery and magnanimity; she had
a fixed determination to regard the world as a place of brightness, of
free expansion, of irresistible action: she held it must be detestable
to be afraid or ashamed. She had an infinite hope that she should never
do anything wrong. She had resented so strongly, after discovering them,
her mere errors of feeling (the discovery always made her tremble as if
she had escaped from a trap which might have caught her and smothered
her) that the chance of inflicting a sensible injury upon another
person, presented only as a contingency, caused her at moments to hold
her breath. That always struck her as the worst thing that could happen
to her. On the whole, reflectively, she was in no uncertainty about
the things that were wrong. She had no love of their look, but when
she fixed them hard she recognised them. It was wrong to be mean, to be
jealous, to be false, to be cruel; she had seen very little of the evil
of the world, but she had seen women who lied and who tried to hurt
each other. Seeing such things had quickened her high spirit; it seemed
indecent not to scorn them. Of course the danger of a high spirit was
the danger of inconsistency--the danger of keeping up the flag after the
place has surrendered; a sort of behaviour so crooked as to be almost
a dishonour to the flag. But Isabel, who knew little of the sorts of
artillery to which young women are exposed, flattered herself that such
contradictions would never be noted in her own conduct. Her life should
always be in harmony with the most pleasing impression she should
produce; she would be what she appeared, and she would appear what she
was. Sometimes she went so far as to wish that she might find herself
some day in a difficult position, so that she should have the pleasure
of being as heroic as the occasion demanded. Altogether, with her meagre
knowledge, her inflated ideals, her confidence at once innocent and
dogmatic, her temper at once exacting and indulgent, her mixture of
curiosity and fastidiousness, of vivacity and indifference, her desire
to look very well and to be if possible even better, her determination
to see, to try, to know, her combination of the delicate, desultory,
flame-like spirit and the eager and personal creature of conditions: she
would be an easy victim of scientific criticism if she were not intended
to awaken on the reader's part an impulse more tender and more purely
expectant.
It was one of her theories that Isabel Archer was very fortunate in
being independent, and that she ought to make some very enlightened use
of that state. She never called it the state of solitude, much less of
singleness; she thought such descriptions weak, and, besides, her sister
Lily constantly urged her to come and abide. She had a friend whose
acquaintance she had made shortly before her father's death, who offered
so high an example of useful activity that Isabel always thought of her
as a model. Henrietta Stackpole had the advantage of an admired ability;
she was thoroughly launched in journalism, and her letters to the
Interviewer, from Washington, Newport, the White Mountains and other
places, were universally quoted. Isabel pronounced them with confidence
"ephemeral," but she esteemed the courage, energy and good-humour of the
writer, who, without parents and without property, had adopted three
of the children of an infirm and widowed sister and was paying their
school-bills out of the proceeds of her literary labour. Henrietta was
in the van of progress and had clear-cut views on most subjects; her
cherished desire had long been to come to Europe and write a series of
letters to the Interviewer from the radical point of view--an enterprise
the less difficult as she knew perfectly in advance what her opinions
would be and to how many objections most European institutions lay
open. When she heard that Isabel was coming she wished to start at once;
thinking, naturally, that it would be delightful the two should travel
together. She had been obliged, however, to postpone this enterprise.
She thought Isabel a glorious creature, and had spoken of her covertly
in some of her letters, though she never mentioned the fact to her
friend, who would not have taken pleasure in it and was not a regular
student of the Interviewer. Henrietta, for Isabel, was chiefly a proof
that a woman might suffice to herself and be happy. Her resources were
of the obvious kind; but even if one had not the journalistic talent and
a genius for guessing, as Henrietta said, what the public was going to
want, one was not therefore to conclude that one had no vocation,
no beneficent aptitude of any sort, and resign one's self to being
frivolous and hollow. Isabel was stoutly determined not to be hollow. If
one should wait with the right patience one would find some happy work
to one's hand. Of course, among her theories, this young lady was not
without a collection of views on the subject of marriage. The first on
the list was a conviction of the vulgarity of thinking too much of it.
From lapsing into eagerness on this point she earnestly prayed she might
be delivered; she held that a woman ought to be able to live to herself,
in the absence of exceptional flimsiness, and that it was perfectly
possible to be happy without the society of a more or less coarse-minded
person of another sex. The girl's prayer was very sufficiently answered;
something pure and proud that there was in her--something cold and dry
an unappreciated suitor with a taste for analysis might have called
it--had hitherto kept her from any great vanity of conjecture on the
article of possible husbands. Few of the men she saw seemed worth a
ruinous expenditure, and it made her smile to think that one of them
should present himself as an incentive to hope and a reward of patience.
Deep in her soul--it was the deepest thing there--lay a belief that if
a certain light should dawn she could give herself completely; but
this image, on the whole, was too formidable to be attractive. Isabel's
thoughts hovered about it, but they seldom rested on it long; after a
little it ended in alarms. It often seemed to her that she thought too
much about herself; you could have made her colour, any day in the
year, by calling her a rank egoist. She was always planning out her
development, desiring her perfection, observing her progress. Her nature
had, in her conceit, a certain garden-like quality, a suggestion of
perfume and murmuring boughs, of shady bowers and lengthening vistas,
which made her feel that introspection was, after all, an exercise
in the open air, and that a visit to the recesses of one's spirit was
harmless when one returned from it with a lapful of roses. But she was
often reminded that there were other gardens in the world than those of
her remarkable soul, and that there were moreover a great many places
which were not gardens at all--only dusky pestiferous tracts, planted
thick with ugliness and misery. In the current of that repaid curiosity
on which she had lately been floating, which had conveyed her to this
beautiful old England and might carry her much further still, she often
checked herself with the thought of the thousands of people who were
less happy than herself--a thought which for the moment made her fine,
full consciousness appear a kind of immodesty. What should one do with
the misery of the world in a scheme of the agreeable for one's self? It
must be confessed that this question never held her long. She was too
young, too impatient to live, too unacquainted with pain. She always
returned to her theory that a young woman whom after all every one
thought clever should begin by getting a general impression of life.
This impression was necessary to prevent mistakes, and after it should
be secured she might make the unfortunate condition of others a subject
of special attention.
England was a revelation to her, and she found herself as diverted as a
child at a pantomime. In her infantine excursions to Europe she had
seen only the Continent, and seen it from the nursery window; Paris, not
London, was her father's Mecca, and into many of his interests there his
children had naturally not entered. The images of that time moreover had
grown faint and remote, and the old-world quality in everything that
she now saw had all the charm of strangeness. Her uncle's house seemed a
picture made real; no refinement of the agreeable was lost upon
Isabel; the rich perfection of Gardencourt at once revealed a world and
gratified a need. The large, low rooms, with brown ceilings and dusky
corners, the deep embrasures and curious casements, the quiet light on
dark, polished panels, the deep greenness outside, that seemed always
peeping in, the sense of well-ordered privacy in the centre of a
"property"--a place where sounds were felicitously accidental, where
the tread was muffed by the earth itself and in the thick mild air all
friction dropped out of contact and all shrillness out of talk--these
things were much to the taste of our young lady, whose taste played a
considerable part in her emotions. She formed a fast friendship with her
uncle, and often sat by his chair when he had had it moved out to the
lawn. He passed hours in the open air, sitting with folded hands like
a placid, homely household god, a god of service, who had done his work
and received his wages and was trying to grow used to weeks and months
made up only of off-days. Isabel amused him more than she suspected--the
effect she produced upon people was often different from what she
supposed--and he frequently gave himself the pleasure of making her
chatter. It was by this term that he qualified her conversation, which
had much of the "point" observable in that of the young ladies of her
country, to whom the ear of the world is more directly presented than to
their sisters in other lands. Like the mass of American girls Isabel had
been encouraged to express herself; her remarks had been attended
to; she had been expected to have emotions and opinions. Many of her
opinions had doubtless but a slender value, many of her emotions passed
away in the utterance; but they had left a trace in giving her the habit
of seeming at least to feel and think, and in imparting moreover to
her words when she was really moved that prompt vividness which so many
people had regarded as a sign of superiority. Mr. Touchett used to think
that she reminded him of his wife when his wife was in her teens. It was
because she was fresh and natural and quick to understand, to speak--so
many characteristics of her niece--that he had fallen in love with Mrs.
Touchett. He never expressed this analogy to the girl herself, however;
for if Mrs. Touchett had once been like Isabel, Isabel was not at all
like Mrs. Touchett. The old man was full of kindness for her; it was a
long time, as he said, since they had had any young life in the house;
and our rustling, quickly-moving, clear-voiced heroine was as agreeable
to his sense as the sound of flowing water. He wanted to do something
for her and wished she would ask it of him. She would ask nothing but
questions; it is true that of these she asked a quantity. Her uncle had
a great fund of answers, though her pressure sometimes came in forms
that puzzled him. She questioned him immensely about England, about the
British constitution, the English character, the state of politics,
the manners and customs of the royal family, the peculiarities of the
aristocracy, the way of living and thinking of his neighbours; and in
begging to be enlightened on these points she usually enquired whether
they corresponded with the descriptions in the books. The old man always
looked at her a little with his fine dry smile while he smoothed down
the shawl spread across his legs.
"The books?" he once said; "well, I don't know much about the books. You
must ask Ralph about that. I've always ascertained for myself--got my
information in the natural form. I never asked many questions even;
I just kept quiet and took notice. Of course I've had very good
opportunities--better than what a young lady would naturally have. I'm
of an inquisitive disposition, though you mightn't think it if you were
to watch me: however much you might watch me I should be watching you
more. I've been watching these people for upwards of thirty-five years,
and I don't hesitate to say that I've acquired considerable information.
It's a very fine country on the whole--finer perhaps than what we give
it credit for on the other side. Several improvements I should like to
see introduced; but the necessity of them doesn't seem to be generally
felt as yet. When the necessity of a thing is generally felt they
usually manage to accomplish it; but they seem to feel pretty
comfortable about waiting till then. I certainly feel more at home among
them than I expected to when I first came over; I suppose it's because
I've had a considerable degree of success. When you're successful you
naturally feel more at home."
"Do you suppose that if I'm successful I shall feel at home?" Isabel
asked.
"I should think it very probable, and you certainly will be successful.
They like American young ladies very much over here; they show them
a great deal of kindness. But you mustn't feel too much at home, you
know."
"Oh, I'm by no means sure it will satisfy me," Isabel judicially
emphasised. "I like the place very much, but I'm not sure I shall like
the people."
"The people are very good people; especially if you like them."
"I've no doubt they're good," Isabel rejoined; "but are they pleasant
in society? They won't rob me nor beat me; but will they make themselves
agreeable to me? That's what I like people to do. I don't hesitate to
say so, because I always appreciate it. I don't believe they're very
nice to girls; they're not nice to them in the novels."
"I don't know about the novels," said Mr. Touchett. "I believe the
novels have a great deal but I don't suppose they're very accurate.
We once had a lady who wrote novels staying here; she was a friend
of Ralph's and he asked her down. She was very positive, quite up to
everything; but she was not the sort of person you could depend on
for evidence. Too free a fancy--I suppose that was it. She afterwards
published a work of fiction in which she was understood to have given
a representation--something in the nature of a caricature, as you might
say--of my unworthy self. I didn't read it, but Ralph just handed me
the book with the principal passages marked. It was understood to be
a description of my conversation; American peculiarities, nasal twang,
Yankee notions, stars and stripes. Well, it was not at all accurate;
she couldn't have listened very attentively. I had no objection to her
giving a report of my conversation, if she liked but I didn't like the
idea that she hadn't taken the trouble to listen to it. Of course I talk
like an American--I can't talk like a Hottentot. However I talk, I've
made them understand me pretty well over here. But I don't talk like the
old gentleman in that lady's novel. He wasn't an American; we wouldn't
have him over there at any price. I just mention that fact to show you
that they're not always accurate. Of course, as I've no daughters,
and as Mrs. Touchett resides in Florence, I haven't had much chance
to notice about the young ladies. It sometimes appears as if the young
women in the lower class were not very well treated; but I guess their
position is better in the upper and even to some extent in the middle."
"Gracious," Isabel exclaimed; "how many classes have they? About fifty,
I suppose."
"Well, I don't know that I ever counted them. I never took much notice
of the classes. That's the advantage of being an American here; you
don't belong to any class."
"I hope so," said Isabel. "Imagine one's belonging to an English class!"
"Well, I guess some of them are pretty comfortable--especially towards
the top. But for me there are only two classes: the people I trust and
the people I don't. Of those two, my dear Isabel, you belong to the
first."
"I'm much obliged to you," said the girl quickly. Her way of taking
compliments seemed sometimes rather dry; she got rid of them as rapidly
as possible. But as regards this she was sometimes misjudged; she was
thought insensible to them, whereas in fact she was simply unwilling to
show how infinitely they pleased her. To show that was to show too much.
"I'm sure the English are very conventional," she added.
"They've got everything pretty well fixed," Mr. Touchett admitted. "It's
all settled beforehand--they don't leave it to the last moment."
"I don't like to have everything settled beforehand," said the girl. "I
like more unexpectedness."
Her uncle seemed amused at her distinctness of preference. "Well, it's
settled beforehand that you'll have great success," he rejoined. "I
suppose you'll like that."
"I shall not have success if they're too stupidly conventional. I'm not
in the least stupidly conventional. I'm just the contrary. That's what
they won't like."
"No, no, you're all wrong," said the old man. "You can't tell what
they'll like. They're very inconsistent; that's their principal
interest."
"Ah well," said Isabel, standing before her uncle with her hands
clasped about the belt of her black dress and looking up and down the
lawn--"that will suit me perfectly!"
| The narrator, in Chapter 6, portrays Isabel in a less flattering light. She is naive and thinks highly of herself even though she has never been put to the test. He foreshadows that such a test though, will come, and that this test will test her philosophy that she can really appear as she really is. Will Isabel end up being a hypocrite in appearing to be something she is not? Henry James' early and mid-career novels often bring up the "American theme" in which an American goes to Europe, bringing some freshness, innocence, money, moral Puritanism and hope to a decadent culture. These Americans are often disappointed in their expectations though. The Touchetts are depicted as an American family who are successful in Europe in spite of their American qualities. Ralph though, notably, is not quite a success. He has money and European manners, but he has not married into the aristocratic class. When Isabel and her uncle discuss the prospect of Isabel's "success," the actual pathway to success seems unclear. It is altogether possible that Isabel conceives of such success in such abstract terms as her own like-ability, and that Mr. Touchett is thinking of it practically -- in terms of her ability to marry into the upper echelons of society, and to achieve the same respect that a European aristocrat would achieve. Isabel's mind does not seem quite capable of formulating the concrete idea of marriage, and instead her desire for love seems to be frightening to her, a very vague idea that she does not want to assume concrete form, since it might threaten her notion of independence. Either way, it is a difficult task to be "successful" in Europe, because Americans were seen as coming from a less-respected culture and a lack of tradition. Ralph's observation that Isabel has good taste in painting foreshadows that Isabel will find herself interested in European aesthetics, a conventional aspect of European culture, even while she contradictorily critiques "conventionality" in a general sense. | analysis |
The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude
of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to
appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present
profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped
her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty
uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having
cultivated relations with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted
in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she
liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse
she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find
her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She
flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the
sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had
played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be
supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be
kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she
did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and
that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in
the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions
to her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the
singular situation of defending the British constitution against her
aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this
venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the
pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old
parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use
of her sharpness. She was very critical herself--it was incidental to
her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as
well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's dryness that set her
own moral fountains flowing.
"Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt. "When you
criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn't
seem to be American--you thought everything over there so disagreeable.
When I criticise I have mine; it's thoroughly American!"
"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are as many points of
view in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may
say that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in the world;
that's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!"
Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a
tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not
have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less
advanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett
such a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She
risked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a
great deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a
large licence to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to
chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating
everything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges
such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of
seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such
slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his
father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his
father's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his
fantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted,
and his native country, his charming new-found cousin. "I keep a band
of music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has orders to play
without stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the
sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes
the world think that dancing's going on within." It was dance-music
indeed that you usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph's
band; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often
found herself irritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked
to pass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the
private apartments. It mattered little that he had assured her they were
a very dismal place; she would have been glad to undertake to sweep them
and set them in order. It was but half-hospitality to let her remain
outside; to punish him for which Isabel administered innumerable taps
with the ferule of her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit
was exercised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused
himself with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patriotism so
heated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was
represented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of the
prevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner. Isabel's chief
dread in life at this period of her development was that she should
appear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she
should really be so. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding
in her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of her
native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to regard her,
and if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of occupation.
She defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang its praises
on purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself able to
differ from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this
small ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October
pear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which
enabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If her
good-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself
ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to
her he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. "I
don't know what's the matter with you," she observed to him once; "but I
suspect you're a great humbug."
"That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not been used to being
so crudely addressed.
"I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for anything.
You don't really care for England when you praise it; you don't care for
America even when you pretend to abuse it."
"I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph.
"If I could believe even that, I should be very glad."
"Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed.
Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He
thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind.
At a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her
sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of
fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something
to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy;
his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud.
He had grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to
his legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had
been gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to
Ralph that another attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now
he appeared disburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a
suspicion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to
take him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would be
little hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted
that his father would survive him--that his own name would be the first
grimly called. The father and son had been close companions, and the
idea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his
hands was not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly
counted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poor business.
At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one
inspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very
well; but without the encouragement of his father's society he should
barely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive of
feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a rule with his
mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had
been a small kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the active
rather than the passive party should know the felt wound; he remembered
that the old man had always treated his own forecast of an early end as
a clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to discredit so far as
he might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that of refuting a
sophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a state of
being which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to
hope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.
These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his
puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for
the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether
he were harbouring "love" for this spontaneous young woman from Albany;
but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for
a week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little
more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really
interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had
found it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his
friend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his
cousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was
conscious she was an entertainment of a high order. "A character like
that," he said to himself--"a real little passionate force to see at
play is the finest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work
of art--than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic
cathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where one had least
looked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week
before she came; I had never expected less that anything pleasant would
happen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall--a
Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful
edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. My
poor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very
quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment of these reflexions was
very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key
put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take,
as he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his
attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical,
was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired
it greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of
proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses
and that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and
though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them
would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature;
but what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular,
for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did
with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes more or less
gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with
a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of
having intentions of her own. "Whenever she executes them," said Ralph,
"may I be there to see!"
It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr.
Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of
rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself
to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a
great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin--a
pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not
allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate;
and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of
her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little
river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a
part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a
phaeton--a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by
Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it
largely and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to
the groom as "knowing," was never weary of driving her uncle's capital
horses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural incidents she
had confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered,
past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and
glimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When
they reached home they usually found tea had been served on the lawn
and that Mrs. Touchett had not shrunk from the extremity of handing her
husband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old
man with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her
knitting and wearing that appearance of rare profundity with which some
ladies consider the movement of their needles.
One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after
spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived
Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of
which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with
Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau
and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a
dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of
her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he
had indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and
she had thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him
again--hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not
dull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a
sort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had
ever encountered--her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her
impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as
yet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind
herself that she was interested in human nature and that her foremost
hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people.
When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, "I wonder you find
this endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of
our friends, because we have really got a few, though you would never
suppose it"--when he offered to invite what he called a "lot of people"
and make her acquainted with English society, she encouraged the
hospitable impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into the
fray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers, and it
may be confided to the reader that if the young man delayed to carry
them out it was because he found the labour of providing for his
companion by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel
had spoken to him very often about "specimens;" it was a word that
played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to
understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent
cases.
"Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walked up from
the riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton.
"A specimen of what?" asked the girl.
"A specimen of an English gentleman."
"Do you mean they're all like him?"
"Oh no; they're not all like him."
"He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm sure he's
nice."
"Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate."
The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine
and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't ask that," he said, "since
you've been handling the oars."
"I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how should you know
it?"
"Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship,
indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.
"He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined, lowering her
voice a little.
"Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord Warburton, still
with his sonorous mirth.
"My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well," said Ralph.
"She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!"
"It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord Warburton declared.
"Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for
it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her
accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such
complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there
were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of
herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be
supported by proof.
Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was
persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was
ended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During
this period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted
this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself
liking him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had
weight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce
fell short of seeing him--though quite without luridity--as a hero
of romance. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a
quickened consciousness of possible felicities. "It's very nice to know
two such charming people as those," she said, meaning by "those" her
cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an
incident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good-humour to
the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his
wife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party.
She prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then,
rising, observed to Isabel that it was time they should bid the
gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the
occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not
in the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she
replied, very simply--
"Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour."
"It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett answered.
"Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel gaily
engaged.
"I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!" Lord
Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be before midnight."
Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and
transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alone with the
gentlemen. You're not--you're not at your blest Albany, my dear."
Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said.
"Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out.
"My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured.
"I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said majestically.
"I must take it as I find it."
"Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired.
"I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin."
"Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That will
arrange it."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. "Oh, if
it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight."
Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her;
it had seemed to him her temper was involved--an accident that might
be interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was
disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night
and withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his
mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies
separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way
up.
"Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," said Mrs. Touchett.
Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised--and a good deal
mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?"
"Not in the least. Young girls here--in decent houses--don't sit alone
with the gentlemen late at night."
"You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't understand
it, but I'm very glad to know it.
"I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I see you taking
what seems to me too much liberty."
"Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just."
"Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways."
"Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the
things one shouldn't do."
"So as to do them?" asked her aunt.
"So as to choose," said Isabel.
| Isabel and the Touchetts take to often talking about British politics and the British public. The house itself receives very few visitors, and so all these discussions are really more theoretical than based off of Isabel's own observations. Isabel finds herself often disagreeing with Mrs. Touchett on the subject of the British constitution purely because she is more sentimental than Mrs. Touchett. Isabel claims to have an "American" view, and Mrs. Touchett tells her that is a shockingly narrow idea. My point of view, thank God, is personal. Mrs. Touchett declares. Meanwhile, Isabel develops a closer relationship to Ralph, who she accuses of never treating anything seriously. He jokingly likes to paint her as representative of America, and although she fears being seen as narrow-minded, she plays along, pretending to yearn for America. Isabel feels a bit sorry for Ralph sometimes, and she even accuses him of being a "humbug" who does not care for anything. Ralph jokes that he cares for nothing but her. The narrator comments that in fact this is not so far from the truth, as Ralph thinks about her often. Before her arrival, he had often many heavy thoughts about his ill father that burdened him. Ralph felt that life would be tasteless without his father, and he had always thought his father would outlive him. With Isabel's presence, he is less preoccupied with such dark thoughts. He decides that he is not in love with her, but that she is like the "finest work of art". The question though that constantly arises in his mind though is: "What was she going to do with herself. He decides that he wants to see for himself, whatever it may be. One day, Lord Warburton comes to visit at Gardencourt. Isabel finds that she likes him very much, and almost begins to think of him as a "hero of romance". One night, Mrs. Touchett, Ralph, Lord Warburton and Isabel are sitting in the drawing room after dinner. Mrs. Touchett stands up to go to bed and tells Isabel that she ought to bid the gentlemen good night. Isabel, without thinking, tells her aunt she would like to stay another half hour. Mrs. Touchett gives her a cold stare, reminding her that she is not in Albany. Isabel retorts, blushing, "I wish I were". Mrs. Touchett decides to simply stay up until Isabel wishes to go to bed. Afterwards, Mrs. Touchett tells her it was not proper to stay in the drawing room, and Isabel tells her she does not understand it, but is glad to know it. I always want to know the things one shouldn't do," Isabel says. The aunt asks, "So as to do them. Isabel responds, "So as to choose" | summary |
The two amused themselves, time and again, with talking of the attitude
of the British public as if the young lady had been in a position to
appeal to it; but in fact the British public remained for the present
profoundly indifferent to Miss Isabel Archer, whose fortune had dropped
her, as her cousin said, into the dullest house in England. Her gouty
uncle received very little company, and Mrs. Touchett, not having
cultivated relations with her husband's neighbours, was not warranted
in expecting visits from them. She had, however, a peculiar taste; she
liked to receive cards. For what is usually called social intercourse
she had very little relish; but nothing pleased her more than to find
her hall-table whitened with oblong morsels of symbolic pasteboard. She
flattered herself that she was a very just woman, and had mastered the
sovereign truth that nothing in this world is got for nothing. She had
played no social part as mistress of Gardencourt, and it was not to be
supposed that, in the surrounding country, a minute account should be
kept of her comings and goings. But it is by no means certain that she
did not feel it to be wrong that so little notice was taken of them and
that her failure (really very gratuitous) to make herself important in
the neighbourhood had not much to do with the acrimony of her allusions
to her husband's adopted country. Isabel presently found herself in the
singular situation of defending the British constitution against her
aunt; Mrs. Touchett having formed the habit of sticking pins into this
venerable instrument. Isabel always felt an impulse to pull out the
pins; not that she imagined they inflicted any damage on the tough old
parchment, but because it seemed to her her aunt might make better use
of her sharpness. She was very critical herself--it was incidental to
her age, her sex and her nationality; but she was very sentimental as
well, and there was something in Mrs. Touchett's dryness that set her
own moral fountains flowing.
"Now what's your point of view?" she asked of her aunt. "When you
criticise everything here you should have a point of view. Yours doesn't
seem to be American--you thought everything over there so disagreeable.
When I criticise I have mine; it's thoroughly American!"
"My dear young lady," said Mrs. Touchett, "there are as many points of
view in the world as there are people of sense to take them. You may
say that doesn't make them very numerous! American? Never in the world;
that's shockingly narrow. My point of view, thank God, is personal!"
Isabel thought this a better answer than she admitted; it was a
tolerable description of her own manner of judging, but it would not
have sounded well for her to say so. On the lips of a person less
advanced in life and less enlightened by experience than Mrs. Touchett
such a declaration would savour of immodesty, even of arrogance. She
risked it nevertheless in talking with Ralph, with whom she talked a
great deal and with whom her conversation was of a sort that gave a
large licence to extravagance. Her cousin used, as the phrase is, to
chaff her; he very soon established with her a reputation for treating
everything as a joke, and he was not a man to neglect the privileges
such a reputation conferred. She accused him of an odious want of
seriousness, of laughing at all things, beginning with himself. Such
slender faculty of reverence as he possessed centred wholly upon his
father; for the rest, he exercised his wit indifferently upon his
father's son, this gentleman's weak lungs, his useless life, his
fantastic mother, his friends (Lord Warburton in especial), his adopted,
and his native country, his charming new-found cousin. "I keep a band
of music in my ante-room," he said once to her. "It has orders to play
without stopping; it renders me two excellent services. It keeps the
sounds of the world from reaching the private apartments, and it makes
the world think that dancing's going on within." It was dance-music
indeed that you usually heard when you came within ear-shot of Ralph's
band; the liveliest waltzes seemed to float upon the air. Isabel often
found herself irritated by this perpetual fiddling; she would have liked
to pass through the ante-room, as her cousin called it, and enter the
private apartments. It mattered little that he had assured her they were
a very dismal place; she would have been glad to undertake to sweep them
and set them in order. It was but half-hospitality to let her remain
outside; to punish him for which Isabel administered innumerable taps
with the ferule of her straight young wit. It must be said that her wit
was exercised to a large extent in self-defence, for her cousin amused
himself with calling her "Columbia" and accusing her of a patriotism so
heated that it scorched. He drew a caricature of her in which she was
represented as a very pretty young woman dressed, on the lines of the
prevailing fashion, in the folds of the national banner. Isabel's chief
dread in life at this period of her development was that she should
appear narrow-minded; what she feared next afterwards was that she
should really be so. But she nevertheless made no scruple of abounding
in her cousin's sense and pretending to sigh for the charms of her
native land. She would be as American as it pleased him to regard her,
and if he chose to laugh at her she would give him plenty of occupation.
She defended England against his mother, but when Ralph sang its praises
on purpose, as she said, to work her up, she found herself able to
differ from him on a variety of points. In fact, the quality of this
small ripe country seemed as sweet to her as the taste of an October
pear; and her satisfaction was at the root of the good spirits which
enabled her to take her cousin's chaff and return it in kind. If her
good-humour flagged at moments it was not because she thought herself
ill-used, but because she suddenly felt sorry for Ralph. It seemed to
her he was talking as a blind and had little heart in what he said. "I
don't know what's the matter with you," she observed to him once; "but I
suspect you're a great humbug."
"That's your privilege," Ralph answered, who had not been used to being
so crudely addressed.
"I don't know what you care for; I don't think you care for anything.
You don't really care for England when you praise it; you don't care for
America even when you pretend to abuse it."
"I care for nothing but you, dear cousin," said Ralph.
"If I could believe even that, I should be very glad."
"Ah well, I should hope so!" the young man exclaimed.
Isabel might have believed it and not have been far from the truth. He
thought a great deal about her; she was constantly present to his mind.
At a time when his thoughts had been a good deal of a burden to him her
sudden arrival, which promised nothing and was an open-handed gift of
fate, had refreshed and quickened them, given them wings and something
to fly for. Poor Ralph had been for many weeks steeped in melancholy;
his outlook, habitually sombre, lay under the shadow of a deeper cloud.
He had grown anxious about his father, whose gout, hitherto confined to
his legs, had begun to ascend into regions more vital. The old man had
been gravely ill in the spring, and the doctors had whispered to
Ralph that another attack would be less easy to deal with. Just now
he appeared disburdened of pain, but Ralph could not rid himself of a
suspicion that this was a subterfuge of the enemy, who was waiting to
take him off his guard. If the manoeuvre should succeed there would be
little hope of any great resistance. Ralph had always taken for granted
that his father would survive him--that his own name would be the first
grimly called. The father and son had been close companions, and the
idea of being left alone with the remnant of a tasteless life on his
hands was not gratifying to the young man, who had always and tacitly
counted upon his elder's help in making the best of a poor business.
At the prospect of losing his great motive Ralph lost indeed his one
inspiration. If they might die at the same time it would be all very
well; but without the encouragement of his father's society he should
barely have patience to await his own turn. He had not the incentive of
feeling that he was indispensable to his mother; it was a rule with his
mother to have no regrets. He bethought himself of course that it had
been a small kindness to his father to wish that, of the two, the active
rather than the passive party should know the felt wound; he remembered
that the old man had always treated his own forecast of an early end as
a clever fallacy, which he should be delighted to discredit so far as
he might by dying first. But of the two triumphs, that of refuting a
sophistical son and that of holding on a while longer to a state of
being which, with all abatements, he enjoyed, Ralph deemed it no sin to
hope the latter might be vouchsafed to Mr. Touchett.
These were nice questions, but Isabel's arrival put a stop to his
puzzling over them. It even suggested there might be a compensation for
the intolerable ennui of surviving his genial sire. He wondered whether
he were harbouring "love" for this spontaneous young woman from Albany;
but he judged that on the whole he was not. After he had known her for
a week he quite made up his mind to this, and every day he felt a little
more sure. Lord Warburton had been right about her; she was a really
interesting little figure. Ralph wondered how their neighbour had
found it out so soon; and then he said it was only another proof of his
friend's high abilities, which he had always greatly admired. If his
cousin were to be nothing more than an entertainment to him, Ralph was
conscious she was an entertainment of a high order. "A character like
that," he said to himself--"a real little passionate force to see at
play is the finest thing in nature. It's finer than the finest work
of art--than a Greek bas-relief, than a great Titian, than a Gothic
cathedral. It's very pleasant to be so well treated where one had least
looked for it. I had never been more blue, more bored, than for a week
before she came; I had never expected less that anything pleasant would
happen. Suddenly I receive a Titian, by the post, to hang on my wall--a
Greek bas-relief to stick over my chimney-piece. The key of a beautiful
edifice is thrust into my hand, and I'm told to walk in and admire. My
poor boy, you've been sadly ungrateful, and now you had better keep very
quiet and never grumble again." The sentiment of these reflexions was
very just; but it was not exactly true that Ralph Touchett had had a key
put into his hand. His cousin was a very brilliant girl, who would take,
as he said, a good deal of knowing; but she needed the knowing, and his
attitude with regard to her, though it was contemplative and critical,
was not judicial. He surveyed the edifice from the outside and admired
it greatly; he looked in at the windows and received an impression of
proportions equally fair. But he felt that he saw it only by glimpses
and that he had not yet stood under the roof. The door was fastened, and
though he had keys in his pocket he had a conviction that none of them
would fit. She was intelligent and generous; it was a fine free nature;
but what was she going to do with herself? This question was irregular,
for with most women one had no occasion to ask it. Most women did
with themselves nothing at all; they waited, in attitudes more or less
gracefully passive, for a man to come that way and furnish them with
a destiny. Isabel's originality was that she gave one an impression of
having intentions of her own. "Whenever she executes them," said Ralph,
"may I be there to see!"
It devolved upon him of course to do the honours of the place. Mr.
Touchett was confined to his chair, and his wife's position was that of
rather a grim visitor; so that in the line of conduct that opened itself
to Ralph duty and inclination were harmoniously mixed. He was not a
great walker, but he strolled about the grounds with his cousin--a
pastime for which the weather remained favourable with a persistency not
allowed for in Isabel's somewhat lugubrious prevision of the climate;
and in the long afternoons, of which the length was but the measure of
her gratified eagerness, they took a boat on the river, the dear little
river, as Isabel called it, where the opposite shore seemed still a
part of the foreground of the landscape; or drove over the country in a
phaeton--a low, capacious, thick-wheeled phaeton formerly much used by
Mr. Touchett, but which he had now ceased to enjoy. Isabel enjoyed it
largely and, handling the reins in a manner which approved itself to
the groom as "knowing," was never weary of driving her uncle's capital
horses through winding lanes and byways full of the rural incidents she
had confidently expected to find; past cottages thatched and timbered,
past ale-houses latticed and sanded, past patches of ancient common and
glimpses of empty parks, between hedgerows made thick by midsummer. When
they reached home they usually found tea had been served on the lawn
and that Mrs. Touchett had not shrunk from the extremity of handing her
husband his cup. But the two for the most part sat silent; the old
man with his head back and his eyes closed, his wife occupied with her
knitting and wearing that appearance of rare profundity with which some
ladies consider the movement of their needles.
One day, however, a visitor had arrived. The two young persons, after
spending an hour on the river, strolled back to the house and perceived
Lord Warburton sitting under the trees and engaged in conversation, of
which even at a distance the desultory character was appreciable, with
Mrs. Touchett. He had driven over from his own place with a portmanteau
and had asked, as the father and son often invited him to do, for a
dinner and a lodging. Isabel, seeing him for half an hour on the day of
her arrival, had discovered in this brief space that she liked him; he
had indeed rather sharply registered himself on her fine sense and
she had thought of him several times. She had hoped she should see him
again--hoped too that she should see a few others. Gardencourt was not
dull; the place itself was sovereign, her uncle was more and more a
sort of golden grandfather, and Ralph was unlike any cousin she had
ever encountered--her idea of cousins having tended to gloom. Then her
impressions were still so fresh and so quickly renewed that there was as
yet hardly a hint of vacancy in the view. But Isabel had need to remind
herself that she was interested in human nature and that her foremost
hope in coming abroad had been that she should see a great many people.
When Ralph said to her, as he had done several times, "I wonder you find
this endurable; you ought to see some of the neighbours and some of
our friends, because we have really got a few, though you would never
suppose it"--when he offered to invite what he called a "lot of people"
and make her acquainted with English society, she encouraged the
hospitable impulse and promised in advance to hurl herself into the
fray. Little, however, for the present, had come of his offers, and it
may be confided to the reader that if the young man delayed to carry
them out it was because he found the labour of providing for his
companion by no means so severe as to require extraneous help. Isabel
had spoken to him very often about "specimens;" it was a word that
played a considerable part in her vocabulary; she had given him to
understand that she wished to see English society illustrated by eminent
cases.
"Well now, there's a specimen," he said to her as they walked up from
the riverside and he recognised Lord Warburton.
"A specimen of what?" asked the girl.
"A specimen of an English gentleman."
"Do you mean they're all like him?"
"Oh no; they're not all like him."
"He's a favourable specimen then," said Isabel; "because I'm sure he's
nice."
"Yes, he's very nice. And he's very fortunate."
The fortunate Lord Warburton exchanged a handshake with our heroine
and hoped she was very well. "But I needn't ask that," he said, "since
you've been handling the oars."
"I've been rowing a little," Isabel answered; "but how should you know
it?"
"Oh, I know he doesn't row; he's too lazy," said his lordship,
indicating Ralph Touchett with a laugh.
"He has a good excuse for his laziness," Isabel rejoined, lowering her
voice a little.
"Ah, he has a good excuse for everything!" cried Lord Warburton, still
with his sonorous mirth.
"My excuse for not rowing is that my cousin rows so well," said Ralph.
"She does everything well. She touches nothing that she doesn't adorn!"
"It makes one want to be touched, Miss Archer," Lord Warburton declared.
"Be touched in the right sense and you'll never look the worse for
it," said Isabel, who, if it pleased her to hear it said that her
accomplishments were numerous, was happily able to reflect that such
complacency was not the indication of a feeble mind, inasmuch as there
were several things in which she excelled. Her desire to think well of
herself had at least the element of humility that it always needed to be
supported by proof.
Lord Warburton not only spent the night at Gardencourt, but he was
persuaded to remain over the second day; and when the second day was
ended he determined to postpone his departure till the morrow. During
this period he addressed many of his remarks to Isabel, who accepted
this evidence of his esteem with a very good grace. She found herself
liking him extremely; the first impression he had made on her had had
weight, but at the end of an evening spent in his society she scarce
fell short of seeing him--though quite without luridity--as a hero
of romance. She retired to rest with a sense of good fortune, with a
quickened consciousness of possible felicities. "It's very nice to know
two such charming people as those," she said, meaning by "those" her
cousin and her cousin's friend. It must be added moreover that an
incident had occurred which might have seemed to put her good-humour to
the test. Mr. Touchett went to bed at half-past nine o'clock, but his
wife remained in the drawing-room with the other members of the party.
She prolonged her vigil for something less than an hour, and then,
rising, observed to Isabel that it was time they should bid the
gentlemen good-night. Isabel had as yet no desire to go to bed; the
occasion wore, to her sense, a festive character, and feasts were not
in the habit of terminating so early. So, without further thought, she
replied, very simply--
"Need I go, dear aunt? I'll come up in half an hour."
"It's impossible I should wait for you," Mrs. Touchett answered.
"Ah, you needn't wait! Ralph will light my candle," Isabel gaily
engaged.
"I'll light your candle; do let me light your candle, Miss Archer!" Lord
Warburton exclaimed. "Only I beg it shall not be before midnight."
Mrs. Touchett fixed her bright little eyes upon him a moment and
transferred them coldly to her niece. "You can't stay alone with the
gentlemen. You're not--you're not at your blest Albany, my dear."
Isabel rose, blushing. "I wish I were," she said.
"Oh, I say, mother!" Ralph broke out.
"My dear Mrs. Touchett!" Lord Warburton murmured.
"I didn't make your country, my lord," Mrs. Touchett said majestically.
"I must take it as I find it."
"Can't I stay with my own cousin?" Isabel enquired.
"I'm not aware that Lord Warburton is your cousin."
"Perhaps I had better go to bed!" the visitor suggested. "That will
arrange it."
Mrs. Touchett gave a little look of despair and sat down again. "Oh, if
it's necessary I'll stay up till midnight."
Ralph meanwhile handed Isabel her candlestick. He had been watching her;
it had seemed to him her temper was involved--an accident that might
be interesting. But if he had expected anything of a flare he was
disappointed, for the girl simply laughed a little, nodded good-night
and withdrew accompanied by her aunt. For himself he was annoyed at his
mother, though he thought she was right. Above-stairs the two ladies
separated at Mrs. Touchett's door. Isabel had said nothing on her way
up.
"Of course you're vexed at my interfering with you," said Mrs. Touchett.
Isabel considered. "I'm not vexed, but I'm surprised--and a good deal
mystified. Wasn't it proper I should remain in the drawing-room?"
"Not in the least. Young girls here--in decent houses--don't sit alone
with the gentlemen late at night."
"You were very right to tell me then," said Isabel. "I don't understand
it, but I'm very glad to know it.
"I shall always tell you," her aunt answered, "whenever I see you taking
what seems to me too much liberty."
"Pray do; but I don't say I shall always think your remonstrance just."
"Very likely not. You're too fond of your own ways."
"Yes, I think I'm very fond of them. But I always want to know the
things one shouldn't do."
"So as to do them?" asked her aunt.
"So as to choose," said Isabel.
| Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence? | analysis |
As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to
express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very
curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she
would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness
to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord
Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would
come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded
him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt,
on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she
asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker
she urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he
had four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The
brothers and sisters were very good people--"not particularly clever,
you know," he said, "but very decent and pleasant;" and he was so good
as to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in
the Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was
a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his
thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then
Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which
were opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to
be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of
them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her
she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had
doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that,
if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing
in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the
questions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only
another example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that,
of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly
superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them;
there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and
her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than
many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were
ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his
lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and
dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it
and owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of
which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest
pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other
brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed
and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to
pay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. "I don't
think I shall pay any more," said her friend; "he lives a monstrous deal
better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much
finer gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in only for
equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers."
Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of
them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so.
The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but
unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives,
was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire
in Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five
children. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his
young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to
lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel
was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he
seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. "He
thinks I'm a barbarian," she said, "and that I've never seen forks and
spoons;" and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of
hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap,
"It's a pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers," she
remarked; "if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would
have brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had travelled
through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he
was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the
world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that
Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained
to them. "If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!"
he said. "I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite
bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me
more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose;
they're rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you
can trust me; about what I tell you there's no mistake." There was no
mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and
knowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most
interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to
exhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,
as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making
a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not
spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect
of rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times
almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as
agreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone
of responsible kindness.
"I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabel said to Ralph
after Lord Warburton had gone.
"I like him too--I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pity him
more."
Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me his only
fault--that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything,
to know everything, to be everything."
"Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted.
"I suppose you don't mean in health?"
"No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a man
with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He
doesn't take himself seriously."
"Does he regard himself as a joke?"
"Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse."
"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.
"Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don't think so. But in that case
what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by
other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?
For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha.
He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great
responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great
wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great
country. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position, his
power, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim of a
critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know
what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I
know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot.
I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don't
understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who
can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an
institution."
"He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed.
"Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I
think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being
of his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe he is."
"I don't," said Isabel.
"Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!"
In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the
old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup
of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her
what she thought of their late visitor.
Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming."
"He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recommend you to
fall in love with him."
"I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your
recommendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives me rather a
sad account of Lord Warburton."
"Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must
remember that Ralph must talk."
"He thinks your friend's too subversive--or not subversive enough! I
don't quite understand which," said Isabel.
The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. "I don't
know which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible he doesn't
go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but
he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's natural, but it's
rather inconsistent."
"Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were to be done
away with his friends would miss him sadly."
"Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends.
I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always
amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.
There's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very
fashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do--whether
they're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it
off till after I'm gone. You see they want to disestablish everything;
but I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be
disestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they
were going to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on with expanding
hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I
call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable
changes; there'll be a large number disappointed in that case."
"Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed. "I should
delight in seeing a revolution."
"Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "I forget
whether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I've
heard you take such opposite views."
"I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of
everything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should
be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they've a
chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely."
"I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely,
but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear."
"Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girl interrupted.
"I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going gracefully
to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. "If you want to
see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come
to the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at their word."
"Of whom are you speaking?"
"Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper
class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the
changes, but I don't think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we
know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always
thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first.
And then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now
over here I don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of
every day and every hour, and I don't think many of them would find it
as pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try, it's
their own business; but I expect they won't try very hard."
"Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked.
"Well, they want to FEEL earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed; "but it seems
as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a
kind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and they might
have coarser tastes than that. You see they're very luxurious, and these
progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel
moral and yet don't damage their position. They think a great deal of
their position; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for
if you were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up very short."
Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his quaint
distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the
British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions
of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord
Warburton's behalf. "I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't
care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the
test."
"Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchett answered. "Lord
Warburton's a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a
hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of
this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a
dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my
own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art,
for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste
for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more
perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over
there--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don't
think it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however--he has
so many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they
certainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he
would come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as
he is: he's too much liked."
"Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabel sighed. "That's
a very poor position."
"He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said the old man.
Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the
fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. "I shall never make any
one a martyr."
"You'll never be one, I hope."
"I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?"
Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I do, after
all!"
| Lord Warburton gets Mrs. Touchett to promise to bring Isabel to his own manor, Lockleigh. Isabel learns about Lord Warburton's family life: he has two brothers and four sisters. Isabel notes that Warburton acts as if she is an American "barbarian" , and he makes little allowance for her imagination or for her experience. Warburton admits to being confused in America, and believes that Americans need as much explanation in England as he had needed in America. Isabel likes Lord Warburton because he appears to have enjoyed the best things of life, but he also is not spoiled for it. He has a boyishness and kindness about him. Isabel confides in Ralph that she likes Warburton, and Ralph responds that he pities him. So he informs Isabel: "He's a man with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He doesn't take himself seriously. He's the victim of a critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know where to believe in. He can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an institution". Isabel tells Mr. Touchett, Ralph's father, that she does not understand Ralph's opinion of Lord Warburton. Mr. Touchett responds that Lord Warburton seems to want to "do away with many things," but also to remain himself. He notes that there are a great many people like Lord Warburton, and he is not sure if they are trying to start a revolution. Isabel is ecstatic at the thought that there might be a revolution, declaring that she would be on the side of the loyalists if there were such a revolution. Mr. Touchett notes that the desire for change among men such as Lord Warburton, and other radicals, is probably more theoretical than earnest. These progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury," he says | summary |
As she was devoted to romantic effects Lord Warburton ventured to
express a hope that she would come some day and see his house, a very
curious old place. He extracted from Mrs. Touchett a promise that she
would bring her niece to Lockleigh, and Ralph signified his willingness
to attend the ladies if his father should be able to spare him. Lord
Warburton assured our heroine that in the mean time his sisters would
come and see her. She knew something about his sisters, having sounded
him, during the hours they spent together while he was at Gardencourt,
on many points connected with his family. When Isabel was interested she
asked a great many questions, and as her companion was a copious talker
she urged him on this occasion by no means in vain. He told her he
had four sisters and two brothers and had lost both his parents. The
brothers and sisters were very good people--"not particularly clever,
you know," he said, "but very decent and pleasant;" and he was so good
as to hope Miss Archer might know them well. One of the brothers was in
the Church, settled in the family living, that of Lockleigh, which was
a heavy, sprawling parish, and was an excellent fellow in spite of his
thinking differently from himself on every conceivable topic. And then
Lord Warburton mentioned some of the opinions held by his brother, which
were opinions Isabel had often heard expressed and that she supposed to
be entertained by a considerable portion of the human family. Many of
them indeed she supposed she had held herself, till he assured her
she was quite mistaken, that it was really impossible, that she had
doubtless imagined she entertained them, but that she might depend that,
if she thought them over a little, she would find there was nothing
in them. When she answered that she had already thought several of the
questions involved over very attentively he declared that she was only
another example of what he had often been struck with--the fact that,
of all the people in the world, the Americans were the most grossly
superstitious. They were rank Tories and bigots, every one of them;
there were no conservatives like American conservatives. Her uncle and
her cousin were there to prove it; nothing could be more medieval than
many of their views; they had ideas that people in England nowadays were
ashamed to confess to; and they had the impudence moreover, said his
lordship, laughing, to pretend they knew more about the needs and
dangers of this poor dear stupid old England than he who was born in it
and owned a considerable slice of it--the more shame to him! From all of
which Isabel gathered that Lord Warburton was a nobleman of the newest
pattern, a reformer, a radical, a contemner of ancient ways. His other
brother, who was in the army in India, was rather wild and pig-headed
and had not been of much use as yet but to make debts for Warburton to
pay--one of the most precious privileges of an elder brother. "I don't
think I shall pay any more," said her friend; "he lives a monstrous deal
better than I do, enjoys unheard-of luxuries and thinks himself a much
finer gentleman than I. As I'm a consistent radical I go in only for
equality; I don't go in for the superiority of the younger brothers."
Two of his four sisters, the second and fourth, were married, one of
them having done very well, as they said, the other only so-so.
The husband of the elder, Lord Haycock, was a very good fellow, but
unfortunately a horrid Tory; and his wife, like all good English wives,
was worse than her husband. The other had espoused a smallish squire
in Norfolk and, though married but the other day, had already five
children. This information and much more Lord Warburton imparted to his
young American listener, taking pains to make many things clear and to
lay bare to her apprehension the peculiarities of English life. Isabel
was often amused at his explicitness and at the small allowance he
seemed to make either for her own experience or for her imagination. "He
thinks I'm a barbarian," she said, "and that I've never seen forks and
spoons;" and she used to ask him artless questions for the pleasure of
hearing him answer seriously. Then when he had fallen into the trap,
"It's a pity you can't see me in my war-paint and feathers," she
remarked; "if I had known how kind you are to the poor savages I would
have brought over my native costume!" Lord Warburton had travelled
through the United States and knew much more about them than Isabel; he
was so good as to say that America was the most charming country in the
world, but his recollections of it appeared to encourage the idea that
Americans in England would need to have a great many things explained
to them. "If I had only had you to explain things to me in America!"
he said. "I was rather puzzled in your country; in fact I was quite
bewildered, and the trouble was that the explanations only puzzled me
more. You know I think they often gave me the wrong ones on purpose;
they're rather clever about that over there. But when I explain you
can trust me; about what I tell you there's no mistake." There was no
mistake at least about his being very intelligent and cultivated and
knowing almost everything in the world. Although he gave the most
interesting and thrilling glimpses Isabel felt he never did it to
exhibit himself, and though he had had rare chances and had tumbled in,
as she put it, for high prizes, he was as far as possible from making
a merit of it. He had enjoyed the best things of life, but they had not
spoiled his sense of proportion. His quality was a mixture of the effect
of rich experience--oh, so easily come by!--with a modesty at times
almost boyish; the sweet and wholesome savour of which--it was as
agreeable as something tasted--lost nothing from the addition of a tone
of responsible kindness.
"I like your specimen English gentleman very much," Isabel said to Ralph
after Lord Warburton had gone.
"I like him too--I love him well," Ralph returned. "But I pity him
more."
Isabel looked at him askance. "Why, that seems to me his only
fault--that one can't pity him a little. He appears to have everything,
to know everything, to be everything."
"Oh, he's in a bad way!" Ralph insisted.
"I suppose you don't mean in health?"
"No, as to that he's detestably sound. What I mean is that he's a man
with a great position who's playing all sorts of tricks with it. He
doesn't take himself seriously."
"Does he regard himself as a joke?"
"Much worse; he regards himself as an imposition--as an abuse."
"Well, perhaps he is," said Isabel.
"Perhaps he is--though on the whole I don't think so. But in that case
what's more pitiable than a sentient, self-conscious abuse planted by
other hands, deeply rooted but aching with a sense of its injustice?
For me, in his place, I could be as solemn as a statue of Buddha.
He occupies a position that appeals to my imagination. Great
responsibilities, great opportunities, great consideration, great
wealth, great power, a natural share in the public affairs of a great
country. But he's all in a muddle about himself, his position, his
power, and indeed about everything in the world. He's the victim of a
critical age; he has ceased to believe in himself and he doesn't know
what to believe in. When I attempt to tell him (because if I were he I
know very well what I should believe in) he calls me a pampered bigot.
I believe he seriously thinks me an awful Philistine; he says I don't
understand my time. I understand it certainly better than he, who
can neither abolish himself as a nuisance nor maintain himself as an
institution."
"He doesn't look very wretched," Isabel observed.
"Possibly not; though, being a man of a good deal of charming taste, I
think he often has uncomfortable hours. But what is it to say of a being
of his opportunities that he's not miserable? Besides, I believe he is."
"I don't," said Isabel.
"Well," her cousin rejoined, "if he isn't he ought to be!"
In the afternoon she spent an hour with her uncle on the lawn, where the
old man sat, as usual, with his shawl over his legs and his large cup
of diluted tea in his hands. In the course of conversation he asked her
what she thought of their late visitor.
Isabel was prompt. "I think he's charming."
"He's a nice person," said Mr. Touchett, "but I don't recommend you to
fall in love with him."
"I shall not do it then; I shall never fall in love but on your
recommendation. Moreover," Isabel added, "my cousin gives me rather a
sad account of Lord Warburton."
"Oh, indeed? I don't know what there may be to say, but you must
remember that Ralph must talk."
"He thinks your friend's too subversive--or not subversive enough! I
don't quite understand which," said Isabel.
The old man shook his head slowly, smiled and put down his cup. "I don't
know which either. He goes very far, but it's quite possible he doesn't
go far enough. He seems to want to do away with a good many things, but
he seems to want to remain himself. I suppose that's natural, but it's
rather inconsistent."
"Oh, I hope he'll remain himself," said Isabel. "If he were to be done
away with his friends would miss him sadly."
"Well," said the old man, "I guess he'll stay and amuse his friends.
I should certainly miss him very much here at Gardencourt. He always
amuses me when he comes over, and I think he amuses himself as well.
There's a considerable number like him, round in society; they're very
fashionable just now. I don't know what they're trying to do--whether
they're trying to get up a revolution. I hope at any rate they'll put it
off till after I'm gone. You see they want to disestablish everything;
but I'm a pretty big landowner here, and I don't want to be
disestablished. I wouldn't have come over if I had thought they
were going to behave like that," Mr. Touchett went on with expanding
hilarity. "I came over because I thought England was a safe country. I
call it a regular fraud if they are going to introduce any considerable
changes; there'll be a large number disappointed in that case."
"Oh, I do hope they'll make a revolution!" Isabel exclaimed. "I should
delight in seeing a revolution."
"Let me see," said her uncle, with a humorous intention; "I forget
whether you're on the side of the old or on the side of the new. I've
heard you take such opposite views."
"I'm on the side of both. I guess I'm a little on the side of
everything. In a revolution--after it was well begun--I think I should
be a high, proud loyalist. One sympathises more with them, and they've a
chance to behave so exquisitely. I mean so picturesquely."
"I don't know that I understand what you mean by behaving picturesquely,
but it seems to me that you do that always, my dear."
"Oh, you lovely man, if I could believe that!" the girl interrupted.
"I'm afraid, after all, you won't have the pleasure of going gracefully
to the guillotine here just now," Mr. Touchett went on. "If you want to
see a big outbreak you must pay us a long visit. You see, when you come
to the point it wouldn't suit them to be taken at their word."
"Of whom are you speaking?"
"Well, I mean Lord Warburton and his friends--the radicals of the upper
class. Of course I only know the way it strikes me. They talk about the
changes, but I don't think they quite realise. You and I, you know, we
know what it is to have lived under democratic institutions: I always
thought them very comfortable, but I was used to them from the first.
And then I ain't a lord; you're a lady, my dear, but I ain't a lord. Now
over here I don't think it quite comes home to them. It's a matter of
every day and every hour, and I don't think many of them would find it
as pleasant as what they've got. Of course if they want to try, it's
their own business; but I expect they won't try very hard."
"Don't you think they're sincere?" Isabel asked.
"Well, they want to FEEL earnest," Mr. Touchett allowed; "but it seems
as if they took it out in theories mostly. Their radical views are a
kind of amusement; they've got to have some amusement, and they might
have coarser tastes than that. You see they're very luxurious, and these
progressive ideas are about their biggest luxury. They make them feel
moral and yet don't damage their position. They think a great deal of
their position; don't let one of them ever persuade you he doesn't, for
if you were to proceed on that basis you'd be pulled up very short."
Isabel followed her uncle's argument, which he unfolded with his quaint
distinctness, most attentively, and though she was unacquainted with the
British aristocracy she found it in harmony with her general impressions
of human nature. But she felt moved to put in a protest on Lord
Warburton's behalf. "I don't believe Lord Warburton's a humbug; I don't
care what the others are. I should like to see Lord Warburton put to the
test."
"Heaven deliver me from my friends!" Mr. Touchett answered. "Lord
Warburton's a very amiable young man--a very fine young man. He has a
hundred thousand a year. He owns fifty thousand acres of the soil of
this little island and ever so many other things besides. He has half a
dozen houses to live in. He has a seat in Parliament as I have one at my
own dinner-table. He has elegant tastes--cares for literature, for art,
for science, for charming young ladies. The most elegant is his taste
for the new views. It affords him a great deal of pleasure--more
perhaps than anything else, except the young ladies. His old house over
there--what does he call it, Lockleigh?--is very attractive; but I don't
think it's as pleasant as this. That doesn't matter, however--he has
so many others. His views don't hurt any one as far as I can see; they
certainly don't hurt himself. And if there were to be a revolution he
would come off very easily. They wouldn't touch him, they'd leave him as
he is: he's too much liked."
"Ah, he couldn't be a martyr even if he wished!" Isabel sighed. "That's
a very poor position."
"He'll never be a martyr unless you make him one," said the old man.
Isabel shook her head; there might have been something laughable in the
fact that she did it with a touch of melancholy. "I shall never make any
one a martyr."
"You'll never be one, I hope."
"I hope not. But you don't pity Lord Warburton then as Ralph does?"
Her uncle looked at her a while with genial acuteness. "Yes, I do, after
all!"
| Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence? | analysis |
The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call
upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to
her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described
them to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be
less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there
were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them.
Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that
of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as
she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of "ornamental
water," set, in parterres, among the geraniums.
"They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our heroine said
to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the
friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they
would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having
occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux
were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions
and something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel
admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a
generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness
was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they
seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the
world and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it
clear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh,
where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very,
very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep:
they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she
would come while the people were there.
"I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the elder sister;
"but I dare say you'll take us as you find us."
"I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you
are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.
Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone,
that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she
was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the
first time they had been called enchanting.
"I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be so quiet
and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour.
"I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very much to see
them at home."
She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother,
she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a
vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a
wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black
velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at
Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were
not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was
a want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep
emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one
side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs.
Touchett.
"Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked. She
knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was
keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.
"Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, the younger
sister.
"At the same time Warburton's very reasonable," Miss Molyneux observed.
Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was
clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph
had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the
temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not
made an impertinence. "Do you suppose your brother's sincere?" Isabel
enquired with a smile.
"Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder
sister gazed at our heroine in silence.
"Do you think he would stand the test?"
"The test?"
"I mean for instance having to give up all this."
"Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice.
"Yes, and the other places; what are they called?"
The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do you mean--do
you mean on account of the expense?" the younger one asked.
"I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said the other.
"Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded.
"I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss Molyneux.
"Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't you think
it's a false position?"
Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My brother's position?"
Miss Molyneux enquired.
"It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister. "It's the
first position in this part of the county."
"I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occasion to
remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of
him."
"Of course one looks up to one's brother," said Miss Molyneux simply.
"If you do that he must be very good--because you, evidently, are
beautifully good."
"He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does."
"His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's immense."
"Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should wish to
fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold
it tight."
"I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently. "We've always
been so, even from the earliest times."
"Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; I don't
wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels."
When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to
her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it
had been a good deal modernised--some of its best points had lost their
purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the
softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still
moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was
cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck,
and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory
gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the
ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come
to luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him--time enough
to institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as
vain. The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure,
a candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to
indiscriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin
that before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he
was still, on occasion--in the privacy of the family circle as it
were--quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him--she was in
the mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal
taxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on
leaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised
some ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart
from the others.
"I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said. "You can't
do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip." His own
conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which
had a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted
at intervals to matters more personal--matters personal to the young
lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration,
returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, "Ah, well," he said,
"I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see
more of it--that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an
immense fancy to you--if that would be any inducement."
"There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'm afraid I
can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands."
"Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty sure
you can do whatever you want."
"I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice
impression to make."
"It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord Warburton paused a
moment.
"To hope what?"
"That in future I may see you often."
"Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so terribly
emancipated."
"Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle
likes me."
"You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of you."
"I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton. "But, I
nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt."
"I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined, "though I
ought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I
shall be very glad to see you."
"Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say that."
"You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel.
"No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a moment. "But you've
charmed me, Miss Archer."
These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the
girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the
sound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for
the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily
as possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would
allow her: "I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come here
again."
"Never?" said Lord Warburton.
"I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic."
"May I come and see you then some day next week?"
"Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"
"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense
that you're always summing people up."
"You don't of necessity lose by that."
"It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is
not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?"
"I hope so."
"Is England not good enough for you?"
"That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I
want to see as many countries as I can."
"Then you'll go on judging, I suppose."
"Enjoying, I hope, too."
"Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to,"
said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast
designs."
"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill
out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and
executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of
my fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign
travel?"
"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion declared.
"It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it
despises us."
"Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously.
"Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought
'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest."
"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard," Isabel
answered with a smile.
Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside--you
don't care," he said presently. "You only care to amuse yourself." The
note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed
with it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt
and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had
often heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she
had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most
romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he
going to make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they
had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good
manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched
the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young
lady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting
to his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and
without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of
course that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials;
the foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of
nations!"
"As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation
entertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt
will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and Lord
Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the
others, "I shall come and see you next week," he said.
She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that
she couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one.
Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, "Just as
you please." And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a
game she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable
to many critics. It came from a certain fear.
| Lord Warburton's two sisters, the Misses Molyneux, come to visit Gardencourt. Isabel notes that they are very timid but also very sweet, with the charm of not being "morbid". They invite her to Lockleigh during a time in which other guests will also be present. When Isabel visits them at Lockleigh, she asks if their brother, Lord Warburton, is really so radical that he would give up everything if he were put to the test. The two sisters look frightened at the prospect. Isabel then concludes that he must be an impostor. Mildred Molyneux attests that it has always been a tradition in their family to be liberal. Isabel sees Lockleigh as a "castle in a legend". She meets Lord Warburton's brother, the Vicar, who she can see as a very strong man, but whom she has difficulty imagining as a spiritual aid. The group goes on a stroll, and Lord Warburton speaks privately with Isabel during this stroll. He tells her that he finds her charming. Isabel senses that this is "the prelude to something grave" and quickly utters that she does not believe she will be visiting Lockleigh again. He tells her he will visit her at Gardencourt, even though he believes Mr. Touchett does not like him being there. Lord Warburton tells Isabel that he does not feel safe with her, having the sense that she is always summing people up, and that she has mysterious purposes. Isabel tells him that she only wants to improve her mind by foreign travel. He tells her that her mind is already a formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it despises us," he adds. Isabel tells him that he is being quite "quaint. He then seems to bitterly respond that she "judges only from the outside" and that she does not really care , even while she selects the great materials with which to amuse herself. He tells her he will visit her again. She responds coldly, "Just as you please". Her coldness, though, is calculated, and it comes from a fear deep within her | summary |
The two Misses Molyneux, this nobleman's sisters, came presently to call
upon her, and Isabel took a fancy to the young ladies, who appeared to
her to show a most original stamp. It is true that when she described
them to her cousin by that term he declared that no epithet could be
less applicable than this to the two Misses Molyneux, since there
were fifty thousand young women in England who exactly resembled them.
Deprived of this advantage, however, Isabel's visitors retained that
of an extreme sweetness and shyness of demeanour, and of having, as
she thought, eyes like the balanced basins, the circles of "ornamental
water," set, in parterres, among the geraniums.
"They're not morbid, at any rate, whatever they are," our heroine said
to herself; and she deemed this a great charm, for two or three of the
friends of her girlhood had been regrettably open to the charge (they
would have been so nice without it), to say nothing of Isabel's having
occasionally suspected it as a tendency of her own. The Misses Molyneux
were not in their first youth, but they had bright, fresh complexions
and something of the smile of childhood. Yes, their eyes, which Isabel
admired, were round, quiet and contented, and their figures, also of a
generous roundness, were encased in sealskin jackets. Their friendliness
was great, so great that they were almost embarrassed to show it; they
seemed somewhat afraid of the young lady from the other side of the
world and rather looked than spoke their good wishes. But they made it
clear to her that they hoped she would come to luncheon at Lockleigh,
where they lived with their brother, and then they might see her very,
very often. They wondered if she wouldn't come over some day, and sleep:
they were expecting some people on the twenty-ninth, so perhaps she
would come while the people were there.
"I'm afraid it isn't any one very remarkable," said the elder sister;
"but I dare say you'll take us as you find us."
"I shall find you delightful; I think you're enchanting just as you
are," replied Isabel, who often praised profusely.
Her visitors flushed, and her cousin told her, after they were gone,
that if she said such things to those poor girls they would think she
was in some wild, free manner practising on them: he was sure it was the
first time they had been called enchanting.
"I can't help it," Isabel answered. "I think it's lovely to be so quiet
and reasonable and satisfied. I should like to be like that."
"Heaven forbid!" cried Ralph with ardour.
"I mean to try and imitate them," said Isabel. "I want very much to see
them at home."
She had this pleasure a few days later, when, with Ralph and his mother,
she drove over to Lockleigh. She found the Misses Molyneux sitting in a
vast drawing-room (she perceived afterwards it was one of several) in a
wilderness of faded chintz; they were dressed on this occasion in black
velveteen. Isabel liked them even better at home than she had done at
Gardencourt, and was more than ever struck with the fact that they were
not morbid. It had seemed to her before that if they had a fault it was
a want of play of mind; but she presently saw they were capable of deep
emotion. Before luncheon she was alone with them for some time, on one
side of the room, while Lord Warburton, at a distance, talked to Mrs.
Touchett.
"Is it true your brother's such a great radical?" Isabel asked. She
knew it was true, but we have seen that her interest in human nature was
keen, and she had a desire to draw the Misses Molyneux out.
"Oh dear, yes; he's immensely advanced," said Mildred, the younger
sister.
"At the same time Warburton's very reasonable," Miss Molyneux observed.
Isabel watched him a moment at the other side of the room; he was
clearly trying hard to make himself agreeable to Mrs. Touchett. Ralph
had met the frank advances of one of the dogs before the fire that the
temperature of an English August, in the ancient expanses, had not
made an impertinence. "Do you suppose your brother's sincere?" Isabel
enquired with a smile.
"Oh, he must be, you know!" Mildred exclaimed quickly, while the elder
sister gazed at our heroine in silence.
"Do you think he would stand the test?"
"The test?"
"I mean for instance having to give up all this."
"Having to give up Lockleigh?" said Miss Molyneux, finding her voice.
"Yes, and the other places; what are they called?"
The two sisters exchanged an almost frightened glance. "Do you mean--do
you mean on account of the expense?" the younger one asked.
"I dare say he might let one or two of his houses," said the other.
"Let them for nothing?" Isabel demanded.
"I can't fancy his giving up his property," said Miss Molyneux.
"Ah, I'm afraid he is an impostor!" Isabel returned. "Don't you think
it's a false position?"
Her companions, evidently, had lost themselves. "My brother's position?"
Miss Molyneux enquired.
"It's thought a very good position," said the younger sister. "It's the
first position in this part of the county."
"I dare say you think me very irreverent," Isabel took occasion to
remark. "I suppose you revere your brother and are rather afraid of
him."
"Of course one looks up to one's brother," said Miss Molyneux simply.
"If you do that he must be very good--because you, evidently, are
beautifully good."
"He's most kind. It will never be known, the good he does."
"His ability is known," Mildred added; "every one thinks it's immense."
"Oh, I can see that," said Isabel. "But if I were he I should wish to
fight to the death: I mean for the heritage of the past. I should hold
it tight."
"I think one ought to be liberal," Mildred argued gently. "We've always
been so, even from the earliest times."
"Ah well," said Isabel, "you've made a great success of it; I don't
wonder you like it. I see you're very fond of crewels."
When Lord Warburton showed her the house, after luncheon, it seemed to
her a matter of course that it should be a noble picture. Within, it
had been a good deal modernised--some of its best points had lost their
purity; but as they saw it from the gardens, a stout grey pile, of the
softest, deepest, most weather-fretted hue, rising from a broad, still
moat, it affected the young visitor as a castle in a legend. The day was
cool and rather lustreless; the first note of autumn had been struck,
and the watery sunshine rested on the walls in blurred and desultory
gleams, washing them, as it were, in places tenderly chosen, where the
ache of antiquity was keenest. Her host's brother, the Vicar, had come
to luncheon, and Isabel had had five minutes' talk with him--time enough
to institute a search for a rich ecclesiasticism and give it up as
vain. The marks of the Vicar of Lockleigh were a big, athletic figure,
a candid, natural countenance, a capacious appetite and a tendency to
indiscriminate laughter. Isabel learned afterwards from her cousin
that before taking orders he had been a mighty wrestler and that he
was still, on occasion--in the privacy of the family circle as it
were--quite capable of flooring his man. Isabel liked him--she was in
the mood for liking everything; but her imagination was a good deal
taxed to think of him as a source of spiritual aid. The whole party, on
leaving lunch, went to walk in the grounds; but Lord Warburton exercised
some ingenuity in engaging his least familiar guest in a stroll apart
from the others.
"I wish you to see the place properly, seriously," he said. "You can't
do so if your attention is distracted by irrelevant gossip." His own
conversation (though he told Isabel a good deal about the house, which
had a very curious history) was not purely archaeological; he reverted
at intervals to matters more personal--matters personal to the young
lady as well as to himself. But at last, after a pause of some duration,
returning for a moment to their ostensible theme, "Ah, well," he said,
"I'm very glad indeed you like the old barrack. I wish you could see
more of it--that you could stay here a while. My sisters have taken an
immense fancy to you--if that would be any inducement."
"There's no want of inducements," Isabel answered; "but I'm afraid I
can't make engagements. I'm quite in my aunt's hands."
"Ah, pardon me if I say I don't exactly believe that. I'm pretty sure
you can do whatever you want."
"I'm sorry if I make that impression on you; I don't think it's a nice
impression to make."
"It has the merit of permitting me to hope." And Lord Warburton paused a
moment.
"To hope what?"
"That in future I may see you often."
"Ah," said Isabel, "to enjoy that pleasure I needn't be so terribly
emancipated."
"Doubtless not; and yet, at the same time, I don't think your uncle
likes me."
"You're very much mistaken. I've heard him speak very highly of you."
"I'm glad you have talked about me," said Lord Warburton. "But, I
nevertheless don't think he'd like me to keep coming to Gardencourt."
"I can't answer for my uncle's tastes," the girl rejoined, "though I
ought as far as possible to take them into account. But for myself I
shall be very glad to see you."
"Now that's what I like to hear you say. I'm charmed when you say that."
"You're easily charmed, my lord," said Isabel.
"No, I'm not easily charmed!" And then he stopped a moment. "But you've
charmed me, Miss Archer."
These words were uttered with an indefinable sound which startled the
girl; it struck her as the prelude to something grave: she had heard the
sound before and she recognised it. She had no wish, however, that for
the moment such a prelude should have a sequel, and she said as gaily
as possible and as quickly as an appreciable degree of agitation would
allow her: "I'm afraid there's no prospect of my being able to come here
again."
"Never?" said Lord Warburton.
"I won't say 'never'; I should feel very melodramatic."
"May I come and see you then some day next week?"
"Most assuredly. What is there to prevent it?"
"Nothing tangible. But with you I never feel safe. I've a sort of sense
that you're always summing people up."
"You don't of necessity lose by that."
"It's very kind of you to say so; but, even if I gain, stern justice is
not what I most love. Is Mrs. Touchett going to take you abroad?"
"I hope so."
"Is England not good enough for you?"
"That's a very Machiavellian speech; it doesn't deserve an answer. I
want to see as many countries as I can."
"Then you'll go on judging, I suppose."
"Enjoying, I hope, too."
"Yes, that's what you enjoy most; I can't make out what you're up to,"
said Lord Warburton. "You strike me as having mysterious purposes--vast
designs."
"You're so good as to have a theory about me which I don't at all fill
out. Is there anything mysterious in a purpose entertained and
executed every year, in the most public manner, by fifty thousand of
my fellow-countrymen--the purpose of improving one's mind by foreign
travel?"
"You can't improve your mind, Miss Archer," her companion declared.
"It's already a most formidable instrument. It looks down on us all; it
despises us."
"Despises you? You're making fun of me," said Isabel seriously.
"Well, you think us 'quaint'--that's the same thing. I won't be thought
'quaint,' to begin with; I'm not so in the least. I protest."
"That protest is one of the quaintest things I've ever heard," Isabel
answered with a smile.
Lord Warburton was briefly silent. "You judge only from the outside--you
don't care," he said presently. "You only care to amuse yourself." The
note she had heard in his voice a moment before reappeared, and mixed
with it now was an audible strain of bitterness--a bitterness so abrupt
and inconsequent that the girl was afraid she had hurt him. She had
often heard that the English are a highly eccentric people, and she
had even read in some ingenious author that they are at bottom the most
romantic of races. Was Lord Warburton suddenly turning romantic--was he
going to make her a scene, in his own house, only the third time they
had met? She was reassured quickly enough by her sense of his great good
manners, which was not impaired by the fact that he had already touched
the furthest limit of good taste in expressing his admiration of a young
lady who had confided in his hospitality. She was right in trusting
to his good manners, for he presently went on, laughing a little and
without a trace of the accent that had discomposed her: "I don't mean of
course that you amuse yourself with trifles. You select great materials;
the foibles, the afflictions of human nature, the peculiarities of
nations!"
"As regards that," said Isabel, "I should find in my own nation
entertainment for a lifetime. But we've a long drive, and my aunt
will soon wish to start." She turned back toward the others and Lord
Warburton walked beside her in silence. But before they reached the
others, "I shall come and see you next week," he said.
She had received an appreciable shock, but as it died away she felt that
she couldn't pretend to herself that it was altogether a painful one.
Nevertheless she made answer to his declaration, coldly enough, "Just as
you please." And her coldness was not the calculation of her effect--a
game she played in a much smaller degree than would have seemed probable
to many critics. It came from a certain fear.
| Isabel is likened to an aesthetic object in Ralph's imagination, described as a "fine work of art." It is interesting to read the parallel between our approach to works of art and to Isabel Archer. One typically assumes a disinterested attitude to a work of art, insofar as one sees something is beautiful without conceiving of a use for that particular work. Similarly, Ralph has no idea what Isabel is good at -- he has no idea what her genius is for. Furthermore, the title of the work is called "the portrait of a lady," which likens Isabel's life to a pictorial painting. In the scene in the drawing room in Chapter 7, we get a first sense of how Isabel treats customs and manners that she does not understand. Mrs. Touchett thinks it is inappropriate for a young girl to stay alone with two unwed men late at night, but Isabel refuses to leave because she thinks the situation is perfectly innocent. When she finds out that such behavior is frowned upon, she is interested because it is a piece of knowledge -- not one that she will necessarily conform to, but rather one that will allow her to understand her options. This foreshadows the quality of her stubbornness: she will not behave as others want her to, but she wants to know how others want her to behave. These others will perceive her behavior though as simply doing the opposite of what they would like her to do. Chapter 8 is an analysis of Lord Warburton as a specimen of the age. He comes from a very privileged background, but he also sides theoretically with radicals rather than conservatives in terms of how the country might change for the causes of more social justice. Of course, this position is more theoretical, because the Touchetts believe Lord Warburton has such a radical opinion only because he lives in such luxury. In other words, thinking about the possibility of social change is a luxury which can contradictorily only be enjoyed from a position of privilege -- a privilege granted from the very institution which one might theoretically want to change. James is being critical of the possibility of society to really change given that the people in power do not benefit from its changing. In Chapter 9, we see Lord Warburton is beginning to fall in love with Isabel. Isabel's reacts both naively and coldly to this prospect: she seems to fear intimacy. This reaction is a reference to an earlier description of Isabel: the narrator has told us that the "deepest" thought in her mind is that she might one day give herself wholly to a man in marriage, a prospect which she finds more "formidable" than attractive . The reader then begins to ask himself/herself: why is Isabel afraid of this prospect? Does she fear personal intimacy? Does she fear sexual intimacy? Does she think that she will lose her own independence? | analysis |
The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend
Miss Stackpole--a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction
the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered
Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely
friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided
only the night before I left New York--the Interviewer having come round
to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist,
and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where
can we meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have
already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have married a
lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first
people and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some
light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are
not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know
that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something
very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can;
come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or
else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure;
for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as
possible of the inner life."
Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she
acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her
instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be
delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary lady,"
he said, "I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as
that other one did. She has seen others like me."
"She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she was
not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which
belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with
least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would
be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman
lost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to
London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the
station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting
to receive her.
"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved
along the platform.
"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She
doesn't care a straw what men think of her."
"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster.
Is she very ugly?"
"No, she's decidedly pretty."
"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see
her," Ralph conceded.
"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as
she."
"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"
"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."
"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."
"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.
"You think she's capable of it then?"
"Perfectly."
"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"
"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her
faults."
"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her
merits."
"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."
"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried
the young man.
The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending,
proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather
provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature,
with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of
light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open,
surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the
remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or
defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon
every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon
Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and
comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,
dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp
and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top
to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a
voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her
companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the
large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the
young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the
library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr.
Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more
to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.
"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American
or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to you
accordingly."
"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally answered.
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character
that reminded him of large polished buttons--buttons that might have
fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the
reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a
button is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss
Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely
embarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This
sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her
company, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. "I don't
suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an
American," she said.
"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!"
"Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss
Stackpole returned.
"I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality
are no barrier to you," Ralph went on.
Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign languages?"
"The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius."
"I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of the
Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave."
"He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested.
"That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say
I think patriotism is like charity--it begins at home."
"Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired.
"I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long
time before I got here."
"Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged,
innocent voice.
"Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take.
I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to
London."
"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested.
"Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose
acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little
Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt something
pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very
commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But
I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way--then you
can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."
"Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and you'll
see."
Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was
prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied
herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this
Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task
performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found
occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their
common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning
of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the
Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible
hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at
school) was "Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss
Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her
letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.
"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe
the place."
Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people want,
and it's a lovely place."
"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle
wants."
"Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted
afterwards."
"My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it
a breach of hospitality."
Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen,
very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the
purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course if you don't approve I
won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject."
"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you.
We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery."
"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know
I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined. "I was
going to bring in your cousin--the alienated American. There's a
great demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a
beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely."
"He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the severity, but
of the publicity."
"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have
delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type--the
American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he can
object to my paying him honour."
Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as
strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break
down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said, "you've no sense of
privacy."
Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were
suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. "You do me
great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've never written
a word about myself!"
"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for
others also!"
"Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. "Just
let me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere." she was a
thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as
cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady
in want of matter. "I've promised to do the social side," she said to
Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe
this place don't you know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised
she would bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation with her
friend, she happened to mention her visit to Lord Warburton's ancient
house. "Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!" Miss
Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of the nobility."
"I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming here, and
you'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to
repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning."
"Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural."
"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue,"
Isabel declared.
It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had,
according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he
had spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the
park together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was
delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place
in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her
presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph
had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect
solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the
Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that
the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days.
Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration
with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph
appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem,
which it would be almost immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her
arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?"
"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure."
"Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor,"
Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him up."
"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her friend.
Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she
remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown
her.
"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd
be such an interesting one!"
"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your
prejudices; that's one comfort."
"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's
intellectual poverty for you."
"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your
flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't
care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She'll
see how thin you are."
"Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take the
trouble."
Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort;
resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural
expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was
bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor
amusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through
the long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal
ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked
at the pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion,
and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none
of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors
to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do
her justice, was but little addicted to the use of conventional terms;
there was something earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times,
in its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture
speaking a foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that
she had at one time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other
world; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket
none of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had
called her attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at
him as if he himself had been a picture.
"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.
"I seldom spend it so agreeably."
"Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."
Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph
bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which
represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning
against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing
the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal of a
regular occupation," he said.
Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested
upon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking
of something much more serious. "I don't see how you can reconcile it to
your conscience."
"My dear lady, I have no conscience!"
"Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time you
go to America."
"I shall probably never go again."
"Are you ashamed to show yourself?"
Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has no
conscience one has no shame."
"Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared. "Do you
consider it right to give up your country?"
"Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives UP
one's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice--elements of one's
composition that are not to be eliminated."
"I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do they
think of you over here?"
"They delight in me."
"That's because you truckle to them."
"Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed.
"I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any charm
it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired--or at least you've tried
hard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've succeeded. It's
a charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some
way, and then we'll talk about it." "Well, now, tell me what I shall
do," said Ralph.
"Go right home, to begin with."
"Yes, I see. And then?"
"Take right hold of something."
"Well, now, what sort of thing?"
"Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big
work."
"Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired.
"Not if you put your heart into it."
"Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart--!"
"Haven't you got a heart?"
"I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since."
"You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's the matter
with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to
fix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause
to her mysterious perversity. "I know what's the matter with you, Mr.
Touchett," she said. "You think you're too good to get married."
"I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralph answered; "and
then I suddenly changed my mind."
"Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned.
"Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good enough."
"It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty."
"Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?"
"Of course it is--did you never know that before? It's every one's duty
to get married."
Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in
Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she
was not a charming woman she was at least a very good "sort." She was
wanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went
into cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had
not supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words
struck him as a false note. When a marriageable young woman urges
matrimony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious explanation of
her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.
"Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ralph
rejoined.
"There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it
looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman
was good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one else in
the world? In America it's usual for people to marry."
"If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours as well?"
Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. "Have you
the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as good
a right to marry as any one else."
"Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see you single. It
delights me rather."
"You're not serious yet. You never will be."
"Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to
give up the practice of going round alone?"
Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to
announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to
his great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an
appearance of alarm and even of resentment. "No, not even then," she
answered dryly. After which she walked away.
"I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said that evening
to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morning about it."
"And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied.
Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?"
"She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of
Europeans towards women."
"Does she call me a European?"
"One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an
American never would have said. But she didn't repeat it."
Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an extraordinary
combination. Did she think I was making love to her?"
"No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you
mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind
construction on it."
"I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that
unkind?"
Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry."
"My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph demanded. "Miss
Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers, in general,
to see I do mine!"
"She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She has indeed,
and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like her for.
She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself.
That's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to--to
attract you, you were very wrong."
"It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract
me. Forgive my depravity."
"You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed
you would think she had."
"One must be very modest then to talk with such women," Ralph said
humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too personal--considering
that she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking
at the door."
"Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognise the
existence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't think
them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should stand
ajar. But I persist in liking her."
"I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined, naturally
somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in
Miss Stackpole.
"Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she's rather
vulgar that I like her."
"She would be flattered by your reason!"
"If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should say
it's because there's something of the 'people' in her."
"What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?"
"She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind
of emanation of the great democracy--of the continent, the country, the
nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to
ask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it."
"You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on those very
grounds I object to her."
"Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so many things! If
a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don't want to
swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like people to be totally
different from Henrietta--in the style of Lord Warburton's sisters for
instance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me
to answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm
straightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in
respect to what masses behind her."
"Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested.
"What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be serious.
I like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across
the prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the
green Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it,
and Henrietta--pardon my simile--has something of that odour in her
garments."
Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush,
together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so
becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she
had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that," he
said; "but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does
smell of the Future--it almost knocks one down!"
| Isabel's friend, Henrietta Stackpole, the independent American journalist, arrives in England and visits at Gardencourt to see Isabel. She is described as a neat, plump person with a remarkably observant eye. Henrietta declares to the Touchetts that she would like to know if they consider themselves American or English, so that she will know how to talk to them. Ralph tells her that, in order to please her, he'll be an Englishman, or even a Turk. Isabel intercedes that Ralph is a cosmopolite. Isabel discovers that Henrietta is writing an article on Gardencourt, and tells her that she should not write about the place. Henrietta thinks they will be delighted afterwards, and Isabel protests that Henrietta has no sense of privacy. Henrietta blushes. Later, she asks Isabel if there is some other place she can describe, and Isabel tells her that she could give her a glimpse of Lord Warburton, and perhaps she can observe him. Henrietta finds it odd that Ralph spends his time so idly, without occupation. She asks how he can reconcile his idleness with his conscience, to which he responds, "I have no conscience. Henrietta proceeds to interrogate him on having abandoned his own country, and Ralph responds that one's country is not a choice, but only an "element of one's composition". Henrietta counsels Ralph to "take hold of something" -- that is, find something to work on. A few days later, Henrietta diagnoses Ralph: "I know what's the matter with you. you think you're too good to get married". Ralph jokes that he thought so until he met Henrietta. She thinks that getting married would improve him, and that it is his "duty". Ralph suspects Henrietta has ulterior motives, so he decides to test this by circuitously suggesting that he is proposing to Henrietta. Henrietta gives him a look of resentment. Isabel later tells Ralph that Henrietta thinks Europeans have a low tone towards women. Ralph notes that perhaps he treats her too personally. He thinks though, that she has the "smell of the Future" | summary |
The day after her visit to Lockleigh she received a note from her friend
Miss Stackpole--a note of which the envelope, exhibiting in conjunction
the postmark of Liverpool and the neat calligraphy of the quick-fingered
Henrietta, caused her some liveliness of emotion. "Here I am, my lovely
friend," Miss Stackpole wrote; "I managed to get off at last. I decided
only the night before I left New York--the Interviewer having come round
to my figure. I put a few things into a bag, like a veteran journalist,
and came down to the steamer in a street-car. Where are you and where
can we meet? I suppose you're visiting at some castle or other and have
already acquired the correct accent. Perhaps even you have married a
lord; I almost hope you have, for I want some introductions to the first
people and shall count on you for a few. The Interviewer wants some
light on the nobility. My first impressions (of the people at large) are
not rose-coloured; but I wish to talk them over with you, and you know
that, whatever I am, at least I'm not superficial. I've also something
very particular to tell you. Do appoint a meeting as quickly as you can;
come to London (I should like so much to visit the sights with you) or
else let me come to you, wherever you are. I will do so with pleasure;
for you know everything interests me and I wish to see as much as
possible of the inner life."
Isabel judged best not to show this letter to her uncle; but she
acquainted him with its purport, and, as she expected, he begged her
instantly to assure Miss Stackpole, in his name, that he should be
delighted to receive her at Gardencourt. "Though she's a literary lady,"
he said, "I suppose that, being an American, she won't show me up, as
that other one did. She has seen others like me."
"She has seen no other so delightful!" Isabel answered; but she was
not altogether at ease about Henrietta's reproductive instincts, which
belonged to that side of her friend's character which she regarded with
least complacency. She wrote to Miss Stackpole, however, that she would
be very welcome under Mr. Touchett's roof; and this alert young woman
lost no time in announcing her prompt approach. She had gone up to
London, and it was from that centre that she took the train for the
station nearest to Gardencourt, where Isabel and Ralph were in waiting
to receive her.
"Shall I love her or shall I hate her?" Ralph asked while they moved
along the platform.
"Whichever you do will matter very little to her," said Isabel. "She
doesn't care a straw what men think of her."
"As a man I'm bound to dislike her then. She must be a kind of monster.
Is she very ugly?"
"No, she's decidedly pretty."
"A female interviewer--a reporter in petticoats? I'm very curious to see
her," Ralph conceded.
"It's very easy to laugh at her but it is not easy to be as brave as
she."
"I should think not; crimes of violence and attacks on the person
require more or less pluck. Do you suppose she'll interview me?"
"Never in the world. She'll not think you of enough importance."
"You'll see," said Ralph. "She'll send a description of us all,
including Bunchie, to her newspaper."
"I shall ask her not to," Isabel answered.
"You think she's capable of it then?"
"Perfectly."
"And yet you've made her your bosom-friend?"
"I've not made her my bosom-friend; but I like her in spite of her
faults."
"Ah well," said Ralph, "I'm afraid I shall dislike her in spite of her
merits."
"You'll probably fall in love with her at the end of three days."
"And have my love-letters published in the Interviewer? Never!" cried
the young man.
The train presently arrived, and Miss Stackpole, promptly descending,
proved, as Isabel had promised, quite delicately, even though rather
provincially, fair. She was a neat, plump person, of medium stature,
with a round face, a small mouth, a delicate complexion, a bunch of
light brown ringlets at the back of her head and a peculiarly open,
surprised-looking eye. The most striking point in her appearance was the
remarkable fixedness of this organ, which rested without impudence or
defiance, but as if in conscientious exercise of a natural right, upon
every object it happened to encounter. It rested in this manner upon
Ralph himself, a little arrested by Miss Stackpole's gracious and
comfortable aspect, which hinted that it wouldn't be so easy as he had
assumed to disapprove of her. She rustled, she shimmered, in fresh,
dove-coloured draperies, and Ralph saw at a glance that she was as crisp
and new and comprehensive as a first issue before the folding. From top
to toe she had probably no misprint. She spoke in a clear, high voice--a
voice not rich but loud; yet after she had taken her place with her
companions in Mr. Touchett's carriage she struck him as not all in the
large type, the type of horrid "headings," that he had expected. She
answered the enquiries made of her by Isabel, however, and in which the
young man ventured to join, with copious lucidity; and later, in the
library at Gardencourt, when she had made the acquaintance of Mr.
Touchett (his wife not having thought it necessary to appear) did more
to give the measure of her confidence in her powers.
"Well, I should like to know whether you consider yourselves American
or English," she broke out. "If once I knew I could talk to you
accordingly."
"Talk to us anyhow and we shall be thankful," Ralph liberally answered.
She fixed her eyes on him, and there was something in their character
that reminded him of large polished buttons--buttons that might have
fixed the elastic loops of some tense receptacle: he seemed to see the
reflection of surrounding objects on the pupil. The expression of a
button is not usually deemed human, but there was something in Miss
Stackpole's gaze that made him, as a very modest man, feel vaguely
embarrassed--less inviolate, more dishonoured, than he liked. This
sensation, it must be added, after he had spent a day or two in her
company, sensibly diminished, though it never wholly lapsed. "I don't
suppose that you're going to undertake to persuade me that you're an
American," she said.
"To please you I'll be an Englishman, I'll be a Turk!"
"Well, if you can change about that way you're very welcome," Miss
Stackpole returned.
"I'm sure you understand everything and that differences of nationality
are no barrier to you," Ralph went on.
Miss Stackpole gazed at him still. "Do you mean the foreign languages?"
"The languages are nothing. I mean the spirit--the genius."
"I'm not sure that I understand you," said the correspondent of the
Interviewer; "but I expect I shall before I leave."
"He's what's called a cosmopolite," Isabel suggested.
"That means he's a little of everything and not much of any. I must say
I think patriotism is like charity--it begins at home."
"Ah, but where does home begin, Miss Stackpole?" Ralph enquired.
"I don't know where it begins, but I know where it ends. It ended a long
time before I got here."
"Don't you like it over here?" asked Mr. Touchett with his aged,
innocent voice.
"Well, sir, I haven't quite made up my mind what ground I shall take.
I feel a good deal cramped. I felt it on the journey from Liverpool to
London."
"Perhaps you were in a crowded carriage," Ralph suggested.
"Yes, but it was crowded with friends--party of Americans whose
acquaintance I had made upon the steamer; a lovely group from Little
Rock, Arkansas. In spite of that I felt cramped--I felt something
pressing upon me; I couldn't tell what it was. I felt at the very
commencement as if I were not going to accord with the atmosphere. But
I suppose I shall make my own atmosphere. That's the true way--then you
can breathe. Your surroundings seem very attractive."
"Ah, we too are a lovely group!" said Ralph. "Wait a little and you'll
see."
Miss Stackpole showed every disposition to wait and evidently was
prepared to make a considerable stay at Gardencourt. She occupied
herself in the mornings with literary labour; but in spite of this
Isabel spent many hours with her friend, who, once her daily task
performed, deprecated, in fact defied, isolation. Isabel speedily found
occasion to desire her to desist from celebrating the charms of their
common sojourn in print, having discovered, on the second morning
of Miss Stackpole's visit, that she was engaged on a letter to the
Interviewer, of which the title, in her exquisitely neat and legible
hand (exactly that of the copybooks which our heroine remembered at
school) was "Americans and Tudors--Glimpses of Gardencourt." Miss
Stackpole, with the best conscience in the world, offered to read her
letter to Isabel, who immediately put in her protest.
"I don't think you ought to do that. I don't think you ought to describe
the place."
Henrietta gazed at her as usual. "Why, it's just what the people want,
and it's a lovely place."
"It's too lovely to be put in the newspapers, and it's not what my uncle
wants."
"Don't you believe that!" cried Henrietta. "They're always delighted
afterwards."
"My uncle won't be delighted--nor my cousin either. They'll consider it
a breach of hospitality."
Miss Stackpole showed no sense of confusion; she simply wiped her pen,
very neatly, upon an elegant little implement which she kept for the
purpose, and put away her manuscript. "Of course if you don't approve I
won't do it; but I sacrifice a beautiful subject."
"There are plenty of other subjects, there are subjects all round you.
We'll take some drives; I'll show you some charming scenery."
"Scenery's not my department; I always need a human interest. You know
I'm deeply human, Isabel; I always was," Miss Stackpole rejoined. "I was
going to bring in your cousin--the alienated American. There's a
great demand just now for the alienated American, and your cousin's a
beautiful specimen. I should have handled him severely."
"He would have died of it!" Isabel exclaimed. "Not of the severity, but
of the publicity."
"Well, I should have liked to kill him a little. And I should have
delighted to do your uncle, who seems to me a much nobler type--the
American faithful still. He's a grand old man; I don't see how he can
object to my paying him honour."
Isabel looked at her companion in much wonderment; it struck her as
strange that a nature in which she found so much to esteem should break
down so in spots. "My poor Henrietta," she said, "you've no sense of
privacy."
Henrietta coloured deeply, and for a moment her brilliant eyes were
suffused, while Isabel found her more than ever inconsequent. "You do me
great injustice," said Miss Stackpole with dignity. "I've never written
a word about myself!"
"I'm very sure of that; but it seems to me one should be modest for
others also!"
"Ah, that's very good!" cried Henrietta, seizing her pen again. "Just
let me make a note of it and I'll put it in somewhere." she was a
thoroughly good-natured woman, and half an hour later she was in as
cheerful a mood as should have been looked for in a newspaper-lady
in want of matter. "I've promised to do the social side," she said to
Isabel; "and how can I do it unless I get ideas? If I can't describe
this place don't you know some place I can describe?" Isabel promised
she would bethink herself, and the next day, in conversation with her
friend, she happened to mention her visit to Lord Warburton's ancient
house. "Ah, you must take me there--that's just the place for me!" Miss
Stackpole cried. "I must get a glimpse of the nobility."
"I can't take you," said Isabel; "but Lord Warburton's coming here, and
you'll have a chance to see him and observe him. Only if you intend to
repeat his conversation I shall certainly give him warning."
"Don't do that," her companion pleaded; "I want him to be natural."
"An Englishman's never so natural as when he's holding his tongue,"
Isabel declared.
It was not apparent, at the end of three days, that her cousin had,
according to her prophecy, lost his heart to their visitor, though he
had spent a good deal of time in her society. They strolled about the
park together and sat under the trees, and in the afternoon, when it was
delightful to float along the Thames, Miss Stackpole occupied a place
in the boat in which hitherto Ralph had had but a single companion. Her
presence proved somehow less irreducible to soft particles than Ralph
had expected in the natural perturbation of his sense of the perfect
solubility of that of his cousin; for the correspondent of the
Interviewer prompted mirth in him, and he had long since decided that
the crescendo of mirth should be the flower of his declining days.
Henrietta, on her side, failed a little to justify Isabel's declaration
with regard to her indifference to masculine opinion; for poor Ralph
appeared to have presented himself to her as an irritating problem,
which it would be almost immoral not to work out.
"What does he do for a living?" she asked of Isabel the evening of her
arrival. "Does he go round all day with his hands in his pockets?"
"He does nothing," smiled Isabel; "he's a gentleman of large leisure."
"Well, I call that a shame--when I have to work like a car-conductor,"
Miss Stackpole replied. "I should like to show him up."
"He's in wretched health; he's quite unfit for work," Isabel urged.
"Pshaw! don't you believe it. I work when I'm sick," cried her friend.
Later, when she stepped into the boat on joining the water-party, she
remarked to Ralph that she supposed he hated her and would like to drown
her.
"Ah no," said Ralph, "I keep my victims for a slower torture. And you'd
be such an interesting one!"
"Well, you do torture me; I may say that. But I shock all your
prejudices; that's one comfort."
"My prejudices? I haven't a prejudice to bless myself with. There's
intellectual poverty for you."
"The more shame to you; I've some delicious ones. Of course I spoil your
flirtation, or whatever it is you call it, with your cousin; but I don't
care for that, as I render her the service of drawing you out. She'll
see how thin you are."
"Ah, do draw me out!" Ralph exclaimed. "So few people will take the
trouble."
Miss Stackpole, in this undertaking, appeared to shrink from no effort;
resorting largely, whenever the opportunity offered, to the natural
expedient of interrogation. On the following day the weather was
bad, and in the afternoon the young man, by way of providing indoor
amusement, offered to show her the pictures. Henrietta strolled through
the long gallery in his society, while he pointed out its principal
ornaments and mentioned the painters and subjects. Miss Stackpole looked
at the pictures in perfect silence, committing herself to no opinion,
and Ralph was gratified by the fact that she delivered herself of none
of the little ready-made ejaculations of delight of which the visitors
to Gardencourt were so frequently lavish. This young lady indeed, to do
her justice, was but little addicted to the use of conventional terms;
there was something earnest and inventive in her tone, which at times,
in its strained deliberation, suggested a person of high culture
speaking a foreign language. Ralph Touchett subsequently learned that
she had at one time officiated as art critic to a journal of the other
world; but she appeared, in spite of this fact, to carry in her pocket
none of the small change of admiration. Suddenly, just after he had
called her attention to a charming Constable, she turned and looked at
him as if he himself had been a picture.
"Do you always spend your time like this?" she demanded.
"I seldom spend it so agreeably."
"Well, you know what I mean--without any regular occupation."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm the idlest man living."
Miss Stackpole directed her gaze to the Constable again, and Ralph
bespoke her attention for a small Lancret hanging near it, which
represented a gentleman in a pink doublet and hose and a ruff, leaning
against the pedestal of the statue of a nymph in a garden and playing
the guitar to two ladies seated on the grass. "That's my ideal of a
regular occupation," he said.
Miss Stackpole turned to him again, and, though her eyes had rested
upon the picture, he saw she had missed the subject. She was thinking
of something much more serious. "I don't see how you can reconcile it to
your conscience."
"My dear lady, I have no conscience!"
"Well, I advise you to cultivate one. You'll need it the next time you
go to America."
"I shall probably never go again."
"Are you ashamed to show yourself?"
Ralph meditated with a mild smile. "I suppose that if one has no
conscience one has no shame."
"Well, you've got plenty of assurance," Henrietta declared. "Do you
consider it right to give up your country?"
"Ah, one doesn't give up one's country any more than one gives UP
one's grandmother. They're both antecedent to choice--elements of one's
composition that are not to be eliminated."
"I suppose that means that you've tried and been worsted. What do they
think of you over here?"
"They delight in me."
"That's because you truckle to them."
"Ah, set it down a little to my natural charm!" Ralph sighed.
"I don't know anything about your natural charm. If you've got any charm
it's quite unnatural. It's wholly acquired--or at least you've tried
hard to acquire it, living over here. I don't say you've succeeded. It's
a charm that I don't appreciate, anyway. Make yourself useful in some
way, and then we'll talk about it." "Well, now, tell me what I shall
do," said Ralph.
"Go right home, to begin with."
"Yes, I see. And then?"
"Take right hold of something."
"Well, now, what sort of thing?"
"Anything you please, so long as you take hold. Some new idea, some big
work."
"Is it very difficult to take hold?" Ralph enquired.
"Not if you put your heart into it."
"Ah, my heart," said Ralph. "If it depends upon my heart--!"
"Haven't you got a heart?"
"I had one a few days ago, but I've lost it since."
"You're not serious," Miss Stackpole remarked; "that's what's the matter
with you." But for all this, in a day or two, she again permitted him to
fix her attention and on the later occasion assigned a different cause
to her mysterious perversity. "I know what's the matter with you, Mr.
Touchett," she said. "You think you're too good to get married."
"I thought so till I knew you, Miss Stackpole," Ralph answered; "and
then I suddenly changed my mind."
"Oh pshaw!" Henrietta groaned.
"Then it seemed to me," said Ralph, "that I was not good enough."
"It would improve you. Besides, it's your duty."
"Ah," cried the young man, "one has so many duties! Is that a duty too?"
"Of course it is--did you never know that before? It's every one's duty
to get married."
Ralph meditated a moment; he was disappointed. There was something in
Miss Stackpole he had begun to like; it seemed to him that if she
was not a charming woman she was at least a very good "sort." She was
wanting in distinction, but, as Isabel had said, she was brave: she went
into cages, she flourished lashes, like a spangled lion-tamer. He had
not supposed her to be capable of vulgar arts, but these last words
struck him as a false note. When a marriageable young woman urges
matrimony on an unencumbered young man the most obvious explanation of
her conduct is not the altruistic impulse.
"Ah, well now, there's a good deal to be said about that," Ralph
rejoined.
"There may be, but that's the principal thing. I must say I think it
looks very exclusive, going round all alone, as if you thought no woman
was good enough for you. Do you think you're better than any one else in
the world? In America it's usual for people to marry."
"If it's my duty," Ralph asked, "is it not, by analogy, yours as well?"
Miss Stackpole's ocular surfaces unwinkingly caught the sun. "Have you
the fond hope of finding a flaw in my reasoning? Of course I've as good
a right to marry as any one else."
"Well then," said Ralph, "I won't say it vexes me to see you single. It
delights me rather."
"You're not serious yet. You never will be."
"Shall you not believe me to be so on the day I tell you I desire to
give up the practice of going round alone?"
Miss Stackpole looked at him for a moment in a manner which seemed to
announce a reply that might technically be called encouraging. But to
his great surprise this expression suddenly resolved itself into an
appearance of alarm and even of resentment. "No, not even then," she
answered dryly. After which she walked away.
"I've not conceived a passion for your friend," Ralph said that evening
to Isabel, "though we talked some time this morning about it."
"And you said something she didn't like," the girl replied.
Ralph stared. "Has she complained of me?"
"She told me she thinks there's something very low in the tone of
Europeans towards women."
"Does she call me a European?"
"One of the worst. She told me you had said to her something that an
American never would have said. But she didn't repeat it."
Ralph treated himself to a luxury of laughter. "She's an extraordinary
combination. Did she think I was making love to her?"
"No; I believe even Americans do that. But she apparently thought you
mistook the intention of something she had said, and put an unkind
construction on it."
"I thought she was proposing marriage to me and I accepted her. Was that
unkind?"
Isabel smiled. "It was unkind to me. I don't want you to marry."
"My dear cousin, what's one to do among you all?" Ralph demanded. "Miss
Stackpole tells me it's my bounden duty, and that it's hers, in general,
to see I do mine!"
"She has a great sense of duty," said Isabel gravely. "She has indeed,
and it's the motive of everything she says. That's what I like her for.
She thinks it's unworthy of you to keep so many things to yourself.
That's what she wanted to express. If you thought she was trying to--to
attract you, you were very wrong."
"It's true it was an odd way, but I did think she was trying to attract
me. Forgive my depravity."
"You're very conceited. She had no interested views, and never supposed
you would think she had."
"One must be very modest then to talk with such women," Ralph said
humbly. "But it's a very strange type. She's too personal--considering
that she expects other people not to be. She walks in without knocking
at the door."
"Yes," Isabel admitted, "she doesn't sufficiently recognise the
existence of knockers; and indeed I'm not sure that she doesn't think
them rather a pretentious ornament. She thinks one's door should stand
ajar. But I persist in liking her."
"I persist in thinking her too familiar," Ralph rejoined, naturally
somewhat uncomfortable under the sense of having been doubly deceived in
Miss Stackpole.
"Well," said Isabel, smiling, "I'm afraid it's because she's rather
vulgar that I like her."
"She would be flattered by your reason!"
"If I should tell her I wouldn't express it in that way. I should say
it's because there's something of the 'people' in her."
"What do you know about the people? and what does she, for that matter?"
"She knows a great deal, and I know enough to feel that she's a kind
of emanation of the great democracy--of the continent, the country, the
nation. I don't say that she sums it all up, that would be too much to
ask of her. But she suggests it; she vividly figures it."
"You like her then for patriotic reasons. I'm afraid it is on those very
grounds I object to her."
"Ah," said Isabel with a kind of joyous sigh, "I like so many things! If
a thing strikes me with a certain intensity I accept it. I don't want to
swagger, but I suppose I'm rather versatile. I like people to be totally
different from Henrietta--in the style of Lord Warburton's sisters for
instance. So long as I look at the Misses Molyneux they seem to me
to answer a kind of ideal. Then Henrietta presents herself, and I'm
straightway convinced by her; not so much in respect to herself as in
respect to what masses behind her."
"Ah, you mean the back view of her," Ralph suggested.
"What she says is true," his cousin answered; "you'll never be serious.
I like the great country stretching away beyond the rivers and across
the prairies, blooming and smiling and spreading till it stops at the
green Pacific! A strong, sweet, fresh odour seems to rise from it,
and Henrietta--pardon my simile--has something of that odour in her
garments."
Isabel blushed a little as she concluded this speech, and the blush,
together with the momentary ardour she had thrown into it, was so
becoming to her that Ralph stood smiling at her for a moment after she
had ceased speaking. "I'm not sure the Pacific's so green as that," he
said; "but you're a young woman of imagination. Henrietta, however, does
smell of the Future--it almost knocks one down!"
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when
Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He
bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous
organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a
representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her
in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of
tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle
to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general
application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,
appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation
herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered
Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.
Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her
situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she
not conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she
had at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the
house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of
the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole
behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress
and a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had
expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,
yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own
affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict
the girl to those she liked.
"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very
small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think I
like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When
it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss
Stackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much
too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one
doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I
detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I
prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell
you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest
boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,
because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a
great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost
too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's
no use trying."
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,
but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after
Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on
American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part
of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her
profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form
of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels
were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed
struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.
Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing
the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the
establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This
contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with
scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were
the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett.
"I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a
'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated
as an American lady."
"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the
slaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the
negro waiter. They share their work."
"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" Miss
Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, no
wonder you don't like America."
"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenely
said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in
Florence."
"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help
observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding
me in that menial position."
"I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimed
Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.
"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband
asked.
"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."
"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph.
"It's a beautiful description."
"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss
Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something
treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she
privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was
perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered
some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear
friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."
"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"
"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."
"Faithless to my country then?"
"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I
said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what
it is. Is it because you've suspected?"
"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel.
"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had
forgotten it. What have you to tell me?"
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.
"You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're
changed--you're thinking of other things."
"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."
"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."
"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said
Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried
Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean that
you're going to be married?"
"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughing
at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the
steamer with me."
"Ah!" Isabel responded.
"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come
after you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly.
"He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal."
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a
little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last.
"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have
talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he
drank it all in."
"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.
"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."
"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't
to be encouraged."
"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his
earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so
handsome."
"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."
"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."
"It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that."
"You don't say that as if you were sure."
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood
himself."
"He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no
answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great
confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've been
affected by your new surroundings."
"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."
"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a
slightly harsh hilarity.
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he ask
you to speak to me?"
"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he
bade me good-bye."
"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.
"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend
continued.
"I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as
possible."
"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones
have been the right ones."
Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regard
to Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacable
glitter.
"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,
however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him."
And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood
what he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she
disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.
"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole
answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He
is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do
something, and whatever he does will always be right."
"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it
touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.
"Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man's
of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?"
"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."
"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," said
Isabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have
changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.
Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."
"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.
"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it."
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the
alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would
present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,
that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her
disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,
she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling
pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a
change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so
agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be
for the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She
had walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and
after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and
restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the
house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented
with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful
and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with
talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership
divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as
impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies
would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,
of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been
mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would
do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been
able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat
of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to
be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had
reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete
set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,
she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green
turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the
arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the
London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her
vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice
or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my
coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a
surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at
Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.
You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the
right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would
let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this
hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,
and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that
you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;
but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you
are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is
that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not
disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should
be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.
I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home
after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If
I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have
been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come
and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of
yours faithfully,
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not
perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,
as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before
her.
| Henrietta gets along well at Gardencourt mostly, except that she begins to mistrust Mrs. Touchett. Mrs. Touchett thinks that Henrietta is both a bore and an adventuress. She detests her manners. Mrs. Touchett tells Henrietta: "We judge from different points of view, evidently. I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a 'party'". In a private moment, Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood came to see her for news about Isabel. Isabel thinks he is simpleminded, and not ugly. Henrietta tells Isabel that Caspar Goodwood is dying for encouragement, but she also notes that Isabel is affected by everything but Mr. Goodwood. She tells Isabel that she shouldn't let her new ideas affect her old ones. Basically Henrietta seems to hope that Isabel will marry Mr. Goodwood, and reminds Isabel that she has already encouraged him that he will be successful if he proposes. Isabel recognizes that Mr. Goodwood is a man of action, the type to "do something". Henrietta tells Isabel that Mr. Goodwood will arrive in a few days. Isabel is alarmed by the news. For the next few days she is in a state of ominous foreboding. One day in the garden she receives a letter from Mr. Goodwood. In the letter, Caspar Goodwood reminds Isabel that she had "dismissed" him three months earlier when they last saw each other, but that he had refused to accept this, believing her character was not as arbitrary as she was presenting it as. He has arrived in England because she is there. He asks to come see her in half an hour. As Isabel is reading the letter, Lord Warburton appears | summary |
He took a resolve after this not to misinterpret her words even when
Miss Stackpole appeared to strike the personal note most strongly. He
bethought himself that persons, in her view, were simple and homogeneous
organisms, and that he, for his own part, was too perverted a
representative of the nature of man to have a right to deal with her
in strict reciprocity. He carried out his resolve with a great deal of
tact, and the young lady found in renewed contact with him no obstacle
to the exercise of her genius for unshrinking enquiry, the general
application of her confidence. Her situation at Gardencourt therefore,
appreciated as we have seen her to be by Isabel and full of appreciation
herself of that free play of intelligence which, to her sense, rendered
Isabel's character a sister-spirit, and of the easy venerableness of Mr.
Touchett, whose noble tone, as she said, met with her full approval--her
situation at Gardencourt would have been perfectly comfortable had she
not conceived an irresistible mistrust of the little lady for whom she
had at first supposed herself obliged to "allow" as mistress of the
house. She presently discovered, in truth, that this obligation was of
the lightest and that Mrs. Touchett cared very little how Miss Stackpole
behaved. Mrs. Touchett had defined her to Isabel as both an adventuress
and a bore--adventuresses usually giving one more of a thrill; she had
expressed some surprise at her niece's having selected such a friend,
yet had immediately added that she knew Isabel's friends were her own
affair and that she had never undertaken to like them all or to restrict
the girl to those she liked.
"If you could see none but the people I like, my dear, you'd have a very
small society," Mrs. Touchett frankly admitted; "and I don't think I
like any man or woman well enough to recommend them to you. When
it comes to recommending it's a serious affair. I don't like Miss
Stackpole--everything about her displeases me; she talks so much
too loud and looks at one as if one wanted to look at her--which one
doesn't. I'm sure she has lived all her life in a boarding-house, and I
detest the manners and the liberties of such places. If you ask me if I
prefer my own manners, which you doubtless think very bad, I'll tell
you that I prefer them immensely. Miss Stackpole knows I detest
boarding-house civilisation, and she detests me for detesting it,
because she thinks it the highest in the world. She'd like Gardencourt a
great deal better if it were a boarding-house. For me, I find it almost
too much of one! We shall never get on together therefore, and there's
no use trying."
Mrs. Touchett was right in guessing that Henrietta disapproved of her,
but she had not quite put her finger on the reason. A day or two after
Miss Stackpole's arrival she had made some invidious reflexions on
American hotels, which excited a vein of counter-argument on the part
of the correspondent of the Interviewer, who in the exercise of her
profession had acquainted herself, in the western world, with every form
of caravansary. Henrietta expressed the opinion that American hotels
were the best in the world, and Mrs. Touchett, fresh from a renewed
struggle with them, recorded a conviction that they were the worst.
Ralph, with his experimental geniality, suggested, by way of healing
the breach, that the truth lay between the two extremes and that the
establishments in question ought to be described as fair middling. This
contribution to the discussion, however, Miss Stackpole rejected with
scorn. Middling indeed! If they were not the best in the world they were
the worst, but there was nothing middling about an American hotel.
"We judge from different points of view, evidently," said Mrs. Touchett.
"I like to be treated as an individual; you like to be treated as a
'party.'"
"I don't know what you mean," Henrietta replied. "I like to be treated
as an American lady."
"Poor American ladies!" cried Mrs. Touchett with a laugh. "They're the
slaves of slaves."
"They're the companions of freemen," Henrietta retorted.
"They're the companions of their servants--the Irish chambermaid and the
negro waiter. They share their work."
"Do you call the domestics in an American household 'slaves'?" Miss
Stackpole enquired. "If that's the way you desire to treat them, no
wonder you don't like America."
"If you've not good servants you're miserable," Mrs. Touchett serenely
said. "They're very bad in America, but I've five perfect ones in
Florence."
"I don't see what you want with five," Henrietta couldn't help
observing. "I don't think I should like to see five persons surrounding
me in that menial position."
"I like them in that position better than in some others," proclaimed
Mrs. Touchett with much meaning.
"Should you like me better if I were your butler, dear?" her husband
asked.
"I don't think I should: you wouldn't at all have the tenue."
"The companions of freemen--I like that, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph.
"It's a beautiful description."
"When I said freemen I didn't mean you, sir!"
And this was the only reward that Ralph got for his compliment. Miss
Stackpole was baffled; she evidently thought there was something
treasonable in Mrs. Touchett's appreciation of a class which she
privately judged to be a mysterious survival of feudalism. It was
perhaps because her mind was oppressed with this image that she suffered
some days to elapse before she took occasion to say to Isabel: "My dear
friend, I wonder if you're growing faithless."
"Faithless? Faithless to you, Henrietta?"
"No, that would be a great pain; but it's not that."
"Faithless to my country then?"
"Ah, that I hope will never be. When I wrote to you from Liverpool I
said I had something particular to tell you. You've never asked me what
it is. Is it because you've suspected?"
"Suspected what? As a rule I don't think I suspect," said Isabel.
"I remember now that phrase in your letter, but I confess I had
forgotten it. What have you to tell me?"
Henrietta looked disappointed, and her steady gaze betrayed it.
"You don't ask that right--as if you thought it important. You're
changed--you're thinking of other things."
"Tell me what you mean, and I'll think of that."
"Will you really think of it? That's what I wish to be sure of."
"I've not much control of my thoughts, but I'll do my best," said
Isabel. Henrietta gazed at her, in silence, for a period which tried
Isabel's patience, so that our heroine added at last: "Do you mean that
you're going to be married?"
"Not till I've seen Europe!" said Miss Stackpole. "What are you laughing
at?" she went on. "What I mean is that Mr. Goodwood came out in the
steamer with me."
"Ah!" Isabel responded.
"You say that right. I had a good deal of talk with him; he has come
after you."
"Did he tell you so?"
"No, he told me nothing; that's how I knew it," said Henrietta cleverly.
"He said very little about you, but I spoke of you a good deal."
Isabel waited. At the mention of Mr. Goodwood's name she had turned a
little pale. "I'm very sorry you did that," she observed at last.
"It was a pleasure to me, and I liked the way he listened. I could have
talked a long time to such a listener; he was so quiet, so intense; he
drank it all in."
"What did you say about me?" Isabel asked.
"I said you were on the whole the finest creature I know."
"I'm very sorry for that. He thinks too well of me already; he oughtn't
to be encouraged."
"He's dying for a little encouragement. I see his face now, and his
earnest absorbed look while I talked. I never saw an ugly man look so
handsome."
"He's very simple-minded," said Isabel. "And he's not so ugly."
"There's nothing so simplifying as a grand passion."
"It's not a grand passion; I'm very sure it's not that."
"You don't say that as if you were sure."
Isabel gave rather a cold smile. "I shall say it better to Mr. Goodwood
himself."
"He'll soon give you a chance," said Henrietta. Isabel offered no
answer to this assertion, which her companion made with an air of great
confidence. "He'll find you changed," the latter pursued. "You've been
affected by your new surroundings."
"Very likely. I'm affected by everything."
"By everything but Mr. Goodwood!" Miss Stackpole exclaimed with a
slightly harsh hilarity.
Isabel failed even to smile back and in a moment she said: "Did he ask
you to speak to me?"
"Not in so many words. But his eyes asked it--and his handshake, when he
bade me good-bye."
"Thank you for doing so." And Isabel turned away.
"Yes, you're changed; you've got new ideas over here," her friend
continued.
"I hope so," said Isabel; "one should get as many new ideas as
possible."
"Yes; but they shouldn't interfere with the old ones when the old ones
have been the right ones."
Isabel turned about again. "If you mean that I had any idea with regard
to Mr. Goodwood--!" But she faltered before her friend's implacable
glitter.
"My dear child, you certainly encouraged him."
Isabel made for the moment as if to deny this charge; instead of which,
however, she presently answered: "It's very true. I did encourage him."
And then she asked if her companion had learned from Mr. Goodwood
what he intended to do. It was a concession to her curiosity, for she
disliked discussing the subject and found Henrietta wanting in delicacy.
"I asked him, and he said he meant to do nothing," Miss Stackpole
answered. "But I don't believe that; he's not a man to do nothing. He
is a man of high, bold action. Whatever happens to him he'll always do
something, and whatever he does will always be right."
"I quite believe that." Henrietta might be wanting in delicacy, but it
touched the girl, all the same, to hear this declaration.
"Ah, you do care for him!" her visitor rang out.
"Whatever he does will always be right," Isabel repeated. "When a man's
of that infallible mould what does it matter to him what one feels?"
"It may not matter to him, but it matters to one's self."
"Ah, what it matters to me--that's not what we're discussing," said
Isabel with a cold smile.
This time her companion was grave. "Well, I don't care; you have
changed. You're not the girl you were a few short weeks ago, and Mr.
Goodwood will see it. I expect him here any day."
"I hope he'll hate me then," said Isabel.
"I believe you hope it about as much as I believe him capable of it."
To this observation our heroine made no return; she was absorbed in the
alarm given her by Henrietta's intimation that Caspar Goodwood would
present himself at Gardencourt. She pretended to herself, however,
that she thought the event impossible, and, later, she communicated her
disbelief to her friend. For the next forty-eight hours, nevertheless,
she stood prepared to hear the young man's name announced. The feeling
pressed upon her; it made the air sultry, as if there were to be a
change of weather; and the weather, socially speaking, had been so
agreeable during Isabel's stay at Gardencourt that any change would be
for the worse. Her suspense indeed was dissipated the second day. She
had walked into the park in company with the sociable Bunchie, and
after strolling about for some time, in a manner at once listless and
restless, had seated herself on a garden-bench, within sight of the
house, beneath a spreading beech, where, in a white dress ornamented
with black ribbons, she formed among the flickering shadows a graceful
and harmonious image. She entertained herself for some moments with
talking to the little terrier, as to whom the proposal of an ownership
divided with her cousin had been applied as impartially as possible--as
impartially as Bunchie's own somewhat fickle and inconstant sympathies
would allow. But she was notified for the first time, on this occasion,
of the finite character of Bunchie's intellect; hitherto she had been
mainly struck with its extent. It seemed to her at last that she would
do well to take a book; formerly, when heavy-hearted, she had been
able, with the help of some well-chosen volume, to transfer the seat
of consciousness to the organ of pure reason. Of late, it was not to
be denied, literature had seemed a fading light, and even after she had
reminded herself that her uncle's library was provided with a complete
set of those authors which no gentleman's collection should be without,
she sat motionless and empty-handed, her eyes bent on the cool green
turf of the lawn. Her meditations were presently interrupted by the
arrival of a servant who handed her a letter. The letter bore the
London postmark and was addressed in a hand she knew--that came into her
vision, already so held by him, with the vividness of the writer's voice
or his face. This document proved short and may be given entire.
MY DEAR MISS ARCHER--I don't know whether you will have heard of my
coming to England, but even if you have not it will scarcely be a
surprise to you. You will remember that when you gave me my dismissal at
Albany, three months ago, I did not accept it. I protested against it.
You in fact appeared to accept my protest and to admit that I had the
right on my side. I had come to see you with the hope that you would
let me bring you over to my conviction; my reasons for entertaining this
hope had been of the best. But you disappointed it; I found you changed,
and you were able to give me no reason for the change. You admitted that
you were unreasonable, and it was the only concession you would make;
but it was a very cheap one, because that's not your character. No, you
are not, and you never will be, arbitrary or capricious. Therefore it is
that I believe you will let me see you again. You told me that I'm not
disagreeable to you, and I believe it; for I don't see why that should
be. I shall always think of you; I shall never think of any one else.
I came to England simply because you are here; I couldn't stay at home
after you had gone: I hated the country because you were not in it. If
I like this country at present it is only because it holds you. I have
been to England before, but have never enjoyed it much. May I not come
and see you for half an hour? This at present is the dearest wish of
yours faithfully,
CASPAR GOODWOOD.
Isabel read this missive with such deep attention that she had not
perceived an approaching tread on the soft grass. Looking up, however,
as she mechanically folded it she saw Lord Warburton standing before
her.
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of
welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her
coolness.
"They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "and as there
was no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, I
came out with no more ado."
Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not
sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."
"Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from
Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendly
and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of
good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's
first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June
weather.
"We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not divest
herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who
wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about
it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on
that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of
several elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed
spent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the
pleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" to her from
the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both
precipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if
the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of
the former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial
magnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her
charms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with it
really more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong
impression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself in
examining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence
of her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments
when this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her an
aggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree of
an inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been no
personages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such at
all in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence she
had thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what one
might like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was a
character--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto her
visions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largely
with moral images--things as to which the question would be whether they
pleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely
and brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not to
be measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of
appreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging
quickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to
demand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to
do. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate
had conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he
rather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious,
but persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtually
she had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things
besides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that
a girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it
would be very interesting to see something of his system from his own
point of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently a
great deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of every
hour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupid
which would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man lately
come from America who had no system at all, but who had a character
of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the
impression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in
her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,
however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany who
debated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offered
himself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do
better. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great
deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have the
satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only
at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a direct
appeal to charity.
Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that
Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air
of being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was,
nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside
her for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know
it, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected
laughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may return
to it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people in
the world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was
about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displease
a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommend
it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer
country across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents,
her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as they
were generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant.
Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies
a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about
twenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--the
perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the
most liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as
exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had
looked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from
his thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his
buttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of
a lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable
to his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not
discredited by irritating associations.
"I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed her
companion's hesitancy.
"It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me
here."
"Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more sure
that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him
if he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he
proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a
few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old
English country-house, with the foreground embellished by a "great" (as
she supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on
careful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with
herself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded
scarcely the less in looking at it from the outside.
"I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only for
you."
"You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I
can't believe you're serious."
These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt
whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of
which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would
have excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if
anything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton
was not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in
which he replied would quite have served the purpose.
"One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer;
it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it
would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I
am to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression dates
from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you
then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a
fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two
days I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I was
doing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the greatest possible
attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon
me. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you went
away--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it
over and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've
done nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a very
judicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's
for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburton
repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever
heard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion
that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat,
the violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a
windless place.
By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly,
and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, how
little you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her
hand away.
"Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappy
enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seems
to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall know
you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be able
to say it's from ignorance."
"If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel.
"You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah,
of course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do,
how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me
rather, don't you?"
"I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this moment
she liked him immensely.
"I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a
stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life
very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in which
I offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the
people who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me."
"I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel.
"Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself."
"Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with
the pleasure of feeling she did.
The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a
long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose
all I possess!"
She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and,
on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as he
would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the
memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering
his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind
was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it
was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What
she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say
something if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His
words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so
mysteriously, matter to him. "I thank you more than I can say for your
offer," she returned at last. "It does me great honour."
"Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say something
like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. I
don't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you for
listening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such
a thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must tell you that
I'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you've
listened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope."
"Don't hope too much," Isabel said.
"Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his
seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play
of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.
"Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at
all?" Isabel asked.
"Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that;
it would be a feeling very much worse."
Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very sure
that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should
know you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that you
wouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of
conventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere."
"I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.
"It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question."
"I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as
long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait a
long time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on
your answer."
"I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel.
"Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence
than a bad one to-day."
"But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be able
to give you one that you'd think good."
"Why not, since you really like me?"
"Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel.
"Well then, I don't see what more you ask!"
"It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suit
you; I really don't think I should."
"You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a better
royalist than the king."
"It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry any
one."
"Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin that
way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least
believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "But
they're frequently persuaded."
"Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed. Her
suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence.
"I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate," he
said presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own
country."
Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never
occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial
prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?"
"I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans
generally."
"He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England."
Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but
which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outward
felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a
restricted view.
It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: "Ah,
my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, you
know! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little."
"Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it this
way."
"Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your
objection to what I propose."
"I'm afraid I can't make you understand."
"You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you
afraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.
You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."
These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the
embrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in her
face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange
gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at
that moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: "Lord
Warburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world,
I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." But
though she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move
back into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in
a vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was not the greatest
she could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was
something very different--something that deferred the need of really
facing her crisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more
about this to-day."
"Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you for
the world."
"You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it
justice."
"That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember how
absolutely my happiness is in your hands."
Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said
after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is some
way of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting you
know it without making you miserable."
"There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuse
me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall
live to no purpose."
"You'll live to marry a better woman than I."
"Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely. "That's fair
to neither of us."
"To marry a worse one then."
"If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all I
can say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no accounting
for tastes."
His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again
requesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll speak to you
myself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you."
"At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take, it must
seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that."
"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a
little."
He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his
hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. "Do
you know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?"
Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made
her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his
look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have
appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.
His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty
of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured.
"I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."
"Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." And
then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of
Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said
and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of
curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more,"
he went on. "You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's
damp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of
it. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined;
it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn't
dream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; there
are plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don't
like a moat, you know. Good-bye."
"I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."
He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment long
enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still
agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he
walked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.
Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would
have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great
difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the
question. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support
any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that
she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining.
She must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was
comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it
struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so
little to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever qualifications
one would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the
situation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, might
contain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne;
but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of
twenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then
upon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she,
what was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view of
life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that
pretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If she
wouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she must
do something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself from
time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be
more sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: the
isolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a
desert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her accepting
Lord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was so
conscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was the
very softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too
much to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there was
a fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he saw
it--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it;
and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to
criticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him
she would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, she
wandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself in
meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. But
this was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard,
priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going rather
quickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, really
frightened at herself.
| Isabel is aware that Lord Warburton has arrived with some intention, and she feels curious about this intention at the same time she wishes to elude this intention. Although the narrator does not tell us so, it is obvious that Lord Warburton is about to propose marriage to her. She perceives Lord Warburton as "looming up before her" and he appears to demand something of her, as if he is about to draw her into the orbit of the system in which he lives. Her instinct tells her to resist though, especially because she has a system of her own. She also notes that Caspar Goodwood is a man with no system at all, even though he has certain definite intentions with her. Meanwhile, Lord Warburton seems somewhat embarrassed. He was about to do something that would shock all his countrymen, even though he has only been in Isabel's company for 26 hours. Lord Warburton tells her he's in love with her, and that he will be forever. Isabel claims that he does not know her at all. He tells her if she is his wife, he will come to know her. She tells him that she believes in him, and does not need the recommendation of his friends to do so. But then, she thanks him for his offer. He tells her that this gives him some hope that she will come to accept him eventually. She tells him not to hope. She is sure that her opinion of him can only rise, but that his opinion of her will only lower with time. Isabel tells him she is refusing him not because she dislikes him, but because it's about what she herself can give to the marriage. Further, she is not sure that she ever wishes to marry anyone. Isabel feels that she would give her little finger to have the impulse to accept Lord Warburton's proposal; she wishes she could believe it was the best possible opportunity she could have. However, she feels like a "wild, caught creature in a vast cage" when presented with this opportunity. This opportunity was not the greatest she could conceive of. Isabel tells him finally that he ought not to bring up the subject today again, and that she only needs time to think of some way to let him know that what he asks is impossible. Lord Warburton tells her he will live without purpose if she rejects him, and she protests that he will marry a better woman than she. She tells him that she only wants to collect her mind a little, and he responds that he is afraid of her "remarkable" mind. She responds, "So am I, my lord. As he leaves, Isabel feels that there had been no great difficult choice, as she simply could not have married him. The idea failed to support any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining" | summary |
She put the letter into her pocket and offered her visitor a smile of
welcome, exhibiting no trace of discomposure and half surprised at her
coolness.
"They told me you were out here," said Lord Warburton; "and as there
was no one in the drawing-room and it's really you that I wish to see, I
came out with no more ado."
Isabel had got up; she felt a wish, for the moment, that he should not
sit down beside her. "I was just going indoors."
"Please don't do that; it's much jollier here; I've ridden over from
Lockleigh; it's a lovely day." His smile was peculiarly friendly
and pleasing, and his whole person seemed to emit that radiance of
good-feeling and good fare which had formed the charm of the girl's
first impression of him. It surrounded him like a zone of fine June
weather.
"We'll walk about a little then," said Isabel, who could not divest
herself of the sense of an intention on the part of her visitor and who
wished both to elude the intention and to satisfy her curiosity about
it. It had flashed upon her vision once before, and it had given her on
that occasion, as we know, a certain alarm. This alarm was composed of
several elements, not all of which were disagreeable; she had indeed
spent some days in analysing them and had succeeded in separating the
pleasant part of the idea of Lord Warburton's "making up" to her from
the painful. It may appear to some readers that the young lady was both
precipitate and unduly fastidious; but the latter of these facts, if
the charge be true, may serve to exonerate her from the discredit of
the former. She was not eager to convince herself that a territorial
magnate, as she had heard Lord Warburton called, was smitten with her
charms; the fact of a declaration from such a source carrying with it
really more questions than it would answer. She had received a strong
impression of his being a "personage," and she had occupied herself in
examining the image so conveyed. At the risk of adding to the evidence
of her self-sufficiency it must be said that there had been moments
when this possibility of admiration by a personage represented to her an
aggression almost to the degree of an affront, quite to the degree of
an inconvenience. She had never yet known a personage; there had been no
personages, in this sense, in her life; there were probably none such at
all in her native land. When she had thought of individual eminence she
had thought of it on the basis of character and wit--of what one
might like in a gentleman's mind and in his talk. She herself was a
character--she couldn't help being aware of that; and hitherto her
visions of a completed consciousness had concerned themselves largely
with moral images--things as to which the question would be whether they
pleased her sublime soul. Lord Warburton loomed up before her, largely
and brightly, as a collection of attributes and powers which were not to
be measured by this simple rule, but which demanded a different sort of
appreciation--an appreciation that the girl, with her habit of judging
quickly and freely, felt she lacked patience to bestow. He appeared to
demand of her something that no one else, as it were, had presumed to
do. What she felt was that a territorial, a political, a social magnate
had conceived the design of drawing her into the system in which he
rather invidiously lived and moved. A certain instinct, not imperious,
but persuasive, told her to resist--murmured to her that virtually
she had a system and an orbit of her own. It told her other things
besides--things which both contradicted and confirmed each other; that
a girl might do much worse than trust herself to such a man and that it
would be very interesting to see something of his system from his own
point of view; that on the other hand, however, there was evidently a
great deal of it which she should regard only as a complication of every
hour, and that even in the whole there was something stiff and stupid
which would make it a burden. Furthermore there was a young man lately
come from America who had no system at all, but who had a character
of which it was useless for her to try to persuade herself that the
impression on her mind had been light. The letter she carried in
her pocket all sufficiently reminded her of the contrary. Smile not,
however, I venture to repeat, at this simple young woman from Albany who
debated whether she should accept an English peer before he had offered
himself and who was disposed to believe that on the whole she could do
better. She was a person of great good faith, and if there was a great
deal of folly in her wisdom those who judge her severely may have the
satisfaction of finding that, later, she became consistently wise only
at the cost of an amount of folly which will constitute almost a direct
appeal to charity.
Lord Warburton seemed quite ready to walk, to sit or to do anything that
Isabel should propose, and he gave her this assurance with his usual air
of being particularly pleased to exercise a social virtue. But he was,
nevertheless, not in command of his emotions, and as he strolled beside
her for a moment, in silence, looking at her without letting her know
it, there was something embarrassed in his glance and his misdirected
laughter. Yes, assuredly--as we have touched on the point, we may return
to it for a moment again--the English are the most romantic people in
the world and Lord Warburton was about to give an example of it. He was
about to take a step which would astonish all his friends and displease
a great many of them, and which had superficially nothing to recommend
it. The young lady who trod the turf beside him had come from a queer
country across the sea which he knew a good deal about; her antecedents,
her associations were very vague to his mind except in so far as they
were generic, and in this sense they showed as distinct and unimportant.
Miss Archer had neither a fortune nor the sort of beauty that justifies
a man to the multitude, and he calculated that he had spent about
twenty-six hours in her company. He had summed up all this--the
perversity of the impulse, which had declined to avail itself of the
most liberal opportunities to subside, and the judgement of mankind, as
exemplified particularly in the more quickly-judging half of it: he had
looked these things well in the face and then had dismissed them from
his thoughts. He cared no more for them than for the rosebud in his
buttonhole. It is the good fortune of a man who for the greater part of
a lifetime has abstained without effort from making himself disagreeable
to his friends, that when the need comes for such a course it is not
discredited by irritating associations.
"I hope you had a pleasant ride," said Isabel, who observed her
companion's hesitancy.
"It would have been pleasant if for nothing else than that it brought me
here."
"Are you so fond of Gardencourt?" the girl asked, more and more sure
that he meant to make some appeal to her; wishing not to challenge him
if he hesitated, and yet to keep all the quietness of her reason if he
proceeded. It suddenly came upon her that her situation was one which a
few weeks ago she would have deemed deeply romantic: the park of an old
English country-house, with the foreground embellished by a "great" (as
she supposed) nobleman in the act of making love to a young lady who, on
careful inspection, should be found to present remarkable analogies with
herself. But if she was now the heroine of the situation she succeeded
scarcely the less in looking at it from the outside.
"I care nothing for Gardencourt," said her companion. "I care only for
you."
"You've known me too short a time to have a right to say that, and I
can't believe you're serious."
These words of Isabel's were not perfectly sincere, for she had no doubt
whatever that he himself was. They were simply a tribute to the fact, of
which she was perfectly aware, that those he had just uttered would
have excited surprise on the part of a vulgar world. And, moreover, if
anything beside the sense she had already acquired that Lord Warburton
was not a loose thinker had been needed to convince her, the tone in
which he replied would quite have served the purpose.
"One's right in such a matter is not measured by the time, Miss Archer;
it's measured by the feeling itself. If I were to wait three months it
would make no difference; I shall not be more sure of what I mean than I
am to-day. Of course I've seen you very little, but my impression dates
from the very first hour we met. I lost no time, I fell in love with you
then. It was at first sight, as the novels say; I know now that's not a
fancy-phrase, and I shall think better of novels for evermore. Those two
days I spent here settled it; I don't know whether you suspected I was
doing so, but I paid-mentally speaking I mean--the greatest possible
attention to you. Nothing you said, nothing you did, was lost upon
me. When you came to Lockleigh the other day--or rather when you went
away--I was perfectly sure. Nevertheless I made up my mind to think it
over and to question myself narrowly. I've done so; all these days I've
done nothing else. I don't make mistakes about such things; I'm a very
judicious animal. I don't go off easily, but when I'm touched, it's
for life. It's for life, Miss Archer, it's for life," Lord Warburton
repeated in the kindest, tenderest, pleasantest voice Isabel had ever
heard, and looking at her with eyes charged with the light of a passion
that had sifted itself clear of the baser parts of emotion--the heat,
the violence, the unreason--and that burned as steadily as a lamp in a
windless place.
By tacit consent, as he talked, they had walked more and more slowly,
and at last they stopped and he took her hand. "Ah, Lord Warburton, how
little you know me!" Isabel said very gently. Gently too she drew her
hand away.
"Don't taunt me with that; that I don't know you better makes me unhappy
enough already; it's all my loss. But that's what I want, and it seems
to me I'm taking the best way. If you'll be my wife, then I shall know
you, and when I tell you all the good I think of you you'll not be able
to say it's from ignorance."
"If you know me little I know you even less," said Isabel.
"You mean that, unlike yourself, I may not improve on acquaintance? Ah,
of course that's very possible. But think, to speak to you as I do,
how determined I must be to try and give satisfaction! You do like me
rather, don't you?"
"I like you very much, Lord Warburton," she answered; and at this moment
she liked him immensely.
"I thank you for saying that; it shows you don't regard me as a
stranger. I really believe I've filled all the other relations of life
very creditably, and I don't see why I shouldn't fill this one--in which
I offer myself to you--seeing that I care so much more about it. Ask the
people who know me well; I've friends who'll speak for me."
"I don't need the recommendation of your friends," said Isabel.
"Ah now, that's delightful of you. You believe in me yourself."
"Completely," Isabel declared. She quite glowed there, inwardly, with
the pleasure of feeling she did.
The light in her companion's eyes turned into a smile, and he gave a
long exhalation of joy. "If you're mistaken, Miss Archer, let me lose
all I possess!"
She wondered whether he meant this for a reminder that he was rich, and,
on the instant, felt sure that he didn't. He was thinking that, as he
would have said himself; and indeed he might safely leave it to the
memory of any interlocutor, especially of one to whom he was offering
his hand. Isabel had prayed that she might not be agitated, and her mind
was tranquil enough, even while she listened and asked herself what it
was best she should say, to indulge in this incidental criticism. What
she should say, had she asked herself? Her foremost wish was to say
something if possible not less kind than what he had said to her. His
words had carried perfect conviction with them; she felt she did, all so
mysteriously, matter to him. "I thank you more than I can say for your
offer," she returned at last. "It does me great honour."
"Ah, don't say that!" he broke out. "I was afraid you'd say something
like that. I don't see what you've to do with that sort of thing. I
don't see why you should thank me--it's I who ought to thank you for
listening to me: a man you know so little coming down on you with such
a thumper! Of course it's a great question; I must tell you that
I'd rather ask it than have it to answer myself. But the way you've
listened--or at least your having listened at all--gives me some hope."
"Don't hope too much," Isabel said.
"Oh Miss Archer!" her companion murmured, smiling again, in his
seriousness, as if such a warning might perhaps be taken but as the play
of high spirits, the exuberance of elation.
"Should you be greatly surprised if I were to beg you not to hope at
all?" Isabel asked.
"Surprised? I don't know what you mean by surprise. It wouldn't be that;
it would be a feeling very much worse."
Isabel walked on again; she was silent for some minutes. "I'm very sure
that, highly as I already think of you, my opinion of you, if I should
know you well, would only rise. But I'm by no means sure that you
wouldn't be disappointed. And I say that not in the least out of
conventional modesty; it's perfectly sincere."
"I'm willing to risk it, Miss Archer," her companion replied.
"It's a great question, as you say. It's a very difficult question."
"I don't expect you of course to answer it outright. Think it over as
long as may be necessary. If I can gain by waiting I'll gladly wait a
long time. Only remember that in the end my dearest happiness depends on
your answer."
"I should be very sorry to keep you in suspense," said Isabel.
"Oh, don't mind. I'd much rather have a good answer six months hence
than a bad one to-day."
"But it's very probable that even six months hence I shouldn't be able
to give you one that you'd think good."
"Why not, since you really like me?"
"Ah, you must never doubt that," said Isabel.
"Well then, I don't see what more you ask!"
"It's not what I ask; it's what I can give. I don't think I should suit
you; I really don't think I should."
"You needn't worry about that. That's my affair. You needn't be a better
royalist than the king."
"It's not only that," said Isabel; "but I'm not sure I wish to marry any
one."
"Very likely you don't. I've no doubt a great many women begin that
way," said his lordship, who, be it averred, did not in the least
believe in the axiom he thus beguiled his anxiety by uttering. "But
they're frequently persuaded."
"Ah, that's because they want to be!" And Isabel lightly laughed. Her
suitor's countenance fell, and he looked at her for a while in silence.
"I'm afraid it's my being an Englishman that makes you hesitate," he
said presently. "I know your uncle thinks you ought to marry in your own
country."
Isabel listened to this assertion with some interest; it had never
occurred to her that Mr. Touchett was likely to discuss her matrimonial
prospects with Lord Warburton. "Has he told you that?"
"I remember his making the remark. He spoke perhaps of Americans
generally."
"He appears himself to have found it very pleasant to live in England."
Isabel spoke in a manner that might have seemed a little perverse, but
which expressed both her constant perception of her uncle's outward
felicity and her general disposition to elude any obligation to take a
restricted view.
It gave her companion hope, and he immediately cried with warmth: "Ah,
my dear Miss Archer, old England's a very good sort of country, you
know! And it will be still better when we've furbished it up a little."
"Oh, don't furbish it, Lord Warburton--, leave it alone. I like it this
way."
"Well then, if you like it, I'm more and more unable to see your
objection to what I propose."
"I'm afraid I can't make you understand."
"You ought at least to try. I've a fair intelligence. Are you
afraid--afraid of the climate? We can easily live elsewhere, you know.
You can pick out your climate, the whole world over."
These words were uttered with a breadth of candour that was like the
embrace of strong arms--that was like the fragrance straight in her
face, and by his clean, breathing lips, of she knew not what strange
gardens, what charged airs. She would have given her little finger at
that moment to feel strongly and simply the impulse to answer: "Lord
Warburton, it's impossible for me to do better in this wonderful world,
I think, than commit myself, very gratefully, to your loyalty." But
though she was lost in admiration of her opportunity she managed to move
back into the deepest shade of it, even as some wild, caught creature in
a vast cage. The "splendid" security so offered her was not the greatest
she could conceive. What she finally bethought herself of saying was
something very different--something that deferred the need of really
facing her crisis. "Don't think me unkind if I ask you to say no more
about this to-day."
"Certainly, certainly!" her companion cried. "I wouldn't bore you for
the world."
"You've given me a great deal to think about, and I promise you to do it
justice."
"That's all I ask of you, of course--and that you'll remember how
absolutely my happiness is in your hands."
Isabel listened with extreme respect to this admonition, but she said
after a minute: "I must tell you that what I shall think about is some
way of letting you know that what you ask is impossible--letting you
know it without making you miserable."
"There's no way to do that, Miss Archer. I won't say that if you refuse
me you'll kill me; I shall not die of it. But I shall do worse; I shall
live to no purpose."
"You'll live to marry a better woman than I."
"Don't say that, please," said Lord Warburton very gravely. "That's fair
to neither of us."
"To marry a worse one then."
"If there are better women than you I prefer the bad ones. That's all I
can say," he went on with the same earnestness. "There's no accounting
for tastes."
His gravity made her feel equally grave, and she showed it by again
requesting him to drop the subject for the present. "I'll speak to you
myself--very soon. Perhaps I shall write to you."
"At your convenience, yes," he replied. "Whatever time you take, it must
seem to me long, and I suppose I must make the best of that."
"I shall not keep you in suspense; I only want to collect my mind a
little."
He gave a melancholy sigh and stood looking at her a moment, with his
hands behind him, giving short nervous shakes to his hunting-crop. "Do
you know I'm very much afraid of it--of that remarkable mind of yours?"
Our heroine's biographer can scarcely tell why, but the question made
her start and brought a conscious blush to her cheek. She returned his
look a moment, and then with a note in her voice that might almost have
appealed to his compassion, "So am I, my lord!" she oddly exclaimed.
His compassion was not stirred, however; all he possessed of the faculty
of pity was needed at home. "Ah! be merciful, be merciful," he murmured.
"I think you had better go," said Isabel. "I'll write to you."
"Very good; but whatever you write I'll come and see you, you know." And
then he stood reflecting, his eyes fixed on the observant countenance of
Bunchie, who had the air of having understood all that had been said
and of pretending to carry off the indiscretion by a simulated fit of
curiosity as to the roots of an ancient oak. "There's one thing more,"
he went on. "You know, if you don't like Lockleigh--if you think it's
damp or anything of that sort--you need never go within fifty miles of
it. It's not damp, by the way; I've had the house thoroughly examined;
it's perfectly safe and right. But if you shouldn't fancy it you needn't
dream of living in it. There's no difficulty whatever about that; there
are plenty of houses. I thought I'd just mention it; some people don't
like a moat, you know. Good-bye."
"I adore a moat," said Isabel. "Good-bye."
He held out his hand, and she gave him hers a moment--a moment long
enough for him to bend his handsome bared head and kiss it. Then, still
agitating, in his mastered emotion, his implement of the chase, he
walked rapidly away. He was evidently much upset.
Isabel herself was upset, but she had not been affected as she would
have imagined. What she felt was not a great responsibility, a great
difficulty of choice; it appeared to her there had been no choice in the
question. She couldn't marry Lord Warburton; the idea failed to support
any enlightened prejudice in favour of the free exploration of life that
she had hitherto entertained or was now capable of entertaining.
She must write this to him, she must convince him, and that duty was
comparatively simple. But what disturbed her, in the sense that it
struck her with wonderment, was this very fact that it cost her so
little to refuse a magnificent "chance." With whatever qualifications
one would, Lord Warburton had offered her a great opportunity; the
situation might have discomforts, might contain oppressive, might
contain narrowing elements, might prove really but a stupefying anodyne;
but she did her sex no injustice in believing that nineteen women out of
twenty would have accommodated themselves to it without a pang. Why then
upon her also should it not irresistibly impose itself? Who was she,
what was she, that she should hold herself superior? What view of
life, what design upon fate, what conception of happiness, had she that
pretended to be larger than these large these fabulous occasions? If she
wouldn't do such a thing as that then she must do great things, she must
do something greater. Poor Isabel found ground to remind herself from
time to time that she must not be too proud, and nothing could be
more sincere than her prayer to be delivered from such a danger: the
isolation and loneliness of pride had for her mind the horror of a
desert place. If it had been pride that interfered with her accepting
Lord Warburton such a betise was singularly misplaced; and she was so
conscious of liking him that she ventured to assure herself it was the
very softness, and the fine intelligence, of sympathy. She liked him too
much to marry him, that was the truth; something assured her there was
a fallacy somewhere in the glowing logic of the proposition--as he saw
it--even though she mightn't put her very finest finger-point on it;
and to inflict upon a man who offered so much a wife with a tendency to
criticise would be a peculiarly discreditable act. She had promised him
she would consider his question, and when, after he had left her, she
wandered back to the bench where he had found her and lost herself in
meditation, it might have seemed that she was keeping her vow. But
this was not the case; she was wondering if she were not a cold, hard,
priggish person, and, on her at last getting up and going rather
quickly back to the house, felt, as she had said to her friend, really
frightened at herself.
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
It was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice--she had no desire
whatever for that--that led her to speak to her uncle of what had taken
place. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more natural,
more human, and her uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in a
more attractive light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her
cousin of course was a possible confidant; but she would have had to do
herself violence to air this special secret to Ralph. So the next day,
after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never left his
apartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, as he said,
in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class
so designated, which, for the rest, included the old man's son, his
physician, his personal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett
did not figure in the list, and this was an obstacle the less to
Isabel's finding her host alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical
chair, at the open window of his room, looking westward over the park
and the river, with his newspapers and letters piled up beside him,
his toilet freshly and minutely made, and his smooth, speculative face
composed to benevolent expectation.
She approached her point directly. "I think I ought to let you know that
Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I ought to tell my
aunt; but it seems best to tell you first."
The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the confidence
she showed him. "Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him?" he
then enquired.
"I've not answered him definitely yet; I've taken a little time to think
of it, because that seems more respectful. But I shall not accept him."
Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air of thinking that,
whatever interest he might take in the matter from the point of view of
sociability, he had no active voice in it. "Well, I told you you'd be a
success over here. Americans are highly appreciated."
"Very highly indeed," said Isabel. "But at the cost of seeming both
tasteless and ungrateful, I don't think I can marry Lord Warburton."
"Well," her uncle went on, "of course an old man can't judge for a young
lady. I'm glad you didn't ask me before you made up your mind. I suppose
I ought to tell you," he added slowly, but as if it were not of much
consequence, "that I've known all about it these three days."
"About Lord Warburton's state of mind?"
"About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant
letter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see his letter?"
the old man obligingly asked.
"Thank you; I don't think I care about that. But I'm glad he wrote to
you; it was right that he should, and he would be certain to do what was
right."
"Ah well, I guess you do like him!" Mr. Touchett declared. "You needn't
pretend you don't."
"I like him extremely; I'm very free to admit that. But I don't wish to
marry any one just now."
"You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well,
that's very likely," said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show his
kindness to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and finding
cheerful reasons for it.
"I don't care if I don't meet any one else. I like Lord Warburton quite
well enough." she fell into that appearance of a sudden change of
point of view with which she sometimes startled and even displeased her
interlocutors.
Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these impressions.
"He's a very fine man," he resumed in a tone which might have passed
for that of encouragement. "His letter was one of the pleasantest I've
received for some weeks. I suppose one of the reasons I liked it was
that it was all about you; that is all except the part that was about
himself. I suppose he told you all that."
"He would have told me everything I wished to ask him," Isabel said.
"But you didn't feel curious?"
"My curiosity would have been idle--once I had determined to decline his
offer."
"You didn't find it sufficiently attractive?" Mr. Touchett enquired.
She was silent a little. "I suppose it was that," she presently
admitted. "But I don't know why."
"Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons," said her uncle.
"There's a great deal that's attractive about such an idea; but I don't
see why the English should want to entice us away from our native land.
I know that we try to attract them over there, but that's because our
population is insufficient. Here, you know, they're rather crowded.
However, I presume there's room for charming young ladies everywhere."
"There seems to have been room here for you," said Isabel, whose eyes
had been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park.
Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. "There's room everywhere,
my dear, if you'll pay for it. I sometimes think I've paid too much for
this. Perhaps you also might have to pay too much."
"Perhaps I might," the girl replied.
That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she
had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her
uncle's mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was
concerned with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and
not altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague
ambitions--ambitions reaching beyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal,
reaching to something indefinable and possibly not commendable. In so
far as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour at this
juncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, of a union with
Caspar Goodwood; for however she might have resisted conquest at her
English suitor's large quiet hands she was at least as far removed
from the disposition to let the young man from Boston take positive
possession of her. The sentiment in which She sought refuge after
reading his letter was a critical view of his having come abroad; for it
was part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed to deprive her
of the sense of freedom. There was a disagreeably strong push, a kind
of hardness of presence, in his way of rising before her. She had been
haunted at moments by the image, by the danger, of his disapproval and
had wondered--a consideration she had never paid in equal degree to any
one else--whether he would like what she did. The difficulty was that
more than any man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she
had begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar
Goodwood expressed for her an energy--and she had already felt it as a
power that was of his very nature. It was in no degree a matter of
his "advantages"--it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his
clear-burning eyes like some tireless watcher at a window. She might
like it or not, but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force:
even in one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that. The
idea of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at
present, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her
independence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe and
yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed to range
himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest fact she knew;
she said to herself at such moments that she might evade him for a time,
but that she must make terms with him at last--terms which would be
certain to be favourable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail
herself of the things that helped her to resist such an obligation;
and this impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her
aunt's invitation, which had come to her at an hour when she expected
from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood and when she was glad to have an
answer ready for something she was sure he would say to her. When she
had told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that
she couldn't then discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by
the great immediate opening of her aunt's offer of "Europe," he declared
that this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtain a better one
that he was following her across the sea. To say to herself that he was
a kind of grim fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was
able to take much for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a
nearer and a clearer view.
He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in
Massachusetts--a gentleman who had accumulated a considerable fortune in
the exercise of this industry. Caspar at present managed the works, and
with a judgement and a temper which, in spite of keen competition and
languid years, had kept their prosperity from dwindling. He had received
the better part of his education at Harvard College, where, however, he
had gained renown rather as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a gleaner
of more dispersed knowledge. Later on he had learned that the finer
intelligence too could vault and pull and strain--might even, breaking
the record, treat itself to rare exploits. He had thus discovered in
himself a sharp eye for the mystery of mechanics, and had invented an
improvement in the cotton-spinning process which was now largely used
and was known by his name. You might have seen it in the newspapers in
connection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he
had given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York
Interviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwood patent--an article not
prepared by Miss Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his
more sentimental interests. There were intricate, bristling things he
rejoiced in; he liked to organise, to contend, to administer; he could
make people work his will, believe in him, march before him and justify
him. This was the art, as they said, of managing men--which rested, in
him, further, on a bold though brooding ambition. It struck those
who knew him well that he might do greater things than carry on a
cotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and
his friends took for granted that he would somehow and somewhere
write himself in bigger letters. But it was as if something large and
confused, something dark and ugly, would have to call upon him: he was
not after all in harmony with mere smug peace and greed and gain, an
order of things of which the vital breath was ubiquitous advertisement.
It pleased Isabel to believe that he might have ridden, on a plunging
steed, the whirlwind of a great war--a war like the Civil strife that
had overdarkened her conscious childhood and his ripening youth.
She liked at any rate this idea of his being by character and in fact a
mover of men--liked it much better than some other points in his nature
and aspect. She cared nothing for his cotton-mill--the Goodwood patent
left her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him no ounce less of
his manhood, but she sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if he
looked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too square and
set and his figure too straight and stiff: these things suggested a want
of easy consonance with the deeper rhythms of life. Then she viewed with
reserve a habit he had of dressing always in the same manner; it was
not apparently that he wore the same clothes continually, for, on the
contrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new. But they all
seemed of the same piece; the figure, the stuff, was so drearily usual.
She had reminded herself more than once that this was a frivolous
objection to a person of his importance; and then she had amended the
rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection only if she
were in love with him. She was not in love with him and therefore might
criticise his small defects as well as his great--which latter consisted
in the collective reproach of his being too serious, or, rather, not of
his being so, since one could never be, but certainly of his seeming so.
He showed his appetites and designs too simply and artlessly; when one
was alone with him he talked too much about the same subject, and when
other people were present he talked too little about anything. And yet
he was of supremely strong, clean make--which was so much she saw the
different fitted parts of him as she had seen, in museums and portraits,
the different fitted parts of armoured warriors--in plates of steel
handsomely inlaid with gold. It was very strange: where, ever, was any
tangible link between her impression and her act? Caspar Goodwood had
never corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and she supposed
that this was why he left her so harshly critical. When, however, Lord
Warburton, who not only did correspond with it, but gave an extension to
the term, appealed to her approval, she found herself still unsatisfied.
It was certainly strange.
The sense of her incoherence was not a help to answering Mr. Goodwood's
letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while unhonoured. If he
had determined to persecute her he must take the consequences; foremost
among which was his being left to perceive how little it charmed her
that he should come down to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the
incursions of one suitor at this place, and though it might be pleasant
to be appreciated in opposite quarters there was a kind of grossness in
entertaining two such passionate pleaders at once, even in a case where
the entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She made no
reply to Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord
Warburton, and the letter belongs to our history.
DEAR LORD WARBURTON--A great deal of earnest thought has not led me to
change my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make me the
other day. I am not, I am really and truly not, able to regard you
in the light of a companion for life; or to think of your home--your
various homes--as the settled seat of my existence. These things cannot
be reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to
the subject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from our own
point of view; that is the privilege of the weakest and humblest of us;
and I shall never be able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly
let this suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given
your proposal the deeply respectful consideration it deserves. It is
with this very great regard that I remain sincerely yours,
ISABEL ARCHER.
While the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it
Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was accompanied by no demur.
She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and
when he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to
testify to his high expectations, she informed him that she had a favour
to ask of him. It may be admitted that at this information the young man
flinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as apt to push
an advantage. The alarm was unreasoned, however; for he was clear about
the area of her indiscretion as little as advised of its vertical depth,
and he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He
was afraid of her and presently told her so. "When you look at me in a
certain way my knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I'm filled
with trepidation and I ask only for strength to execute your commands.
You've an address that I've never encountered in any woman."
"Well," Henrietta replied good-humouredly, "if I had not known before
that you were trying somehow to abash me I should know it now. Of course
I'm easy game--I was brought up with such different customs and ideas.
I'm not used to your arbitrary standards, and I've never been spoken to
in America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with me
over there were to speak to me like that I shouldn't know what to make
of it. We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all,
we're a great deal more simple. I admit that; I'm very simple myself.
Of course if you choose to laugh at me for it you're very welcome; but I
think on the whole I would rather be myself than you. I'm quite content
to be myself; I don't want to change. There are plenty of people that
appreciate me just as I am. It's true they're nice fresh free-born
Americans!" Henrietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence
and large concession. "I want you to assist me a little," she went on.
"I don't care in the least whether I amuse you while you do so; or,
rather, I'm perfectly willing your amusement should be your reward. I
want you to help me about Isabel."
"Has she injured you?" Ralph asked.
"If she had I shouldn't mind, and I should never tell you. What I'm
afraid of is that she'll injure herself."
"I think that's very possible," said Ralph.
His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps the very
gaze that unnerved him. "That too would amuse you, I suppose. The way
you do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent."
"To Isabel? Ah, not that!"
"Well, you're not in love with her, I hope."
"How can that be, when I'm in love with Another?"
"You're in love with yourself, that's the Other!" Miss Stackpole
declared. "Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once
in your life here's a chance; and if you really care for your cousin
here's an opportunity to prove it. I don't expect you to understand her;
that's too much to ask. But you needn't do that to grant my favour. I'll
supply the necessary intelligence."
"I shall enjoy that immensely!" Ralph exclaimed. "I'll be Caliban and
you shall be Ariel."
"You're not at all like Caliban, because you're sophisticated, and
Caliban was not. But I'm not talking about imaginary characters; I'm
talking about Isabel. Isabel's intensely real. What I wish to tell you
is that I find her fearfully changed."
"Since you came, do you mean?"
"Since I came and before I came. She's not the same as she once so
beautifully was."
"As she was in America?"
"Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there. She can't
help it, but she does."
"Do you want to change her back again?"
"Of course I do, and I want you to help me."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm only Caliban; I'm not Prospero."
"You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You've acted
on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett."
"I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted
on me--yes; she acts on every one. But I've been absolutely passive."
"You're too passive then. You had better stir yourself and be careful.
Isabel's changing every day; she's drifting away--right out to sea. I've
watched her and I can see it. She's not the bright American girl she
was. She's taking different views, a different colour, and turning away
from her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and
that's where you come in."
"Not surely as an ideal?"
"Well, I hope not," Henrietta replied promptly. "I've got a fear in my
heart that she's going to marry one of these fell Europeans, and I want
to prevent it.
"Ah, I see," cried Ralph; "and to prevent it you want me to step in and
marry her?"
"Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you're the
typical, the fell European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I wish
you to take an interest in another person--a young man to whom she once
gave great encouragement and whom she now doesn't seem to think good
enough. He's a thoroughly grand man and a very dear friend of mine, and
I wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here."
Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the
credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in
the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his fault
was that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really
be as candid as this request of Miss Stackpole's appeared. That a young
woman should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear
friend should be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable
to another young woman, a young woman whose attention had wandered and
whose charms were greater--this was an anomaly which for the moment
challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the
lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss
Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account
was the sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even
from this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved
by a force that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward
light on the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the
conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent
of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers.
This conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was
perhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady's imperturbable
gaze. He returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an
inclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries.
"Who's the gentleman you speak of?"
"Mr. Caspar Goodwood--of Boston. He has been extremely attentive to
Isabel--just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out
here and he's at present in London. I don't know his address, but I
guess I can obtain it."
"I've never heard of him," said Ralph.
"Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't believe he has
ever heard of you; but that's no reason why Isabel shouldn't marry him."
Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. "What a rage you have for marrying
people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?"
"I've got over that. You don't know how to take such ideas. Mr. Goodwood
does, however; and that's what I like about him. He's a splendid man and
a perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it."
"Is she very fond of him?"
"If she isn't she ought to be. He's simply wrapped up in her."
"And you wish me to ask him here," said Ralph reflectively.
"It would be an act of true hospitality."
"Caspar Goodwood," Ralph continued--"it's rather a striking name."
"I don't care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and
I should say the same. He's the only man I have ever seen whom I think
worthy of Isabel."
"You're a very devoted friend," said Ralph.
"Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don't care."
"I don't say it to pour scorn on you; I'm very much struck with it."
"You're more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr.
Goodwood."
"I assure you I'm very serious; you ought to understand that," said
Ralph.
In a moment his companion understood it. "I believe you are; now you're
too serious."
"You're difficult to please."
"Oh, you're very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr. Goodwood."
"I don't know," said Ralph. "I'm capable of strange things. Tell me a
little about Mr. Goodwood. What's he like?"
"He's just the opposite of you. He's at the head of a cotton-factory; a
very fine one."
"Has he pleasant manners?" asked Ralph.
"Splendid manners--in the American style."
"Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?"
"I don't think he'd care much about our little circle. He'd concentrate
on Isabel."
"And how would my cousin like that?"
"Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call
back her thoughts."
"Call them back--from where?"
"From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she
gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose he was acceptable to her, and
it's not worthy of Isabel to go back on a real friend simply because she
has changed the scene. I've changed the scene too, and the effect of it
has been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It's my
belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. I know
her well enough to know that she would never be truly happy over here,
and I wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a
preservative."
"Aren't you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?" Ralph enquired.
"Don't you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old
England?"
"A chance to ruin her bright young life? One's never too much in a hurry
to save a precious human creature from drowning."
"As I understand it then," said Ralph, "you wish me to push Mr. Goodwood
overboard after her. Do you know," he added, "that I've never heard her
mention his name?"
Henrietta gave a brilliant smile. "I'm delighted to hear that; it proves
how much she thinks of him."
Ralph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this, and he
surrendered to thought while his companion watched him askance. "If I
should invite Mr. Goodwood," he finally said, "it would be to quarrel
with him."
"Don't do that; he'd prove the better man."
"You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really don't
think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him."
"It's just as you please," Henrietta returned. "I had no idea you were
in love with her yourself."
"Do you really believe that?" the young man asked with lifted eyebrows.
"That's the most natural speech I've ever heard you make! Of course I
believe it," Miss Stackpole ingeniously said.
"Well," Ralph concluded, "to prove to you that you're wrong I'll invite
him. It must be of course as a friend of yours."
"It will not be as a friend of mine that he'll come; and it will not be
to prove to me that I'm wrong that you'll ask him--but to prove it to
yourself!"
These last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the two presently
separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged
to recognise; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a recognition
that, in spite of his suspecting it would be rather more indiscreet
to keep than to break his promise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six
lines, expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that
he should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole
was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker
whom Henrietta suggested) he waited in some suspense. He had heard this
fresh formidable figure named for the first time; for when his mother
had mentioned on her arrival that there was a story about the girl's
having an "admirer" at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality
and he had taken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would
involve only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native
admiration of which his cousin was the object had become more concrete;
it took the form of a young man who had followed her to London, who was
interested in a cotton-mill and had manners in the most splendid of the
American styles. Ralph had two theories about this intervenes. Either
his passion was a sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole's (there was
always a sort of tacit understanding among women, born of the solidarity
of the sex, that they should discover or invent lovers for each other),
in which case he was not to be feared and would probably not accept the
invitation; or else he would accept the invitation and in this event
prove himself a creature too irrational to demand further consideration.
The latter clause of Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent;
but it embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in
Isabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stackpole he would not
care to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter
lady. "On this supposition," said Ralph, "he must regard her as a thorn
on the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must find her wanting in
tact."
Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short
note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other
engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible and presenting many
compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who,
when she had read it, exclaimed: "Well, I never have heard of anything
so stiff!"
"I'm afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you suppose,"
Ralph observed.
"No, it's not that; it's some subtler motive. His nature's very deep.
But I'm determined to fathom it, and I shall write to him to know what
he means."
His refusal of Ralph's overtures was vaguely disconcerting; from the
moment he declined to come to Gardencourt our friend began to think
him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether
Isabel's admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not
rivals of his and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius.
Nevertheless he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's
promised enquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness--a
curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her
three days later if she had written to London she was obliged to confess
she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not replied.
"I suppose he's thinking it over," she said; "he thinks everything
over; he's not really at all impetuous. But I'm accustomed to having my
letters answered the same day." She presently proposed to Isabel, at
all events, that they should make an excursion to London together. "If I
must tell the truth," she observed, "I'm not seeing much at this
place, and I shouldn't think you were either. I've not even seen that
aristocrat--what's his name?--Lord Washburton. He seems to let you
severely alone."
"Lord Warburton's coming to-morrow, I happen to know," replied her
friend, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer
to her own letter. "You'll have every opportunity of turning him inside
out."
"Well, he may do for one letter, but what's one letter when you want to
write fifty? I've described all the scenery in this vicinity and raved
about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please,
scenery doesn't make a vital letter. I must go back to London and get
some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came
away, and that's hardly time to get in touch."
As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even
less of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of
Henrietta's that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The
idea struck Isabel as charming; he was curious of the thick detail of
London, which had always loomed large and rich to her. They turned over
their schemes together and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They
would stay at some picturesque old inn--one of the inns described by
Dickens--and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta
was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman
was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at
a coffee-house and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the
Abbey and the British Museum and find out where Doctor Johnson had
lived, and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager and presently
unveiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter
which scarce expressed the sympathy she had desired.
"It's a delightful plan," he said. "I advise you to go to the Duke's
Head in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I'll
have you put down at my club."
"Do you mean it's improper?" Isabel asked. "Dear me, isn't anything
proper here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she isn't hampered
in that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent and can
at least find her way about this minute island."
"Ah then," said Ralph, "let me take advantage of her protection to go up
to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!"
| Isabel decides to speak to her uncle, Mr. Touchett, about this event. Mr. Touchett, upon hearing of the proposal, tells her that he knew she would be a success here. He also already knew about Lord Warburton's intentions. Speaking with her uncle allows Isabel to feel that she has reasonable and natural emotions, rather than a vague intellectualism that rests upon an unfounded idea. She did not refuse Lord Warburton either because she planned on accepting Caspar Goodwood. In Caspar Goodwood's presence, she feels deprived of a sense of freedom, and she is often haunted by the sense that he might disapprove of what she did. Sometimes she thinks of Caspar Goodwood as the "stubbornest fact she knew". The narrator informs the reader that Caspar Goodwood is the son of a proprietor of cotton-mills in Massachusetts, and therefore a man of means. He even had managed to invent an improvement to the process of cotton spinning and was seen as accomplished because of this. Isabel likes the idea that he is a character and a mover of men , but he does not move her imagination in any other ways. He did not correspond to her idea of a delightful person, although Lord Warburton did correspond to it exactly. However she was still unsatisfied. Isabel decides not to reply to Mr. Goodwood. She writes to Lord Warburton after three days. She tells him, "We see our lives from our own point of view," and that she can never see hers from the point of view of his wife. Henrietta tries to get Ralph Touchett to allow Caspar Goodwood to visit, taking him for a stroll in the garden. Ralph hesitates, but finally agrees when Henrietta accuses him of being in love with Isabel. He tells her he will invite Caspar Goodwood to prove that he is not in love with Isabel. Henrietta tells him that he is inviting Caspar Goodwood to prove it to himself. Ralph writes to Caspar to invite him to Gardencourt, but Caspar refuses. This puzzles Henrietta. Henrietta and Isabel decide to go on to London together, and Ralph joins them | summary |
It was this feeling and not the wish to ask advice--she had no desire
whatever for that--that led her to speak to her uncle of what had taken
place. She wished to speak to some one; she should feel more natural,
more human, and her uncle, for this purpose, presented himself in a
more attractive light than either her aunt or her friend Henrietta. Her
cousin of course was a possible confidant; but she would have had to do
herself violence to air this special secret to Ralph. So the next day,
after breakfast, she sought her occasion. Her uncle never left his
apartment till the afternoon, but he received his cronies, as he said,
in his dressing-room. Isabel had quite taken her place in the class
so designated, which, for the rest, included the old man's son, his
physician, his personal servant, and even Miss Stackpole. Mrs. Touchett
did not figure in the list, and this was an obstacle the less to
Isabel's finding her host alone. He sat in a complicated mechanical
chair, at the open window of his room, looking westward over the park
and the river, with his newspapers and letters piled up beside him,
his toilet freshly and minutely made, and his smooth, speculative face
composed to benevolent expectation.
She approached her point directly. "I think I ought to let you know that
Lord Warburton has asked me to marry him. I suppose I ought to tell my
aunt; but it seems best to tell you first."
The old man expressed no surprise, but thanked her for the confidence
she showed him. "Do you mind telling me whether you accepted him?" he
then enquired.
"I've not answered him definitely yet; I've taken a little time to think
of it, because that seems more respectful. But I shall not accept him."
Mr. Touchett made no comment upon this; he had the air of thinking that,
whatever interest he might take in the matter from the point of view of
sociability, he had no active voice in it. "Well, I told you you'd be a
success over here. Americans are highly appreciated."
"Very highly indeed," said Isabel. "But at the cost of seeming both
tasteless and ungrateful, I don't think I can marry Lord Warburton."
"Well," her uncle went on, "of course an old man can't judge for a young
lady. I'm glad you didn't ask me before you made up your mind. I suppose
I ought to tell you," he added slowly, but as if it were not of much
consequence, "that I've known all about it these three days."
"About Lord Warburton's state of mind?"
"About his intentions, as they say here. He wrote me a very pleasant
letter, telling me all about them. Should you like to see his letter?"
the old man obligingly asked.
"Thank you; I don't think I care about that. But I'm glad he wrote to
you; it was right that he should, and he would be certain to do what was
right."
"Ah well, I guess you do like him!" Mr. Touchett declared. "You needn't
pretend you don't."
"I like him extremely; I'm very free to admit that. But I don't wish to
marry any one just now."
"You think some one may come along whom you may like better. Well,
that's very likely," said Mr. Touchett, who appeared to wish to show his
kindness to the girl by easing off her decision, as it were, and finding
cheerful reasons for it.
"I don't care if I don't meet any one else. I like Lord Warburton quite
well enough." she fell into that appearance of a sudden change of
point of view with which she sometimes startled and even displeased her
interlocutors.
Her uncle, however, seemed proof against either of these impressions.
"He's a very fine man," he resumed in a tone which might have passed
for that of encouragement. "His letter was one of the pleasantest I've
received for some weeks. I suppose one of the reasons I liked it was
that it was all about you; that is all except the part that was about
himself. I suppose he told you all that."
"He would have told me everything I wished to ask him," Isabel said.
"But you didn't feel curious?"
"My curiosity would have been idle--once I had determined to decline his
offer."
"You didn't find it sufficiently attractive?" Mr. Touchett enquired.
She was silent a little. "I suppose it was that," she presently
admitted. "But I don't know why."
"Fortunately ladies are not obliged to give reasons," said her uncle.
"There's a great deal that's attractive about such an idea; but I don't
see why the English should want to entice us away from our native land.
I know that we try to attract them over there, but that's because our
population is insufficient. Here, you know, they're rather crowded.
However, I presume there's room for charming young ladies everywhere."
"There seems to have been room here for you," said Isabel, whose eyes
had been wandering over the large pleasure-spaces of the park.
Mr. Touchett gave a shrewd, conscious smile. "There's room everywhere,
my dear, if you'll pay for it. I sometimes think I've paid too much for
this. Perhaps you also might have to pay too much."
"Perhaps I might," the girl replied.
That suggestion gave her something more definite to rest on than she
had found in her own thoughts, and the fact of this association of her
uncle's mild acuteness with her dilemma seemed to prove that she was
concerned with the natural and reasonable emotions of life and
not altogether a victim to intellectual eagerness and vague
ambitions--ambitions reaching beyond Lord Warburton's beautiful appeal,
reaching to something indefinable and possibly not commendable. In so
far as the indefinable had an influence upon Isabel's behaviour at this
juncture, it was not the conception, even unformulated, of a union with
Caspar Goodwood; for however she might have resisted conquest at her
English suitor's large quiet hands she was at least as far removed
from the disposition to let the young man from Boston take positive
possession of her. The sentiment in which She sought refuge after
reading his letter was a critical view of his having come abroad; for it
was part of the influence he had upon her that he seemed to deprive her
of the sense of freedom. There was a disagreeably strong push, a kind
of hardness of presence, in his way of rising before her. She had been
haunted at moments by the image, by the danger, of his disapproval and
had wondered--a consideration she had never paid in equal degree to any
one else--whether he would like what she did. The difficulty was that
more than any man she had ever known, more than poor Lord Warburton (she
had begun now to give his lordship the benefit of this epithet), Caspar
Goodwood expressed for her an energy--and she had already felt it as a
power that was of his very nature. It was in no degree a matter of
his "advantages"--it was a matter of the spirit that sat in his
clear-burning eyes like some tireless watcher at a window. She might
like it or not, but he insisted, ever, with his whole weight and force:
even in one's usual contact with him one had to reckon with that. The
idea of a diminished liberty was particularly disagreeable to her at
present, since she had just given a sort of personal accent to her
independence by looking so straight at Lord Warburton's big bribe and
yet turning away from it. Sometimes Caspar Goodwood had seemed to range
himself on the side of her destiny, to be the stubbornest fact she knew;
she said to herself at such moments that she might evade him for a time,
but that she must make terms with him at last--terms which would be
certain to be favourable to himself. Her impulse had been to avail
herself of the things that helped her to resist such an obligation;
and this impulse had been much concerned in her eager acceptance of her
aunt's invitation, which had come to her at an hour when she expected
from day to day to see Mr. Goodwood and when she was glad to have an
answer ready for something she was sure he would say to her. When she
had told him at Albany, on the evening of Mrs. Touchett's visit, that
she couldn't then discuss difficult questions, dazzled as she was by
the great immediate opening of her aunt's offer of "Europe," he declared
that this was no answer at all; and it was now to obtain a better one
that he was following her across the sea. To say to herself that he was
a kind of grim fate was well enough for a fanciful young woman who was
able to take much for granted in him; but the reader has a right to a
nearer and a clearer view.
He was the son of a proprietor of well-known cotton-mills in
Massachusetts--a gentleman who had accumulated a considerable fortune in
the exercise of this industry. Caspar at present managed the works, and
with a judgement and a temper which, in spite of keen competition and
languid years, had kept their prosperity from dwindling. He had received
the better part of his education at Harvard College, where, however, he
had gained renown rather as a gymnast and an oarsman than as a gleaner
of more dispersed knowledge. Later on he had learned that the finer
intelligence too could vault and pull and strain--might even, breaking
the record, treat itself to rare exploits. He had thus discovered in
himself a sharp eye for the mystery of mechanics, and had invented an
improvement in the cotton-spinning process which was now largely used
and was known by his name. You might have seen it in the newspapers in
connection with this fruitful contrivance; assurance of which he
had given to Isabel by showing her in the columns of the New York
Interviewer an exhaustive article on the Goodwood patent--an article not
prepared by Miss Stackpole, friendly as she had proved herself to his
more sentimental interests. There were intricate, bristling things he
rejoiced in; he liked to organise, to contend, to administer; he could
make people work his will, believe in him, march before him and justify
him. This was the art, as they said, of managing men--which rested, in
him, further, on a bold though brooding ambition. It struck those
who knew him well that he might do greater things than carry on a
cotton-factory; there was nothing cottony about Caspar Goodwood, and
his friends took for granted that he would somehow and somewhere
write himself in bigger letters. But it was as if something large and
confused, something dark and ugly, would have to call upon him: he was
not after all in harmony with mere smug peace and greed and gain, an
order of things of which the vital breath was ubiquitous advertisement.
It pleased Isabel to believe that he might have ridden, on a plunging
steed, the whirlwind of a great war--a war like the Civil strife that
had overdarkened her conscious childhood and his ripening youth.
She liked at any rate this idea of his being by character and in fact a
mover of men--liked it much better than some other points in his nature
and aspect. She cared nothing for his cotton-mill--the Goodwood patent
left her imagination absolutely cold. She wished him no ounce less of
his manhood, but she sometimes thought he would be rather nicer if he
looked, for instance, a little differently. His jaw was too square and
set and his figure too straight and stiff: these things suggested a want
of easy consonance with the deeper rhythms of life. Then she viewed with
reserve a habit he had of dressing always in the same manner; it was
not apparently that he wore the same clothes continually, for, on the
contrary, his garments had a way of looking rather too new. But they all
seemed of the same piece; the figure, the stuff, was so drearily usual.
She had reminded herself more than once that this was a frivolous
objection to a person of his importance; and then she had amended the
rebuke by saying that it would be a frivolous objection only if she
were in love with him. She was not in love with him and therefore might
criticise his small defects as well as his great--which latter consisted
in the collective reproach of his being too serious, or, rather, not of
his being so, since one could never be, but certainly of his seeming so.
He showed his appetites and designs too simply and artlessly; when one
was alone with him he talked too much about the same subject, and when
other people were present he talked too little about anything. And yet
he was of supremely strong, clean make--which was so much she saw the
different fitted parts of him as she had seen, in museums and portraits,
the different fitted parts of armoured warriors--in plates of steel
handsomely inlaid with gold. It was very strange: where, ever, was any
tangible link between her impression and her act? Caspar Goodwood had
never corresponded to her idea of a delightful person, and she supposed
that this was why he left her so harshly critical. When, however, Lord
Warburton, who not only did correspond with it, but gave an extension to
the term, appealed to her approval, she found herself still unsatisfied.
It was certainly strange.
The sense of her incoherence was not a help to answering Mr. Goodwood's
letter, and Isabel determined to leave it a while unhonoured. If he
had determined to persecute her he must take the consequences; foremost
among which was his being left to perceive how little it charmed her
that he should come down to Gardencourt. She was already liable to the
incursions of one suitor at this place, and though it might be pleasant
to be appreciated in opposite quarters there was a kind of grossness in
entertaining two such passionate pleaders at once, even in a case where
the entertainment should consist of dismissing them. She made no
reply to Mr. Goodwood; but at the end of three days she wrote to Lord
Warburton, and the letter belongs to our history.
DEAR LORD WARBURTON--A great deal of earnest thought has not led me to
change my mind about the suggestion you were so kind as to make me the
other day. I am not, I am really and truly not, able to regard you
in the light of a companion for life; or to think of your home--your
various homes--as the settled seat of my existence. These things cannot
be reasoned about, and I very earnestly entreat you not to return to
the subject we discussed so exhaustively. We see our lives from our own
point of view; that is the privilege of the weakest and humblest of us;
and I shall never be able to see mine in the manner you proposed. Kindly
let this suffice you, and do me the justice to believe that I have given
your proposal the deeply respectful consideration it deserves. It is
with this very great regard that I remain sincerely yours,
ISABEL ARCHER.
While the author of this missive was making up her mind to dispatch it
Henrietta Stackpole formed a resolve which was accompanied by no demur.
She invited Ralph Touchett to take a walk with her in the garden, and
when he had assented with that alacrity which seemed constantly to
testify to his high expectations, she informed him that she had a favour
to ask of him. It may be admitted that at this information the young man
flinched; for we know that Miss Stackpole had struck him as apt to push
an advantage. The alarm was unreasoned, however; for he was clear about
the area of her indiscretion as little as advised of its vertical depth,
and he made a very civil profession of the desire to serve her. He
was afraid of her and presently told her so. "When you look at me in a
certain way my knees knock together, my faculties desert me; I'm filled
with trepidation and I ask only for strength to execute your commands.
You've an address that I've never encountered in any woman."
"Well," Henrietta replied good-humouredly, "if I had not known before
that you were trying somehow to abash me I should know it now. Of course
I'm easy game--I was brought up with such different customs and ideas.
I'm not used to your arbitrary standards, and I've never been spoken to
in America as you have spoken to me. If a gentleman conversing with me
over there were to speak to me like that I shouldn't know what to make
of it. We take everything more naturally over there, and, after all,
we're a great deal more simple. I admit that; I'm very simple myself.
Of course if you choose to laugh at me for it you're very welcome; but I
think on the whole I would rather be myself than you. I'm quite content
to be myself; I don't want to change. There are plenty of people that
appreciate me just as I am. It's true they're nice fresh free-born
Americans!" Henrietta had lately taken up the tone of helpless innocence
and large concession. "I want you to assist me a little," she went on.
"I don't care in the least whether I amuse you while you do so; or,
rather, I'm perfectly willing your amusement should be your reward. I
want you to help me about Isabel."
"Has she injured you?" Ralph asked.
"If she had I shouldn't mind, and I should never tell you. What I'm
afraid of is that she'll injure herself."
"I think that's very possible," said Ralph.
His companion stopped in the garden-walk, fixing on him perhaps the very
gaze that unnerved him. "That too would amuse you, I suppose. The way
you do say things! I never heard any one so indifferent."
"To Isabel? Ah, not that!"
"Well, you're not in love with her, I hope."
"How can that be, when I'm in love with Another?"
"You're in love with yourself, that's the Other!" Miss Stackpole
declared. "Much good may it do you! But if you wish to be serious once
in your life here's a chance; and if you really care for your cousin
here's an opportunity to prove it. I don't expect you to understand her;
that's too much to ask. But you needn't do that to grant my favour. I'll
supply the necessary intelligence."
"I shall enjoy that immensely!" Ralph exclaimed. "I'll be Caliban and
you shall be Ariel."
"You're not at all like Caliban, because you're sophisticated, and
Caliban was not. But I'm not talking about imaginary characters; I'm
talking about Isabel. Isabel's intensely real. What I wish to tell you
is that I find her fearfully changed."
"Since you came, do you mean?"
"Since I came and before I came. She's not the same as she once so
beautifully was."
"As she was in America?"
"Yes, in America. I suppose you know she comes from there. She can't
help it, but she does."
"Do you want to change her back again?"
"Of course I do, and I want you to help me."
"Ah," said Ralph, "I'm only Caliban; I'm not Prospero."
"You were Prospero enough to make her what she has become. You've acted
on Isabel Archer since she came here, Mr. Touchett."
"I, my dear Miss Stackpole? Never in the world. Isabel Archer has acted
on me--yes; she acts on every one. But I've been absolutely passive."
"You're too passive then. You had better stir yourself and be careful.
Isabel's changing every day; she's drifting away--right out to sea. I've
watched her and I can see it. She's not the bright American girl she
was. She's taking different views, a different colour, and turning away
from her old ideals. I want to save those ideals, Mr. Touchett, and
that's where you come in."
"Not surely as an ideal?"
"Well, I hope not," Henrietta replied promptly. "I've got a fear in my
heart that she's going to marry one of these fell Europeans, and I want
to prevent it.
"Ah, I see," cried Ralph; "and to prevent it you want me to step in and
marry her?"
"Not quite; that remedy would be as bad as the disease, for you're the
typical, the fell European from whom I wish to rescue her. No; I wish
you to take an interest in another person--a young man to whom she once
gave great encouragement and whom she now doesn't seem to think good
enough. He's a thoroughly grand man and a very dear friend of mine, and
I wish very much you would invite him to pay a visit here."
Ralph was much puzzled by this appeal, and it is perhaps not to the
credit of his purity of mind that he failed to look at it at first in
the simplest light. It wore, to his eyes, a tortuous air, and his fault
was that he was not quite sure that anything in the world could really
be as candid as this request of Miss Stackpole's appeared. That a young
woman should demand that a gentleman whom she described as her very dear
friend should be furnished with an opportunity to make himself agreeable
to another young woman, a young woman whose attention had wandered and
whose charms were greater--this was an anomaly which for the moment
challenged all his ingenuity of interpretation. To read between the
lines was easier than to follow the text, and to suppose that Miss
Stackpole wished the gentleman invited to Gardencourt on her own account
was the sign not so much of a vulgar as of an embarrassed mind. Even
from this venial act of vulgarity, however, Ralph was saved, and saved
by a force that I can only speak of as inspiration. With no more outward
light on the subject than he already possessed he suddenly acquired the
conviction that it would be a sovereign injustice to the correspondent
of the Interviewer to assign a dishonourable motive to any act of hers.
This conviction passed into his mind with extreme rapidity; it was
perhaps kindled by the pure radiance of the young lady's imperturbable
gaze. He returned this challenge a moment, consciously, resisting an
inclination to frown as one frowns in the presence of larger luminaries.
"Who's the gentleman you speak of?"
"Mr. Caspar Goodwood--of Boston. He has been extremely attentive to
Isabel--just as devoted to her as he can live. He has followed her out
here and he's at present in London. I don't know his address, but I
guess I can obtain it."
"I've never heard of him," said Ralph.
"Well, I suppose you haven't heard of every one. I don't believe he has
ever heard of you; but that's no reason why Isabel shouldn't marry him."
Ralph gave a mild ambiguous laugh. "What a rage you have for marrying
people! Do you remember how you wanted to marry me the other day?"
"I've got over that. You don't know how to take such ideas. Mr. Goodwood
does, however; and that's what I like about him. He's a splendid man and
a perfect gentleman, and Isabel knows it."
"Is she very fond of him?"
"If she isn't she ought to be. He's simply wrapped up in her."
"And you wish me to ask him here," said Ralph reflectively.
"It would be an act of true hospitality."
"Caspar Goodwood," Ralph continued--"it's rather a striking name."
"I don't care anything about his name. It might be Ezekiel Jenkins, and
I should say the same. He's the only man I have ever seen whom I think
worthy of Isabel."
"You're a very devoted friend," said Ralph.
"Of course I am. If you say that to pour scorn on me I don't care."
"I don't say it to pour scorn on you; I'm very much struck with it."
"You're more satiric than ever, but I advise you not to laugh at Mr.
Goodwood."
"I assure you I'm very serious; you ought to understand that," said
Ralph.
In a moment his companion understood it. "I believe you are; now you're
too serious."
"You're difficult to please."
"Oh, you're very serious indeed. You won't invite Mr. Goodwood."
"I don't know," said Ralph. "I'm capable of strange things. Tell me a
little about Mr. Goodwood. What's he like?"
"He's just the opposite of you. He's at the head of a cotton-factory; a
very fine one."
"Has he pleasant manners?" asked Ralph.
"Splendid manners--in the American style."
"Would he be an agreeable member of our little circle?"
"I don't think he'd care much about our little circle. He'd concentrate
on Isabel."
"And how would my cousin like that?"
"Very possibly not at all. But it will be good for her. It will call
back her thoughts."
"Call them back--from where?"
"From foreign parts and other unnatural places. Three months ago she
gave Mr. Goodwood every reason to suppose he was acceptable to her, and
it's not worthy of Isabel to go back on a real friend simply because she
has changed the scene. I've changed the scene too, and the effect of it
has been to make me care more for my old associations than ever. It's my
belief that the sooner Isabel changes it back again the better. I know
her well enough to know that she would never be truly happy over here,
and I wish her to form some strong American tie that will act as a
preservative."
"Aren't you perhaps a little too much in a hurry?" Ralph enquired.
"Don't you think you ought to give her more of a chance in poor old
England?"
"A chance to ruin her bright young life? One's never too much in a hurry
to save a precious human creature from drowning."
"As I understand it then," said Ralph, "you wish me to push Mr. Goodwood
overboard after her. Do you know," he added, "that I've never heard her
mention his name?"
Henrietta gave a brilliant smile. "I'm delighted to hear that; it proves
how much she thinks of him."
Ralph appeared to allow that there was a good deal in this, and he
surrendered to thought while his companion watched him askance. "If I
should invite Mr. Goodwood," he finally said, "it would be to quarrel
with him."
"Don't do that; he'd prove the better man."
"You certainly are doing your best to make me hate him! I really don't
think I can ask him. I should be afraid of being rude to him."
"It's just as you please," Henrietta returned. "I had no idea you were
in love with her yourself."
"Do you really believe that?" the young man asked with lifted eyebrows.
"That's the most natural speech I've ever heard you make! Of course I
believe it," Miss Stackpole ingeniously said.
"Well," Ralph concluded, "to prove to you that you're wrong I'll invite
him. It must be of course as a friend of yours."
"It will not be as a friend of mine that he'll come; and it will not be
to prove to me that I'm wrong that you'll ask him--but to prove it to
yourself!"
These last words of Miss Stackpole's (on which the two presently
separated) contained an amount of truth which Ralph Touchett was obliged
to recognise; but it so far took the edge from too sharp a recognition
that, in spite of his suspecting it would be rather more indiscreet
to keep than to break his promise, he wrote Mr. Goodwood a note of six
lines, expressing the pleasure it would give Mr. Touchett the elder that
he should join a little party at Gardencourt, of which Miss Stackpole
was a valued member. Having sent his letter (to the care of a banker
whom Henrietta suggested) he waited in some suspense. He had heard this
fresh formidable figure named for the first time; for when his mother
had mentioned on her arrival that there was a story about the girl's
having an "admirer" at home, the idea had seemed deficient in reality
and he had taken no pains to ask questions the answers to which would
involve only the vague or the disagreeable. Now, however, the native
admiration of which his cousin was the object had become more concrete;
it took the form of a young man who had followed her to London, who was
interested in a cotton-mill and had manners in the most splendid of the
American styles. Ralph had two theories about this intervenes. Either
his passion was a sentimental fiction of Miss Stackpole's (there was
always a sort of tacit understanding among women, born of the solidarity
of the sex, that they should discover or invent lovers for each other),
in which case he was not to be feared and would probably not accept the
invitation; or else he would accept the invitation and in this event
prove himself a creature too irrational to demand further consideration.
The latter clause of Ralph's argument might have seemed incoherent;
but it embodied his conviction that if Mr. Goodwood were interested in
Isabel in the serious manner described by Miss Stackpole he would not
care to present himself at Gardencourt on a summons from the latter
lady. "On this supposition," said Ralph, "he must regard her as a thorn
on the stem of his rose; as an intercessor he must find her wanting in
tact."
Two days after he had sent his invitation he received a very short
note from Caspar Goodwood, thanking him for it, regretting that other
engagements made a visit to Gardencourt impossible and presenting many
compliments to Miss Stackpole. Ralph handed the note to Henrietta, who,
when she had read it, exclaimed: "Well, I never have heard of anything
so stiff!"
"I'm afraid he doesn't care so much about my cousin as you suppose,"
Ralph observed.
"No, it's not that; it's some subtler motive. His nature's very deep.
But I'm determined to fathom it, and I shall write to him to know what
he means."
His refusal of Ralph's overtures was vaguely disconcerting; from the
moment he declined to come to Gardencourt our friend began to think
him of importance. He asked himself what it signified to him whether
Isabel's admirers should be desperadoes or laggards; they were not
rivals of his and were perfectly welcome to act out their genius.
Nevertheless he felt much curiosity as to the result of Miss Stackpole's
promised enquiry into the causes of Mr. Goodwood's stiffness--a
curiosity for the present ungratified, inasmuch as when he asked her
three days later if she had written to London she was obliged to confess
she had written in vain. Mr. Goodwood had not replied.
"I suppose he's thinking it over," she said; "he thinks everything
over; he's not really at all impetuous. But I'm accustomed to having my
letters answered the same day." She presently proposed to Isabel, at
all events, that they should make an excursion to London together. "If I
must tell the truth," she observed, "I'm not seeing much at this
place, and I shouldn't think you were either. I've not even seen that
aristocrat--what's his name?--Lord Washburton. He seems to let you
severely alone."
"Lord Warburton's coming to-morrow, I happen to know," replied her
friend, who had received a note from the master of Lockleigh in answer
to her own letter. "You'll have every opportunity of turning him inside
out."
"Well, he may do for one letter, but what's one letter when you want to
write fifty? I've described all the scenery in this vicinity and raved
about all the old women and donkeys. You may say what you please,
scenery doesn't make a vital letter. I must go back to London and get
some impressions of real life. I was there but three days before I came
away, and that's hardly time to get in touch."
As Isabel, on her journey from New York to Gardencourt, had seen even
less of the British capital than this, it appeared a happy suggestion of
Henrietta's that the two should go thither on a visit of pleasure. The
idea struck Isabel as charming; he was curious of the thick detail of
London, which had always loomed large and rich to her. They turned over
their schemes together and indulged in visions of romantic hours. They
would stay at some picturesque old inn--one of the inns described by
Dickens--and drive over the town in those delightful hansoms. Henrietta
was a literary woman, and the great advantage of being a literary woman
was that you could go everywhere and do everything. They would dine at
a coffee-house and go afterwards to the play; they would frequent the
Abbey and the British Museum and find out where Doctor Johnson had
lived, and Goldsmith and Addison. Isabel grew eager and presently
unveiled the bright vision to Ralph, who burst into a fit of laughter
which scarce expressed the sympathy she had desired.
"It's a delightful plan," he said. "I advise you to go to the Duke's
Head in Covent Garden, an easy, informal, old-fashioned place, and I'll
have you put down at my club."
"Do you mean it's improper?" Isabel asked. "Dear me, isn't anything
proper here? With Henrietta surely I may go anywhere; she isn't hampered
in that way. She has travelled over the whole American continent and can
at least find her way about this minute island."
"Ah then," said Ralph, "let me take advantage of her protection to go up
to town as well. I may never have a chance to travel so safely!"
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as
we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to
Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him.
For four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had
written, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later.
There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the
girl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient,
not to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied
that she was so sure he "really liked" her. Isabel told her uncle she
had written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the
old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his
appearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of
vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his
being of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away
in case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That
personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters
with him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order
as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole,
who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel,
who was nervous and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing
the question he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring his
good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of
that preoccupation with her presence it was natural she should suppose
him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only
sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty
of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon
with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth,
nun-like forehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck,
was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her
eyes constantly rested in a manner suggesting a conflict between deep
alienation and yearning wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she
was the one Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary
quiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and
silver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery--some delightful
reinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered
what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had
refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would
never know--that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond
of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at
least, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in
conversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her
neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what
had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be
shocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our
heroine's last position) she would impute to the young American but a
due consciousness of inequality.
Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events,
Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which
she now found herself immersed. "Do you know you're the first lord I've
ever seen?" she said very promptly to her neighbour. "I suppose you
think I'm awfully benighted."
"You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warburton answered,
looking a trifle absently about the table.
"Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they're
all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and
crowns."
"Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said Lord Warburton,
"like your tomahawks and revolvers."
"I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,"
Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?"
"Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour allowed.
"Won't you have a potato?"
"I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you
from an ordinary American gentleman."
"Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "I don't see how
you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to
eat over here."
Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere.
"I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," she went on at
last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you know; I
feel as if I ought to tell you that."
"Don't approve of me?"
"Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did
they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has
got beyond them--far beyond."
"Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes
over me--how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you
know? But that's rather good, by the way--not to be vainglorious."
"Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired.
"Give up--a--?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a
very mellow one.
"Give up being a lord."
"Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you
wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do
think of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these
days."
"I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly.
"I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance."
"Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't approve
of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for
themselves."
"Mighty little, as you see!"
"I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta continued. "But
you're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting my eye. I see you
want to escape me."
"No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes."
"Please explain about that young lady--your sister--then. I don't
understand about her. Is she a Lady?"
"She's a capital good girl."
"I don't like the way you say that--as if you wanted to change the
subject. Is her position inferior to yours?"
"We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better off
than I, because she has none of the bother."
"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little
bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you
may do."
"Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord Warburton.
"And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!"
"I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to
talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross
a badge?"
"A badge?"
"A sign of rank."
Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the
gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered in a moment; "the women go
in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of
Viscounts." Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had
his credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed
to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though
she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without
criticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since
she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He
walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and
saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't
write to me that way."
"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and
believe that."
"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can't
believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could
understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you
should admit you do--"
"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.
"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing,
and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a
sense of injustice."
"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his
heart contract.
"I should like very much to know it."
"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."
"Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it."
"You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.
"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you
kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he
apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. "Do
you prefer some one else?"
"That's a question I'd rather not answer."
"Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I
don't."
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in
trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I
can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back
against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into
his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand
them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same
to you."
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing
him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white
neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She
stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining
it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her
very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they
had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and
by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round
her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason
that I wouldn't tell you--I'll tell it you after all. It's that I can't
escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as
anything else?"
"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not
my fate to give up--I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do
you call marrying me giving up?"
"Not in the usual sense. It's getting--getting--getting a great deal.
But it's giving up other chances."
"Other chances for what?"
"I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming
back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if
it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more
than you'll lose," her companion observed.
"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be
trying to."
"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must
in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
"I mustn't--I can't!" cried the girl.
"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make
me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none
for me."
"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been
intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be.
I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every
now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by
turning away, by separating myself."
"By separating yourself from what?"
"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people
know and suffer."
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why,
my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate
eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any
chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For
what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China!
All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable
sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike
an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it.
You shall separate from nothing whatever--not even from your friend Miss
Stackpole."
"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take
advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for
doing so.
"Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked impatiently. "I
never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds."
"Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with humility; and
she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery,
accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.
Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and
reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was
expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer--apparently
not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss
Molyneux--as if he had been Royalty--stood like a lady-in-waiting.
"Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "If I wanted
to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to
do it."
"Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux answered with
a quick, shy laugh. "How very many pictures you have!" she went on,
turning to Ralph.
"They look a good many, because they're all put together," said Ralph.
"But it's really a bad way."
"Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm so
very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph,
as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta
appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.
"Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who appeared to know
better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.
"They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady continued. "It
has rained of late so very often."
"I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henrietta. "I wanted
to get a great deal more out of you."
"I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered.
"Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies."
"I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux, looking at
her brother.
"Very good, my dear. We'll go."
"I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to see what
Miss Molyneux would do."
"I never do anything," said this young lady.
"I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!" Miss
Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you at home."
"You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to
Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend. Isabel looked into her
quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey
depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord
Warburton--the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep
security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she
said: "I'm afraid I can never come again."
"Never again?"
"I'm afraid I'm going away."
"Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so very
wrong of you."
Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and
stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture
with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.
"I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton
found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a
great many questions I wish to ask you."
"I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh answered;
"but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When
will you come?"
"Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to London,
but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some satisfaction
out of you."
"If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She won't
come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place."
"She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta.
Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same. You had better
come alone," he added.
Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. "Would you
make that remark to an English lady?" she enquired with soft asperity.
Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough."
"You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit
your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what
she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same--that I oughtn't to
bring in individuals." Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been
made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and failed
to catch her allusion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!" she therefore
went on.
"Warning me?"
"Isn't that why she came off alone with you here--to put you on your
guard?"
"Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had no such
solemn character as that."
"Well, you've been on your guard--intensely. I suppose it's natural
to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss
Molyneux--she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned, anyway,"
Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady; "but for you it wasn't
necessary."
"I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely.
"Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained. "She's a great
satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up."
"Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!"
Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this
nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. "There's something the matter with
you all; you're as dismal as if you had got a bad cable."
"You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a low tone,
giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the
gallery. "There's something the matter with us all."
Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her
immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished
floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind
him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then,
"Is it true you're going to London?" he asked.
"I believe it has been arranged."
"And when shall you come back?"
"In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to Paris
with my aunt."
"When, then, shall I see you again?"
"Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I hope."
"Do you really hope it?"
"Very much."
He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Isabel.
Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it,
without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in
which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had
stopped on her way to the salon. "I may as well tell you," said that
lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord
Warburton."
Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the
strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."
"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchett
dispassionately asked.
Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."
"Yes, but I know you better."
"I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.
"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather
conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself
and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer
like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."
"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.
| Lord Warburton and his sisters arrive at Gardencourt right before Isabel departs for London. Henrietta meets Lord Warburton and tells him that she does not approve of lords as an institution. Lord Warburton agrees, and Miss Stackpole asks why he does not give it up. Lord Warburton jokes that they'll make a ceremony of it. Isabel and Lord Warburton have a moment alone in the gallery together. He tells her he does not understand why she rejects him, and he interrogates her as to what her reasons are. Isabel at least tells him the reason is that she feels she cannot escape her fate. It's not my fate to give up," she tells him. She does not want to give up other chances. I can't escape unhappiness. In marrying you I shall be trying to," she explains. She claims it is not that she wants to be miserable, but rather that she does not want to separate herself from the "usual chances and dangers" of life. Lord Warburton promises to separate her from nothing. The rest of the group then interrupts Isabel and Lord Warburton. Isabel tells Miss Molyneux that she will not be able to visit Lockleigh again because she is going away. Henrietta declares the whole party very dismal and bad material for any article she would write about them. Before Isabel leaves, Mrs. Touchett informs her that she knows about Lord Warburton's offer. She claims to know Isabel better than Mr. Touchett does, and she says that when she refuses such an offer it is because she expects to do something better | summary |
Miss Stackpole would have prepared to start immediately; but Isabel, as
we have seen, had been notified that Lord Warburton would come again to
Gardencourt, and she believed it her duty to remain there and see him.
For four or five days he had made no response to her letter; then he had
written, very briefly, to say he would come to luncheon two days later.
There was something in these delays and postponements that touched the
girl and renewed her sense of his desire to be considerate and patient,
not to appear to urge her too grossly; a consideration the more studied
that she was so sure he "really liked" her. Isabel told her uncle she
had written to him, mentioning also his intention of coming; and the
old man, in consequence, left his room earlier than usual and made his
appearance at the two o'clock repast. This was by no means an act of
vigilance on his part, but the fruit of a benevolent belief that his
being of the company might help to cover any conjoined straying away
in case Isabel should give their noble visitor another hearing. That
personage drove over from Lockleigh and brought the elder of his sisters
with him, a measure presumably dictated by reflexions of the same order
as Mr. Touchett's. The two visitors were introduced to Miss Stackpole,
who, at luncheon, occupied a seat adjoining Lord Warburton's. Isabel,
who was nervous and had no relish for the prospect of again arguing
the question he had so prematurely opened, could not help admiring his
good-humoured self-possession, which quite disguised the symptoms of
that preoccupation with her presence it was natural she should suppose
him to feel. He neither looked at her nor spoke to her, and the only
sign of his emotion was that he avoided meeting her eyes. He had plenty
of talk for the others, however, and he appeared to eat his luncheon
with discrimination and appetite. Miss Molyneux, who had a smooth,
nun-like forehead and wore a large silver cross suspended from her neck,
was evidently preoccupied with Henrietta Stackpole, upon whom her
eyes constantly rested in a manner suggesting a conflict between deep
alienation and yearning wonder. Of the two ladies from Lockleigh she
was the one Isabel had liked best; there was such a world of hereditary
quiet in her. Isabel was sure moreover that her mild forehead and
silver cross referred to some weird Anglican mystery--some delightful
reinstitution perhaps of the quaint office of the canoness. She wondered
what Miss Molyneux would think of her if she knew Miss Archer had
refused her brother; and then she felt sure that Miss Molyneux would
never know--that Lord Warburton never told her such things. He was fond
of her and kind to her, but on the whole he told her little. Such, at
least, was Isabel's theory; when, at table, she was not occupied in
conversation she was usually occupied in forming theories about her
neighbours. According to Isabel, if Miss Molyneux should ever learn what
had passed between Miss Archer and Lord Warburton she would probably be
shocked at such a girl's failure to rise; or no, rather (this was our
heroine's last position) she would impute to the young American but a
due consciousness of inequality.
Whatever Isabel might have made of her opportunities, at all events,
Henrietta Stackpole was by no means disposed to neglect those in which
she now found herself immersed. "Do you know you're the first lord I've
ever seen?" she said very promptly to her neighbour. "I suppose you
think I'm awfully benighted."
"You've escaped seeing some very ugly men," Lord Warburton answered,
looking a trifle absently about the table.
"Are they very ugly? They try to make us believe in America that they're
all handsome and magnificent and that they wear wonderful robes and
crowns."
"Ah, the robes and crowns are gone out of fashion," said Lord Warburton,
"like your tomahawks and revolvers."
"I'm sorry for that; I think an aristocracy ought to be splendid,"
Henrietta declared. "If it's not that, what is it?"
"Oh, you know, it isn't much, at the best," her neighbour allowed.
"Won't you have a potato?"
"I don't care much for these European potatoes. I shouldn't know you
from an ordinary American gentleman."
"Do talk to me as if I were one," said Lord Warburton. "I don't see how
you manage to get on without potatoes; you must find so few things to
eat over here."
Henrietta was silent a little; there was a chance he was not sincere.
"I've had hardly any appetite since I've been here," she went on at
last; "so it doesn't much matter. I don't approve of you, you know; I
feel as if I ought to tell you that."
"Don't approve of me?"
"Yes; I don't suppose any one ever said such a thing to you before, did
they? I don't approve of lords as an institution. I think the world has
got beyond them--far beyond."
"Oh, so do I. I don't approve of myself in the least. Sometimes it comes
over me--how I should object to myself if I were not myself, don't you
know? But that's rather good, by the way--not to be vainglorious."
"Why don't you give it up then?" Miss Stackpole enquired.
"Give up--a--?" asked Lord Warburton, meeting her harsh inflexion with a
very mellow one.
"Give up being a lord."
"Oh, I'm so little of one! One would really forget all about it if you
wretched Americans were not constantly reminding one. However, I do
think of giving it up, the little there is left of it, one of these
days."
"I should like to see you do it!" Henrietta exclaimed rather grimly.
"I'll invite you to the ceremony; we'll have a supper and a dance."
"Well," said Miss Stackpole, "I like to see all sides. I don't approve
of a privileged class, but I like to hear what they have to say for
themselves."
"Mighty little, as you see!"
"I should like to draw you out a little more," Henrietta continued. "But
you're always looking away. You're afraid of meeting my eye. I see you
want to escape me."
"No, I'm only looking for those despised potatoes."
"Please explain about that young lady--your sister--then. I don't
understand about her. Is she a Lady?"
"She's a capital good girl."
"I don't like the way you say that--as if you wanted to change the
subject. Is her position inferior to yours?"
"We neither of us have any position to speak of; but she's better off
than I, because she has none of the bother."
"Yes, she doesn't look as if she had much bother. I wish I had as little
bother as that. You do produce quiet people over here, whatever else you
may do."
"Ah, you see one takes life easily, on the whole," said Lord Warburton.
"And then you know we're very dull. Ah, we can be dull when we try!"
"I should advise you to try something else. I shouldn't know what to
talk to your sister about; she looks so different. Is that silver cross
a badge?"
"A badge?"
"A sign of rank."
Lord Warburton's glance had wandered a good deal, but at this it met the
gaze of his neighbour. "Oh yes," he answered in a moment; "the women go
in for those things. The silver cross is worn by the eldest daughters of
Viscounts." Which was his harmless revenge for having occasionally had
his credulity too easily engaged in America. After luncheon he proposed
to Isabel to come into the gallery and look at the pictures; and though
she knew he had seen the pictures twenty times she complied without
criticising this pretext. Her conscience now was very easy; ever since
she sent him her letter she had felt particularly light of spirit. He
walked slowly to the end of the gallery, staring at its contents and
saying nothing; and then he suddenly broke out: "I hoped you wouldn't
write to me that way."
"It was the only way, Lord Warburton," said the girl. "Do try and
believe that."
"If I could believe it of course I should let you alone. But we can't
believe by willing it; and I confess I don't understand. I could
understand your disliking me; that I could understand well. But that you
should admit you do--"
"What have I admitted?" Isabel interrupted, turning slightly pale.
"That you think me a good fellow; isn't that it?" She said nothing,
and he went on: "You don't seem to have any reason, and that gives me a
sense of injustice."
"I have a reason, Lord Warburton." She said it in a tone that made his
heart contract.
"I should like very much to know it."
"I'll tell you some day when there's more to show for it."
"Excuse my saying that in the mean time I must doubt of it."
"You make me very unhappy," said Isabel.
"I'm not sorry for that; it may help you to know how I feel. Will you
kindly answer me a question?" Isabel made no audible assent, but he
apparently saw in her eyes something that gave him courage to go on. "Do
you prefer some one else?"
"That's a question I'd rather not answer."
"Ah, you do then!" her suitor murmured with bitterness.
The bitterness touched her, and she cried out: "You're mistaken! I
don't."
He sat down on a bench, unceremoniously, doggedly, like a man in
trouble; leaning his elbows on his knees and staring at the floor. "I
can't even be glad of that," he said at last, throwing himself back
against the wall; "for that would be an excuse."
She raised her eyebrows in surprise. "An excuse? Must I excuse myself?"
He paid, however, no answer to the question. Another idea had come into
his head. "Is it my political opinions? Do you think I go too far?"
"I can't object to your political opinions, because I don't understand
them."
"You don't care what I think!" he cried, getting up. "It's all the same
to you."
Isabel walked to the other side of the gallery and stood there showing
him her charming back, her light slim figure, the length of her white
neck as she bent her head, and the density of her dark braids. She
stopped in front of a small picture as if for the purpose of examining
it; and there was something so young and free in her movement that her
very pliancy seemed to mock at him. Her eyes, however, saw nothing; they
had suddenly been suffused with tears. In a moment he followed her, and
by this time she had brushed her tears away; but when she turned round
her face was pale and the expression of her eyes strange. "That reason
that I wouldn't tell you--I'll tell it you after all. It's that I can't
escape my fate."
"Your fate?"
"I should try to escape it if I were to marry you."
"I don't understand. Why should not that be your fate as well as
anything else?"
"Because it's not," said Isabel femininely. "I know it's not. It's not
my fate to give up--I know it can't be."
Poor Lord Warburton stared, an interrogative point in either eye. "Do
you call marrying me giving up?"
"Not in the usual sense. It's getting--getting--getting a great deal.
But it's giving up other chances."
"Other chances for what?"
"I don't mean chances to marry," said Isabel, her colour quickly coming
back to her. And then she stopped, looking down with a deep frown, as if
it were hopeless to attempt to make her meaning clear.
"I don't think it presumptuous in me to suggest that you'll gain more
than you'll lose," her companion observed.
"I can't escape unhappiness," said Isabel. "In marrying you I shall be
trying to."
"I don't know whether you'd try to, but you certainly would: that I must
in candour admit!" he exclaimed with an anxious laugh.
"I mustn't--I can't!" cried the girl.
"Well, if you're bent on being miserable I don't see why you should make
me so. Whatever charms a life of misery may have for you, it has none
for me."
"I'm not bent on a life of misery," said Isabel. "I've always been
intensely determined to be happy, and I've often believed I should be.
I've told people that; you can ask them. But it comes over me every
now and then that I can never be happy in any extraordinary way; not by
turning away, by separating myself."
"By separating yourself from what?"
"From life. From the usual chances and dangers, from what most people
know and suffer."
Lord Warburton broke into a smile that almost denoted hope. "Why,
my dear Miss Archer," he began to explain with the most considerate
eagerness, "I don't offer you any exoneration from life or from any
chances or dangers whatever. I wish I could; depend upon it I would! For
what do you take me, pray? Heaven help me, I'm not the Emperor of China!
All I offer you is the chance of taking the common lot in a comfortable
sort of way. The common lot? Why, I'm devoted to the common lot! Strike
an alliance with me, and I promise you that you shall have plenty of it.
You shall separate from nothing whatever--not even from your friend Miss
Stackpole."
"She'd never approve of it," said Isabel, trying to smile and take
advantage of this side-issue; despising herself too, not a little, for
doing so.
"Are we speaking of Miss Stackpole?" his lordship asked impatiently. "I
never saw a person judge things on such theoretic grounds."
"Now I suppose you're speaking of me," said Isabel with humility; and
she turned away again, for she saw Miss Molyneux enter the gallery,
accompanied by Henrietta and by Ralph.
Lord Warburton's sister addressed him with a certain timidity and
reminded him she ought to return home in time for tea, as she was
expecting company to partake of it. He made no answer--apparently
not having heard her; he was preoccupied, and with good reason. Miss
Molyneux--as if he had been Royalty--stood like a lady-in-waiting.
"Well, I never, Miss Molyneux!" said Henrietta Stackpole. "If I wanted
to go he'd have to go. If I wanted my brother to do a thing he'd have to
do it."
"Oh, Warburton does everything one wants," Miss Molyneux answered with
a quick, shy laugh. "How very many pictures you have!" she went on,
turning to Ralph.
"They look a good many, because they're all put together," said Ralph.
"But it's really a bad way."
"Oh, I think it's so nice. I wish we had a gallery at Lockleigh. I'm so
very fond of pictures," Miss Molyneux went on, persistently, to Ralph,
as if she were afraid Miss Stackpole would address her again. Henrietta
appeared at once to fascinate and to frighten her.
"Ah yes, pictures are very convenient," said Ralph, who appeared to know
better what style of reflexion was acceptable to her.
"They're so very pleasant when it rains," the young lady continued. "It
has rained of late so very often."
"I'm sorry you're going away, Lord Warburton," said Henrietta. "I wanted
to get a great deal more out of you."
"I'm not going away," Lord Warburton answered.
"Your sister says you must. In America the gentlemen obey the ladies."
"I'm afraid we have some people to tea," said Miss Molyneux, looking at
her brother.
"Very good, my dear. We'll go."
"I hoped you would resist!" Henrietta exclaimed. "I wanted to see what
Miss Molyneux would do."
"I never do anything," said this young lady.
"I suppose in your position it's sufficient for you to exist!" Miss
Stackpole returned. "I should like very much to see you at home."
"You must come to Lockleigh again," said Miss Molyneux, very sweetly, to
Isabel, ignoring this remark of Isabel's friend. Isabel looked into her
quiet eyes a moment, and for that moment seemed to see in their grey
depths the reflexion of everything she had rejected in rejecting Lord
Warburton--the peace, the kindness, the honour, the possessions, a deep
security and a great exclusion. She kissed Miss Molyneux and then she
said: "I'm afraid I can never come again."
"Never again?"
"I'm afraid I'm going away."
"Oh, I'm so very sorry," said Miss Molyneux. "I think that's so very
wrong of you."
Lord Warburton watched this little passage; then he turned away and
stared at a picture. Ralph, leaning against the rail before the picture
with his hands in his pockets, had for the moment been watching him.
"I should like to see you at home," said Henrietta, whom Lord Warburton
found beside him. "I should like an hour's talk with you; there are a
great many questions I wish to ask you."
"I shall be delighted to see you," the proprietor of Lockleigh answered;
"but I'm certain not to be able to answer many of your questions. When
will you come?"
"Whenever Miss Archer will take me. We're thinking of going to London,
but we'll go and see you first. I'm determined to get some satisfaction
out of you."
"If it depends upon Miss Archer I'm afraid you won't get much. She won't
come to Lockleigh; she doesn't like the place."
"She told me it was lovely!" said Henrietta.
Lord Warburton hesitated. "She won't come, all the same. You had better
come alone," he added.
Henrietta straightened herself, and her large eyes expanded. "Would you
make that remark to an English lady?" she enquired with soft asperity.
Lord Warburton stared. "Yes, if I liked her enough."
"You'd be careful not to like her enough. If Miss Archer won't visit
your place again it's because she doesn't want to take me. I know what
she thinks of me, and I suppose you think the same--that I oughtn't to
bring in individuals." Lord Warburton was at a loss; he had not been
made acquainted with Miss Stackpole's professional character and failed
to catch her allusion. "Miss Archer has been warning you!" she therefore
went on.
"Warning me?"
"Isn't that why she came off alone with you here--to put you on your
guard?"
"Oh dear, no," said Lord Warburton brazenly; "our talk had no such
solemn character as that."
"Well, you've been on your guard--intensely. I suppose it's natural
to you; that's just what I wanted to observe. And so, too, Miss
Molyneux--she wouldn't commit herself. You have been warned, anyway,"
Henrietta continued, addressing this young lady; "but for you it wasn't
necessary."
"I hope not," said Miss Molyneux vaguely.
"Miss Stackpole takes notes," Ralph soothingly explained. "She's a great
satirist; she sees through us all and she works us up."
"Well, I must say I never have had such a collection of bad material!"
Henrietta declared, looking from Isabel to Lord Warburton and from this
nobleman to his sister and to Ralph. "There's something the matter with
you all; you're as dismal as if you had got a bad cable."
"You do see through us, Miss Stackpole," said Ralph in a low tone,
giving her a little intelligent nod as he led the party out of the
gallery. "There's something the matter with us all."
Isabel came behind these two; Miss Molyneux, who decidedly liked her
immensely, had taken her arm, to walk beside her over the polished
floor. Lord Warburton strolled on the other side with his hands behind
him and his eyes lowered. For some moments he said nothing; and then,
"Is it true you're going to London?" he asked.
"I believe it has been arranged."
"And when shall you come back?"
"In a few days; but probably for a very short time. I'm going to Paris
with my aunt."
"When, then, shall I see you again?"
"Not for a good while," said Isabel. "But some day or other, I hope."
"Do you really hope it?"
"Very much."
He went a few steps in silence; then he stopped and put out his hand.
"Good-bye."
"Good-bye," said Isabel.
Miss Molyneux kissed her again, and she let the two depart. After it,
without rejoining Henrietta and Ralph, she retreated to her own room; in
which apartment, before dinner, she was found by Mrs. Touchett, who had
stopped on her way to the salon. "I may as well tell you," said that
lady, "that your uncle has informed me of your relations with Lord
Warburton."
Isabel considered. "Relations? They're hardly relations. That's the
strange part of it: he has seen me but three or four times."
"Why did you tell your uncle rather than me?" Mrs. Touchett
dispassionately asked.
Again the girl hesitated. "Because he knows Lord Warburton better."
"Yes, but I know you better."
"I'm not sure of that," said Isabel, smiling.
"Neither am I, after all; especially when you give me that rather
conceited look. One would think you were awfully pleased with yourself
and had carried off a prize! I suppose that when you refuse an offer
like Lord Warburton's it's because you expect to do something better."
"Ah, my uncle didn't say that!" cried Isabel, smiling still.
| Ralph and Henrietta do not seem to really get along -- perhaps they might remind us of friends in a TV sitcom who always make fun of each other, never see eye to eye, yet nevertheless get something out of each other's company. Ralph finds it fun to evade straightforward answers to Henrietta's questions about his own identity and function in the world, and Henrietta persists in pinning him down with one. Ralph seems to represent Europeans here -- a sick and idle, but cultured, person -- and Henrietta is the American of the "Future" who is bold, persistent and hard working. This is representative of Henry James' well-known "American Theme" in which Americans arrive in Europe, and seem to offer something new to a decadent culture. But what is it, exactly that they offer? Henrietta seems to offer straightforward, puritan values. In Chapter 12, we have what will be seen as her first great action, her refusal of Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. For any American without a fortune, this would have been seen as a great opportunity: marrying a rich, well respected Lord from England. Why does Isabel reject his marriage proposal? She tells him she has nothing to give: she could mean this in a financial sense, but she could also mean that she believes she must develop as an individual, original and independent person in order to enter into a marriage. She furthermore believes herself to be capable of an even greater opportunity: does this mean she believes another man of greater status will propose to her? Or does she think she will be able to occupy herself in life in some other way? The great idea upon which her ambition settles is unclear. What could it mean to engage in "the free exploration of life" ? It would appear that Isabel's great idea is to assert some sort of independent freedom of character, but the means of expression of such freedom does not seem to be readily available to her. It does not seem to lie in any possible occupation she could have, especially because she is not a very practical person, but rather a theoretical one. It does not seem to lie in her social relations to others, because this seems to mean that she will have to submit to a particular social system thereby losing her freedom. This leads to a more existential question that is being posed in the book: What is freedom? Can it be asserted in any other way, other than negatively? Meanwhile, the fact that Caspar Goodwood has arrived at the same time that Lord Warburton has decided to propose forms something of a climax of the first section of the novel. Isabel is presented with two possible, concrete realizations for her "idea" as to what she will do in life, and she rejects them both, although she rejects them for opposite reasons. One man is not at all likeable, and not at all her ideal; the other is perfectly an ideal of a person, and she likes him perfectly well, but she intuitively feels that she does not want to marry him. Her idea thus assumes expression only negatively here. In Chapter 14, we get some more exploration into Isabel's motivations for rejecting Lord Warburton's marriage proposal. She claims that she does not want to separate herself from "life" - from the usual chances that most people suffer. She seems to have a lust for a vague notion of experience, and she believes such experience cannot be found when one is protected from dangers through marriage. Mrs. Touchett's simple declaration ironically is the most adequate for describing Isabel's rejection -- she does think that she can "do something better." However, Mrs. Touchett is also a character that is not depicted in a flattering light; she is not the kind of person who can explore deep psychological motivations and intimate emotions. Thus we are presented with the contradiction that Isabel's "idea" on the one hand can be described adequately in a superficial manner, but that it nevertheless breeds a lot of psychological interest and vague emotions. | analysis |
On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr.
Touchett's death, a small group that might have been described by a
painter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of an
ancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gate
of Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, with
the far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that
encircle Florence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmonious
a rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses that usually
rise in groups of three or four beside it. The house had a front upon
a little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupied a part of the
hill-top; and this front, pierced with a few windows in irregular
relations and furnished with a stone bench lengthily adjusted to the
base of the structure and useful as a lounging-place to one or two
persons wearing more or less of that air of undervalued merit which in
Italy, for some reason or other, always gracefully invests any one who
confidently assumes a perfectly passive attitude--this antique,
solid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommunicative
character. It was the mask, not the face of the house. It had heavy
lids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another way--looked off
behind, into splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light.
In that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the long
valley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in
the manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses
and other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of the
terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the ground
declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not,
however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on this
bright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer the
shady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you saw
them from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremely
architectural; but their function seemed less to offer communication
with the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massively
cross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on
tiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by a
row of three of these jealous apertures--one of the several distinct
apartments into which the villa was divided and which were mainly
occupied by foreigners of random race long resident in Florence--a
gentleman was seated in company with a young girl and two good sisters
from a religious house. The room was, however, less sombre than our
indications may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, which
now stood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall iron
lattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italian
sunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury, telling
of arrangements subtly studied and refinements frankly proclaimed, and
containing a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry,
those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angular
specimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, those
perverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy
has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept
terms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had
been made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the
chairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a
writing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London
and the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines
and newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in
water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel
before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young
girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture
in silence.
Silence--absolute silence--had not fallen upon her companions; but their
talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sisters
had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitude
expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of
prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of
business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened
linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an
advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a
fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner
than her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which
apparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her
hat--an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her
plain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must already
have been "let out." The gentleman who might have been supposed to be
entertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of
his function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the very
meek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly much
occupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back to
him his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man of
forty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense,
but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow,
extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just
this effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to
which the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut
in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted
by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish,
gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a
gentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyes
at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of
the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that
he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he
sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine
his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs
that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one.
If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some
French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he
was, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general
circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a
special occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure,
and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man
dresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar
things.
"Well, my dear, what do you think of it?" he asked of the young girl. He
used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would
not have convinced you he was Italian.
The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. "It's
very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?"
"Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?"
"Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures." And
she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and
intensely sweet smile.
"You should have brought me a specimen of your powers."
"I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk."
"She draws very--very carefully," the elder of the nuns remarked,
speaking in French.
"I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?"
"Happily no," said the good sister, blushing a little. "Ce n'est pas ma
partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've an
excellent drawing-master, Mr.--Mr.--what is his name?" she asked of her
companion.
Her companion looked about at the carpet. "It's a German name," she said
in Italian, as if it needed to be translated.
"Yes," the other went on, "he's a German, and we've had him many years."
The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away
to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden.
"And you, my sister, are French," said the gentleman.
"Yes, sir," the visitor gently replied. "I speak to the pupils in my
own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other
countries--English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper
language."
The gentleman gave a smile. "Has my daughter been under the care of one
of the Irish ladies?" And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected
a joke, though failing to understand it, "You're very complete," he
instantly added.
"Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of the
best."
"We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark. "But not
dangerous."
"I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?" A question which provoked much candid
hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their
entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown.
"Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain--not big," said the
French sister.
"I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books--very good and not too long.
But I know," the gentleman said, "no particular reason why my child
should be short."
The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might
be beyond our knowledge. "She's in very good health; that's the best
thing."
"Yes, she looks sound." And the young girl's father watched her a
moment. "What do you see in the garden?" he asked in French.
"I see many flowers," she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an
accent as good as his own.
"Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and
gather some for ces dames."
The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. "May I,
truly?"
"Ah, when I tell you," said her father.
The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. "May I, truly, ma mere?"
"Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister, blushing again.
The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the
threshold and was presently lost to sight. "You don't spoil them," said
her father gaily.
"For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is freely
granted, but they must ask it."
"Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent. I
sent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith."
"One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her
spectacles.
"Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?"
The sister dropped her eyes a moment. "A good Christian, monsieur."
Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement
had in each case a different spring. "Yes, and what else?"
He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say
that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she
was not so crude as that. "A charming young lady--a real little woman--a
daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment."
"She seems to me very gentille," said the father. "She's really pretty."
"She's perfect. She has no faults."
"She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her none."
"We love her too much," said the spectacled sister with dignity.
"And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'est
pas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say. We've
had her since she was so small."
"Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss most,"
the younger woman murmured deferentially.
"Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shall hold her
up to the new ones." And at this the good sister appeared to find her
spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently
drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.
"It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet," their host
rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone
of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. "We should be very
happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us."
"Oh," exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used,
"it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her
always!"
"Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, "good as
she is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera."
"If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world
get on?" her companion softly enquired, rising also.
This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently
supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying
comfortably: "Fortunately there are good people everywhere."
"If you're going there will be two less here," her host remarked
gallantly.
For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they
simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion
was speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large
bunches of roses--one of them all white, the other red.
"I give you your choice, mamman Catherine," said the child. "It's only
the colour that's different, mamman Justine; there are just as many
roses in one bunch as in the other."
The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with
"Which will you take?" and "No, it's for you to choose."
"I'll take the red, thank you," said Catherine in the spectacles. "I'm
so red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to Rome."
"Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. "I wish I could give you
something that would last!"
"You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will
last!"
"I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,"
the child went on.
"And do you go back to Rome to-night?" her father enquired.
"Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas."
"Are you not tired?"
"We are never tired."
"Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress.
"Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vous
garde, ma fine."
Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward
to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he
gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened
into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red
tiles; and into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by a
servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the
apartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door,
after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady
advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her no
hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold
she hesitated. "Is there any one?" she asked.
"Some one you may see."
She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their
pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of
each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who
had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little
soft cry: "Ah, Madame Merle!"
The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant
was none the less gracious. "Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you
home." And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up
to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this
portion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two
nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted
themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who
seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer
world. "These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return
to the convent," the gentleman explained.
"Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very lovely
now," said Madame Merle.
The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves,
accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked
his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. "She came to
see me at the convent," said the young girl before the lady addressed
had time to reply.
"I've been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle declared. "Am I not your
great friend in Rome?"
"I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you told me I
should come away."
"Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked.
"I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've
been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me."
"I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't know
such things by inspiration--though I suppose one ought. You had better
sit down."
These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice--a tone
half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any
definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. "You're
going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the
ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in French, to the nuns,
as if to dismiss them.
"This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the
convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in her judgement,
and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at
the end of the holidays."
"I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister in spectacles
ventured to remark.
"That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Madame Merle,
but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a very good school, but
Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant for
the world."
"That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered. "It's
precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancing at Pansy,
who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegant
apparel.
"Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world,"
said Pansy's father.
The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "Am I not meant
for you, papa?"
Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the
world, Pansy."
"Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be good and wise
and happy in any case, my daughter."
"I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned, recommencing
her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.
"Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takes the good
ladies to the door."
Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently
impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who
took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the
operation of her fate. "May I not see mamman Catherine get into the
carriage?" she nevertheless asked very gently.
"It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Madame Merle,
while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the
other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.
"Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle,
surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of
the window; her eyes had filled with tears.
"I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle. "That's what
good little girls should do."
"Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with
boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then
she gave a faint, just audible sigh.
Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and
looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate;
the child's small hand was delicate and fair. "I hope they always see
that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little girls usually
dislike them."
"I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child made answer.
"Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen."
"I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded with
interest.
Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours."
"But very pretty?"
"Are you very fond of pretty things?"
"Yes; but--but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of asceticism.
"Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned with a laugh.
She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which,
looking at her a moment, "Shall you miss mother Catherine?" she went on.
"Yes--when I think of her."
"Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame Merle,
"you'll have another mother."
"I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little soft
conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the convent."
Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got
up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then,
without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into
their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him
as he moved about. Then at last she said: "I hoped you'd have come to
Rome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansy
away."
"That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first time
I've acted in defiance of your calculations."
"Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse."
Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room--there was plenty of
space in it to move about--in the fashion of a man mechanically
seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing.
Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing
left for him--unless he took up a book--but to stand with his hands
behind him looking at Pansy. "Why didn't you come and see the last of
mamman Catherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French.
Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "I asked her to stay
with me," said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.
"Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a
chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows
on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.
"She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy.
"You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle observed.
"You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to have
everything she needs."
"I should think she had had enough of the nuns."
"If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the
room."
"Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something else."
"If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appearance of
candour which imposed conviction.
"You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand," her
father replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door,
within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent,
wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to
his other companion. "You're looking particularly well."
"I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle.
"You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman."
"Yes, I think I am."
"You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return
from England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present."
"I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my
intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have
lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain."
"That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your
friends."
Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less characteristic than
your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however,
make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what
you say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my
friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself."
"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of every
one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so
many other lives."
"What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's appearance,
one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?"
"I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond.
Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she understands
that," she murmured.
"You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a
joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two
for Madame Merle," he went on in French.
"That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with
promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the
open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained
standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of
freedom which in another attitude might be wanting.
"My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking up at
him with a certain courage.
"That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousand
others. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish,
what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?"
"You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault."
"I'm afraid it's really my best."
"You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely.
"No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that?
My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome.
But it was only one of them."
"It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though I
should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--which
you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago.
There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence."
"Please remember my indolence," said Osmond.
"I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll have
both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it
may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new
acquaintance?"
"I don't think I've made any since I made yours."
"It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine I want
you to know."
Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and was
looking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine.
"What good will it do me?" he asked with a sort of genial crudity.
Madame Merle waited. "It will amuse you." There was nothing crude in
this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered.
"If you say that, you know, I believe it," said Osmond, coming toward
her. "There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete.
I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad."
"Society is all bad."
"Pardon me. That isn't--the knowledge I impute to you--a common sort
of wisdom. You've gained it in the right way--experimentally; you've
compared an immense number of more or less impossible people with each
other."
"Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge."
"To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?"
"It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induce
you to make an effort!"
"Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in the
world--that's likely to turn up here--is worth an effort?"
Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. "Don't be foolish,
Osmond. No one knows better than you what IS worth an effort. Haven't I
seen you in old days?"
"I recognise some things. But they're none of them probable in this poor
life."
"It's the effort that makes them probable," said Madame Merle.
"There's something in that. Who then is your friend?"
"The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs. Touchett,
whom you'll not have forgotten."
"A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you're
coming to."
"Yes, she's young--twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of mine.
I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we
struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don't
do every day--I admire her. You'll do the same."
"Not if I can help it."
"Precisely. But you won't be able to help it."
"Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and
unprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I care to
make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak
to me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that description. I know
plenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any more."
"Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. She
corresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to know her.
She fills all your requirements."
"More or less, of course."
"No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for
an American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable, and she
has a handsome fortune."
Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his
mind with his eyes on his informant. "What do you want to do with her?"
he asked at last.
"What you see. Put her in your way."
"Isn't she meant for something better than that?"
"I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said Madame Merle.
"I only know what I can do with them."
"I'm sorry for Miss Archer!" Osmond declared.
Madame Merle got up. "If that's a beginning of interest in her I take
note of it."
The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking down
at it as she did so. "You're looking very well," Osmond repeated still
less relevantly than before. "You have some idea. You're never so well
as when you've got an idea; they're always becoming to you."
In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any
juncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, was
something indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each other
obliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of
each appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the
self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off any
embarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not
on this occasion the form she would have liked to have--the perfect
self-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point to
be made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them,
whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closely
face to face than either ever was with any one else. This was what had
happened now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on the
whole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensation
for the inconvenience--whatever it might be--of being known. "I wish
very much you were not so heartless," Madame Merle quietly said. "It has
always been against you, and it will be against you now."
"I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touches
me--as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are for
me. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they should be. But it
touches me, all the same."
"You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are some
things you'll never understand. There's no particular need you should."
"You, after all, are the most remarkable of women," said Osmond. "You
have more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think Mrs.
Touchett's niece should matter very much to me, when--when--" But he
paused a moment.
"When I myself have mattered so little?"
"That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known and
appreciated such a woman as you."
"Isabel Archer's better than I," said Madame Merle.
Her companion gave a laugh. "How little you must think of her to say
that!"
"Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that."
"With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't."
"Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs.
Touchett's--Palazzo Crescentini--and the girl will be there."
"Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the
girl?" said Osmond. "You could have had her there at any rate."
Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he
could ever put would find unprepared. "Do you wish to know why? Because
I've spoken of you to her."
Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not know that." Then in
a moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour
drawing. "Have you seen what's there--my last?"
Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the Venetian Alps--one of
your last year's sketches?"
"Yes--but how you guess everything!"
She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I don't care for
your drawings."
"I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much
better than most people's."
"That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's so
little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were
my ambitions."
"Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible."
"Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And then in quite a
different tone: "In itself your little picture's very good." She looked
about the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces
of faded silk. "Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with that
afresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand
this sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste."
"I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond.
"You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told her
about it."
"I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots."
"You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to
particular advantage."
Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder
and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?"
"She has seventy thousand pounds."
"En ecus bien comptes?"
"There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may
say."
"Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see the
mother?"
"The mother? She has none--nor father either."
"The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep her
out of the way."
"I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs. Touchett.
She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivid
identity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?"
"He's there, but he won't trouble you."
"He's a good deal of a donkey."
"I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not fond of
being about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me."
"What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?"
Osmond went on.
"Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them.
Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you."
"A beginning of what?"
Madame Merle was silent a little. "I want you of course to marry her."
"The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you told her
that?"
"For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of machinery--nor
am I."
"Really," said Osmond after some meditation, "I don't understand your
ambitions."
"I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer.
Suspend your judgement." Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the
open door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. "Pansy
has really grown pretty," she presently added.
"So it seemed to me."
"But she has had enough of the convent."
"I don't know," said Osmond. "I like what they've made of her. It's very
charming."
"That's not the convent. It's the child's nature."
"It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl."
"Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?" Madame Merle asked.
"She's not in a hurry."
"We'll go and get them."
"She doesn't like me," the visitor murmured as she raised her parasol
and they passed into the garden.
| Six months after Mr. Touchett's death, we are told about an exchange between Madame Merle and her friend Gilbert Osmond. Gilbert Osmond lives in his own house in Florence. The house is described as a "face" that seems to have heavy lids, but no eyes. It windows are described as defying the world to look inside, rather than being communicative. Inside, there is much padded furniture, tapestries, watercolor paintings, a gentleman named Gilbert Osmond, his daughter Pansy, and two nuns. Gilbert Osmond is described as having a studied look, with intelligent and observant eyes. His appearance suggests a "fine gold coin" but one that is not in the "general circulation". The child, Pansy, is studying a painting done by her father. The nuns report on the girl's education, describing the languages she has been exposed to, the drawing teacher, the sports she engages in, and so forth. He asks what they have made of her, and they respond that they have made her a Christian, and a "charming young lady" in whom there will be nothing but "contentment". Little Pansy is described as being perfect and very much loved by the sisters of the convent. She is 15 years old. Madame Merle arrives as the nuns are leaving to go back to Rome. Merle has apparently gone to see Pansy at the convent before, and will give some counsel as to how long Pansy will be educated in the convent. When the nuns leave, Osmond suggests that they send Pansy out while they discuss whether or not she will stay in the convent. Madame Merle says that they do not need to because the subject of their conversation will be something that Pansy does not understand. At the same time that Madame Merle brings up what is on her mind, Osmond notes that she is always doing things for her friends. Madame Merle declares that she cares greatly for her own self. Osmond retorts, "Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of everyone else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so many others. Madame Merle retorts: "What do you call one's life. They end up sending Pansy away after this exchange. Madame Merle tells Osmond that she will introduce him to Isabel. She tells him that he will "profit" by her knowledge of Isabel. Osmond asks if he will indeed "profit". He asks if Isabel is "beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent, and unprecedentedly virtuous" , saying that he will only meet with her if that is the case. Madame Merle responds that Isabel is all of the above. He asks Merle what he means to "do" with Isabel. Madame Merle tells him that she will merely put Isabel in his way. I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," she says, "I only know what I can do with them". Osmond expresses sympathy for Isabel. He then compliments Merle for looking well; he knows that she has some "idea" and that it looks rather becoming on her. For once, Madame Merle loses her self-possession, and the two have a moment of looking each other face to face at an equal level. They both see it as an inconvenient to be known, but because it is mutual they are willing to accept this situation. Merle wishes to Osmond that he were not so heartless. She takes a look at Osmond's picture and notes that she does not care for it. He believes his drawings are better than others'. Merle wishes he had had other ambitions, and he says that this is impossible. Merle compliments him on the taste in his well-furnished rooms. Osmond asks once again if Miss Archer is rich, and Merle lets him know the exact number: she has seventy thousand pounds. Merle tells him that she wishes him to marry Isabel. Osmond says he does not understand her ambitions. Merle notes that Pansy has had enough of the convent. She also remarks that Pansy does not seem to like her, even though the child is as "pure as a pearl" | summary |
On one of the first days of May, some six months after old Mr.
Touchett's death, a small group that might have been described by a
painter as composing well was gathered in one of the many rooms of an
ancient villa crowning an olive-muffled hill outside of the Roman gate
of Florence. The villa was a long, rather blank-looking structure, with
the far-projecting roof which Tuscany loves and which, on the hills that
encircle Florence, when considered from a distance, makes so harmonious
a rectangle with the straight, dark, definite cypresses that usually
rise in groups of three or four beside it. The house had a front upon
a little grassy, empty, rural piazza which occupied a part of the
hill-top; and this front, pierced with a few windows in irregular
relations and furnished with a stone bench lengthily adjusted to the
base of the structure and useful as a lounging-place to one or two
persons wearing more or less of that air of undervalued merit which in
Italy, for some reason or other, always gracefully invests any one who
confidently assumes a perfectly passive attitude--this antique,
solid, weather-worn, yet imposing front had a somewhat incommunicative
character. It was the mask, not the face of the house. It had heavy
lids, but no eyes; the house in reality looked another way--looked off
behind, into splendid openness and the range of the afternoon light.
In that quarter the villa overhung the slope of its hill and the long
valley of the Arno, hazy with Italian colour. It had a narrow garden, in
the manner of a terrace, productive chiefly of tangles of wild roses
and other old stone benches, mossy and sun-warmed. The parapet of the
terrace was just the height to lean upon, and beneath it the ground
declined into the vagueness of olive-crops and vineyards. It is not,
however, with the outside of the place that we are concerned; on this
bright morning of ripened spring its tenants had reason to prefer the
shady side of the wall. The windows of the ground-floor, as you saw
them from the piazza, were, in their noble proportions, extremely
architectural; but their function seemed less to offer communication
with the world than to defy the world to look in. They were massively
cross-barred, and placed at such a height that curiosity, even on
tiptoe, expired before it reached them. In an apartment lighted by a
row of three of these jealous apertures--one of the several distinct
apartments into which the villa was divided and which were mainly
occupied by foreigners of random race long resident in Florence--a
gentleman was seated in company with a young girl and two good sisters
from a religious house. The room was, however, less sombre than our
indications may have represented, for it had a wide, high door, which
now stood open into the tangled garden behind; and the tall iron
lattices admitted on occasion more than enough of the Italian
sunshine. It was moreover a seat of ease, indeed of luxury, telling
of arrangements subtly studied and refinements frankly proclaimed, and
containing a variety of those faded hangings of damask and tapestry,
those chests and cabinets of carved and time-polished oak, those angular
specimens of pictorial art in frames as pedantically primitive, those
perverse-looking relics of medieval brass and pottery, of which Italy
has long been the not quite exhausted storehouse. These things kept
terms with articles of modern furniture in which large allowance had
been made for a lounging generation; it was to be noticed that all the
chairs were deep and well padded and that much space was occupied by a
writing-table of which the ingenious perfection bore the stamp of London
and the nineteenth century. There were books in profusion and magazines
and newspapers, and a few small, odd, elaborate pictures, chiefly in
water-colour. One of these productions stood on a drawing-room easel
before which, at the moment we begin to be concerned with her, the young
girl I have mentioned had placed herself. She was looking at the picture
in silence.
Silence--absolute silence--had not fallen upon her companions; but their
talk had an appearance of embarrassed continuity. The two good sisters
had not settled themselves in their respective chairs; their attitude
expressed a final reserve and their faces showed the glaze of
prudence. They were plain, ample, mild-featured women, with a kind of
business-like modesty to which the impersonal aspect of their stiffened
linen and of the serge that draped them as if nailed on frames gave an
advantage. One of them, a person of a certain age, in spectacles, with a
fresh complexion and a full cheek, had a more discriminating manner
than her colleague, as well as the responsibility of their errand, which
apparently related to the young girl. This object of interest wore her
hat--an ornament of extreme simplicity and not at variance with her
plain muslin gown, too short for her years, though it must already
have been "let out." The gentleman who might have been supposed to be
entertaining the two nuns was perhaps conscious of the difficulties of
his function, it being in its way as arduous to converse with the very
meek as with the very mighty. At the same time he was clearly much
occupied with their quiet charge, and while she turned her back to
him his eyes rested gravely on her slim, small figure. He was a man of
forty, with a high but well-shaped head, on which the hair, still dense,
but prematurely grizzled, had been cropped close. He had a fine, narrow,
extremely modelled and composed face, of which the only fault was just
this effect of its running a trifle too much to points; an appearance to
which the shape of the beard contributed not a little. This beard, cut
in the manner of the portraits of the sixteenth century and surmounted
by a fair moustache, of which the ends had a romantic upward flourish,
gave its wearer a foreign, traditionary look and suggested that he was a
gentleman who studied style. His conscious, curious eyes, however, eyes
at once vague and penetrating, intelligent and hard, expressive of
the observer as well as of the dreamer, would have assured you that
he studied it only within well-chosen limits, and that in so far as he
sought it he found it. You would have been much at a loss to determine
his original clime and country; he had none of the superficial signs
that usually render the answer to this question an insipidly easy one.
If he had English blood in his veins it had probably received some
French or Italian commixture; but he suggested, fine gold coin as he
was, no stamp nor emblem of the common mintage that provides for general
circulation; he was the elegant complicated medal struck off for a
special occasion. He had a light, lean, rather languid-looking figure,
and was apparently neither tall nor short. He was dressed as a man
dresses who takes little other trouble about it than to have no vulgar
things.
"Well, my dear, what do you think of it?" he asked of the young girl. He
used the Italian tongue, and used it with perfect ease; but this would
not have convinced you he was Italian.
The child turned her head earnestly to one side and the other. "It's
very pretty, papa. Did you make it yourself?"
"Certainly I made it. Don't you think I'm clever?"
"Yes, papa, very clever; I also have learned to make pictures." And
she turned round and showed a small, fair face painted with a fixed and
intensely sweet smile.
"You should have brought me a specimen of your powers."
"I've brought a great many; they're in my trunk."
"She draws very--very carefully," the elder of the nuns remarked,
speaking in French.
"I'm glad to hear it. Is it you who have instructed her?"
"Happily no," said the good sister, blushing a little. "Ce n'est pas ma
partie. I teach nothing; I leave that to those who are wiser. We've an
excellent drawing-master, Mr.--Mr.--what is his name?" she asked of her
companion.
Her companion looked about at the carpet. "It's a German name," she said
in Italian, as if it needed to be translated.
"Yes," the other went on, "he's a German, and we've had him many years."
The young girl, who was not heeding the conversation, had wandered away
to the open door of the large room and stood looking into the garden.
"And you, my sister, are French," said the gentleman.
"Yes, sir," the visitor gently replied. "I speak to the pupils in my
own tongue. I know no other. But we have sisters of other
countries--English, German, Irish. They all speak their proper
language."
The gentleman gave a smile. "Has my daughter been under the care of one
of the Irish ladies?" And then, as he saw that his visitors suspected
a joke, though failing to understand it, "You're very complete," he
instantly added.
"Oh, yes, we're complete. We've everything, and everything's of the
best."
"We have gymnastics," the Italian sister ventured to remark. "But not
dangerous."
"I hope not. Is that YOUR branch?" A question which provoked much candid
hilarity on the part of the two ladies; on the subsidence of which their
entertainer, glancing at his daughter, remarked that she had grown.
"Yes, but I think she has finished. She'll remain--not big," said the
French sister.
"I'm not sorry. I prefer women like books--very good and not too long.
But I know," the gentleman said, "no particular reason why my child
should be short."
The nun gave a temperate shrug, as if to intimate that such things might
be beyond our knowledge. "She's in very good health; that's the best
thing."
"Yes, she looks sound." And the young girl's father watched her a
moment. "What do you see in the garden?" he asked in French.
"I see many flowers," she replied in a sweet, small voice and with an
accent as good as his own.
"Yes, but not many good ones. However, such as they are, go out and
gather some for ces dames."
The child turned to him with her smile heightened by pleasure. "May I,
truly?"
"Ah, when I tell you," said her father.
The girl glanced at the elder of the nuns. "May I, truly, ma mere?"
"Obey monsieur your father, my child," said the sister, blushing again.
The child, satisfied with this authorisation, descended from the
threshold and was presently lost to sight. "You don't spoil them," said
her father gaily.
"For everything they must ask leave. That's our system. Leave is freely
granted, but they must ask it."
"Oh, I don't quarrel with your system; I've no doubt it's excellent. I
sent you my daughter to see what you'd make of her. I had faith."
"One must have faith," the sister blandly rejoined, gazing through her
spectacles.
"Well, has my faith been rewarded? What have you made of her?"
The sister dropped her eyes a moment. "A good Christian, monsieur."
Her host dropped his eyes as well; but it was probable that the movement
had in each case a different spring. "Yes, and what else?"
He watched the lady from the convent, probably thinking she would say
that a good Christian was everything; but for all her simplicity she
was not so crude as that. "A charming young lady--a real little woman--a
daughter in whom you will have nothing but contentment."
"She seems to me very gentille," said the father. "She's really pretty."
"She's perfect. She has no faults."
"She never had any as a child, and I'm glad you have given her none."
"We love her too much," said the spectacled sister with dignity.
"And as for faults, how can we give what we have not? Le couvent n'est
pas comme le monde, monsieur. She's our daughter, as you may say. We've
had her since she was so small."
"Of all those we shall lose this year she's the one we shall miss most,"
the younger woman murmured deferentially.
"Ah, yes, we shall talk long of her," said the other. "We shall hold her
up to the new ones." And at this the good sister appeared to find her
spectacles dim; while her companion, after fumbling a moment, presently
drew forth a pocket-handkerchief of durable texture.
"It's not certain you'll lose her; nothing's settled yet," their host
rejoined quickly; not as if to anticipate their tears, but in the tone
of a man saying what was most agreeable to himself. "We should be very
happy to believe that. Fifteen is very young to leave us."
"Oh," exclaimed the gentleman with more vivacity than he had yet used,
"it is not I who wish to take her away. I wish you could keep her
always!"
"Ah, monsieur," said the elder sister, smiling and getting up, "good as
she is, she's made for the world. Le monde y gagnera."
"If all the good people were hidden away in convents how would the world
get on?" her companion softly enquired, rising also.
This was a question of a wider bearing than the good woman apparently
supposed; and the lady in spectacles took a harmonising view by saying
comfortably: "Fortunately there are good people everywhere."
"If you're going there will be two less here," her host remarked
gallantly.
For this extravagant sally his simple visitors had no answer, and they
simply looked at each other in decent deprecation; but their confusion
was speedily covered by the return of the young girl with two large
bunches of roses--one of them all white, the other red.
"I give you your choice, mamman Catherine," said the child. "It's only
the colour that's different, mamman Justine; there are just as many
roses in one bunch as in the other."
The two sisters turned to each other, smiling and hesitating, with
"Which will you take?" and "No, it's for you to choose."
"I'll take the red, thank you," said Catherine in the spectacles. "I'm
so red myself. They'll comfort us on our way back to Rome."
"Ah, they won't last," cried the young girl. "I wish I could give you
something that would last!"
"You've given us a good memory of yourself, my daughter. That will
last!"
"I wish nuns could wear pretty things. I would give you my blue beads,"
the child went on.
"And do you go back to Rome to-night?" her father enquired.
"Yes, we take the train again. We've so much to do la-bas."
"Are you not tired?"
"We are never tired."
"Ah, my sister, sometimes," murmured the junior votaress.
"Not to-day, at any rate. We have rested too well here. Que Dieu vous
garde, ma fine."
Their host, while they exchanged kisses with his daughter, went forward
to open the door through which they were to pass; but as he did so he
gave a slight exclamation, and stood looking beyond. The door opened
into a vaulted ante-chamber, as high as a chapel and paved with red
tiles; and into this antechamber a lady had just been admitted by a
servant, a lad in shabby livery, who was now ushering her toward the
apartment in which our friends were grouped. The gentleman at the door,
after dropping his exclamation, remained silent; in silence too the lady
advanced. He gave her no further audible greeting and offered her no
hand, but stood aside to let her pass into the saloon. At the threshold
she hesitated. "Is there any one?" she asked.
"Some one you may see."
She went in and found herself confronted with the two nuns and their
pupil, who was coming forward, between them, with a hand in the arm of
each. At the sight of the new visitor they all paused, and the lady, who
had also stopped, stood looking at them. The young girl gave a little
soft cry: "Ah, Madame Merle!"
The visitor had been slightly startled, but her manner the next instant
was none the less gracious. "Yes, it's Madame Merle, come to welcome you
home." And she held out two hands to the girl, who immediately came up
to her, presenting her forehead to be kissed. Madame Merle saluted this
portion of her charming little person and then stood smiling at the two
nuns. They acknowledged her smile with a decent obeisance, but permitted
themselves no direct scrutiny of this imposing, brilliant woman, who
seemed to bring in with her something of the radiance of the outer
world. "These ladies have brought my daughter home, and now they return
to the convent," the gentleman explained.
"Ah, you go back to Rome? I've lately come from there. It's very lovely
now," said Madame Merle.
The good sisters, standing with their hands folded into their sleeves,
accepted this statement uncritically; and the master of the house asked
his new visitor how long it was since she had left Rome. "She came to
see me at the convent," said the young girl before the lady addressed
had time to reply.
"I've been more than once, Pansy," Madame Merle declared. "Am I not your
great friend in Rome?"
"I remember the last time best," said Pansy, "because you told me I
should come away."
"Did you tell her that?" the child's father asked.
"I hardly remember. I told her what I thought would please her. I've
been in Florence a week. I hoped you would come to see me."
"I should have done so if I had known you were there. One doesn't know
such things by inspiration--though I suppose one ought. You had better
sit down."
These two speeches were made in a particular tone of voice--a tone
half-lowered and carefully quiet, but as from habit rather than from any
definite need. Madame Merle looked about her, choosing her seat. "You're
going to the door with these women? Let me of course not interrupt the
ceremony. Je vous salue, mesdames," she added, in French, to the nuns,
as if to dismiss them.
"This lady's a great friend of ours; you will have seen her at the
convent," said their entertainer. "We've much faith in her judgement,
and she'll help me to decide whether my daughter shall return to you at
the end of the holidays."
"I hope you'll decide in our favour, madame," the sister in spectacles
ventured to remark.
"That's Mr. Osmond's pleasantry; I decide nothing," said Madame Merle,
but also as in pleasantry. "I believe you've a very good school, but
Miss Osmond's friends must remember that she's very naturally meant for
the world."
"That's what I've told monsieur," sister Catherine answered. "It's
precisely to fit her for the world," she murmured, glancing at Pansy,
who stood, at a little distance, attentive to Madame Merle's elegant
apparel.
"Do you hear that, Pansy? You're very naturally meant for the world,"
said Pansy's father.
The child fixed him an instant with her pure young eyes. "Am I not meant
for you, papa?"
Papa gave a quick, light laugh. "That doesn't prevent it! I'm of the
world, Pansy."
"Kindly permit us to retire," said sister Catherine. "Be good and wise
and happy in any case, my daughter."
"I shall certainly come back and see you," Pansy returned, recommencing
her embraces, which were presently interrupted by Madame Merle.
"Stay with me, dear child," she said, "while your father takes the good
ladies to the door."
Pansy stared, disappointed, yet not protesting. She was evidently
impregnated with the idea of submission, which was due to any one who
took the tone of authority; and she was a passive spectator of the
operation of her fate. "May I not see mamman Catherine get into the
carriage?" she nevertheless asked very gently.
"It would please me better if you'd remain with me," said Madame Merle,
while Mr. Osmond and his companions, who had bowed low again to the
other visitor, passed into the ante-chamber.
"Oh yes, I'll stay," Pansy answered; and she stood near Madame Merle,
surrendering her little hand, which this lady took. She stared out of
the window; her eyes had filled with tears.
"I'm glad they've taught you to obey," said Madame Merle. "That's what
good little girls should do."
"Oh yes, I obey very well," cried Pansy with soft eagerness, almost with
boastfulness, as if she had been speaking of her piano-playing. And then
she gave a faint, just audible sigh.
Madame Merle, holding her hand, drew it across her own fine palm and
looked at it. The gaze was critical, but it found nothing to deprecate;
the child's small hand was delicate and fair. "I hope they always see
that you wear gloves," she said in a moment. "Little girls usually
dislike them."
"I used to dislike them, but I like them now," the child made answer.
"Very good, I'll make you a present of a dozen."
"I thank you very much. What colours will they be?" Pansy demanded with
interest.
Madame Merle meditated. "Useful colours."
"But very pretty?"
"Are you very fond of pretty things?"
"Yes; but--but not too fond," said Pansy with a trace of asceticism.
"Well, they won't be too pretty," Madame Merle returned with a laugh.
She took the child's other hand and drew her nearer; after which,
looking at her a moment, "Shall you miss mother Catherine?" she went on.
"Yes--when I think of her."
"Try then not to think of her. Perhaps some day," added Madame Merle,
"you'll have another mother."
"I don't think that's necessary," Pansy said, repeating her little soft
conciliatory sigh. "I had more than thirty mothers at the convent."
Her father's step sounded again in the antechamber, and Madame Merle got
up, releasing the child. Mr. Osmond came in and closed the door; then,
without looking at Madame Merle, he pushed one or two chairs back into
their places. His visitor waited a moment for him to speak, watching him
as he moved about. Then at last she said: "I hoped you'd have come to
Rome. I thought it possible you'd have wished yourself to fetch Pansy
away."
"That was a natural supposition; but I'm afraid it's not the first time
I've acted in defiance of your calculations."
"Yes," said Madame Merle, "I think you very perverse."
Mr. Osmond busied himself for a moment in the room--there was plenty of
space in it to move about--in the fashion of a man mechanically
seeking pretexts for not giving an attention which may be embarrassing.
Presently, however, he had exhausted his pretexts; there was nothing
left for him--unless he took up a book--but to stand with his hands
behind him looking at Pansy. "Why didn't you come and see the last of
mamman Catherine?" he asked of her abruptly in French.
Pansy hesitated a moment, glancing at Madame Merle. "I asked her to stay
with me," said this lady, who had seated herself again in another place.
"Ah, that was better," Osmond conceded. With which he dropped into a
chair and sat looking at Madame Merle; bent forward a little, his elbows
on the edge of the arms and his hands interlocked.
"She's going to give me some gloves," said Pansy.
"You needn't tell that to every one, my dear," Madame Merle observed.
"You're very kind to her," said Osmond. "She's supposed to have
everything she needs."
"I should think she had had enough of the nuns."
"If we're going to discuss that matter she had better go out of the
room."
"Let her stay," said Madame Merle. "We'll talk of something else."
"If you like I won't listen," Pansy suggested with an appearance of
candour which imposed conviction.
"You may listen, charming child, because you won't understand," her
father replied. The child sat down, deferentially, near the open door,
within sight of the garden, into which she directed her innocent,
wistful eyes; and Mr. Osmond went on irrelevantly, addressing himself to
his other companion. "You're looking particularly well."
"I think I always look the same," said Madame Merle.
"You always ARE the same. You don't vary. You're a wonderful woman."
"Yes, I think I am."
"You sometimes change your mind, however. You told me on your return
from England that you wouldn't leave Rome again for the present."
"I'm pleased that you remember so well what I say. That was my
intention. But I've come to Florence to meet some friends who have
lately arrived and as to whose movements I was at that time uncertain."
"That reason's characteristic. You're always doing something for your
friends."
Madame Merle smiled straight at her host. "It's less characteristic than
your comment upon it which is perfectly insincere. I don't, however,
make a crime of that," she added, "because if you don't believe what
you say there's no reason why you should. I don't ruin myself for my
friends; I don't deserve your praise. I care greatly for myself."
"Exactly; but yourself includes so many other selves--so much of every
one else and of everything. I never knew a person whose life touched so
many other lives."
"What do you call one's life?" asked Madame Merle. "One's appearance,
one's movements, one's engagements, one's society?"
"I call YOUR life your ambitions," said Osmond.
Madame Merle looked a moment at Pansy. "I wonder if she understands
that," she murmured.
"You see she can't stay with us!" And Pansy's father gave rather a
joyless smile. "Go into the garden, mignonne, and pluck a flower or two
for Madame Merle," he went on in French.
"That's just what I wanted to do," Pansy exclaimed, rising with
promptness and noiselessly departing. Her father followed her to the
open door, stood a moment watching her, and then came back, but remained
standing, or rather strolling to and fro, as if to cultivate a sense of
freedom which in another attitude might be wanting.
"My ambitions are principally for you," said Madame Merle, looking up at
him with a certain courage.
"That comes back to what I say. I'm part of your life--I and a thousand
others. You're not selfish--I can't admit that. If you were selfish,
what should I be? What epithet would properly describe me?"
"You're indolent. For me that's your worst fault."
"I'm afraid it's really my best."
"You don't care," said Madame Merle gravely.
"No; I don't think I care much. What sort of a fault do you call that?
My indolence, at any rate, was one of the reasons I didn't go to Rome.
But it was only one of them."
"It's not of importance--to me at least--that you didn't go; though I
should have been glad to see you. I'm glad you're not in Rome now--which
you might be, would probably be, if you had gone there a month ago.
There's something I should like you to do at present in Florence."
"Please remember my indolence," said Osmond.
"I do remember it; but I beg you to forget it. In that way you'll have
both the virtue and the reward. This is not a great labour, and it
may prove a real interest. How long is it since you made a new
acquaintance?"
"I don't think I've made any since I made yours."
"It's time then you should make another. There's a friend of mine I want
you to know."
Mr. Osmond, in his walk, had gone back to the open door again and was
looking at his daughter as she moved about in the intense sunshine.
"What good will it do me?" he asked with a sort of genial crudity.
Madame Merle waited. "It will amuse you." There was nothing crude in
this rejoinder; it had been thoroughly well considered.
"If you say that, you know, I believe it," said Osmond, coming toward
her. "There are some points in which my confidence in you is complete.
I'm perfectly aware, for instance, that you know good society from bad."
"Society is all bad."
"Pardon me. That isn't--the knowledge I impute to you--a common sort
of wisdom. You've gained it in the right way--experimentally; you've
compared an immense number of more or less impossible people with each
other."
"Well, I invite you to profit by my knowledge."
"To profit? Are you very sure that I shall?"
"It's what I hope. It will depend on yourself. If I could only induce
you to make an effort!"
"Ah, there you are! I knew something tiresome was coming. What in the
world--that's likely to turn up here--is worth an effort?"
Madame Merle flushed as with a wounded intention. "Don't be foolish,
Osmond. No one knows better than you what IS worth an effort. Haven't I
seen you in old days?"
"I recognise some things. But they're none of them probable in this poor
life."
"It's the effort that makes them probable," said Madame Merle.
"There's something in that. Who then is your friend?"
"The person I came to Florence to see. She's a niece of Mrs. Touchett,
whom you'll not have forgotten."
"A niece? The word niece suggests youth and ignorance. I see what you're
coming to."
"Yes, she's young--twenty-three years old. She's a great friend of mine.
I met her for the first time in England, several months ago, and we
struck up a grand alliance. I like her immensely, and I do what I don't
do every day--I admire her. You'll do the same."
"Not if I can help it."
"Precisely. But you won't be able to help it."
"Is she beautiful, clever, rich, splendid, universally intelligent and
unprecedentedly virtuous? It's only on those conditions that I care to
make her acquaintance. You know I asked you some time ago never to speak
to me of a creature who shouldn't correspond to that description. I know
plenty of dingy people; I don't want to know any more."
"Miss Archer isn't dingy; she's as bright as the morning. She
corresponds to your description; it's for that I wish you to know her.
She fills all your requirements."
"More or less, of course."
"No; quite literally. She's beautiful, accomplished, generous and, for
an American, well-born. She's also very clever and very amiable, and she
has a handsome fortune."
Mr. Osmond listened to this in silence, appearing to turn it over in his
mind with his eyes on his informant. "What do you want to do with her?"
he asked at last.
"What you see. Put her in your way."
"Isn't she meant for something better than that?"
"I don't pretend to know what people are meant for," said Madame Merle.
"I only know what I can do with them."
"I'm sorry for Miss Archer!" Osmond declared.
Madame Merle got up. "If that's a beginning of interest in her I take
note of it."
The two stood there face to face; she settled her mantilla, looking down
at it as she did so. "You're looking very well," Osmond repeated still
less relevantly than before. "You have some idea. You're never so well
as when you've got an idea; they're always becoming to you."
In the manner and tone of these two persons, on first meeting at any
juncture, and especially when they met in the presence of others, was
something indirect and circumspect, as if they had approached each other
obliquely and addressed each other by implication. The effect of
each appeared to be to intensify to an appreciable degree the
self-consciousness of the other. Madame Merle of course carried off any
embarrassment better than her friend; but even Madame Merle had not
on this occasion the form she would have liked to have--the perfect
self-possession she would have wished to wear for her host. The point to
be made is, however, that at a certain moment the element between them,
whatever it was, always levelled itself and left them more closely
face to face than either ever was with any one else. This was what had
happened now. They stood there knowing each other well and each on the
whole willing to accept the satisfaction of knowing as a compensation
for the inconvenience--whatever it might be--of being known. "I wish
very much you were not so heartless," Madame Merle quietly said. "It has
always been against you, and it will be against you now."
"I'm not so heartless as you think. Every now and then something touches
me--as for instance your saying just now that your ambitions are for
me. I don't understand it; I don't see how or why they should be. But it
touches me, all the same."
"You'll probably understand it even less as time goes on. There are some
things you'll never understand. There's no particular need you should."
"You, after all, are the most remarkable of women," said Osmond. "You
have more in you than almost any one. I don't see why you think Mrs.
Touchett's niece should matter very much to me, when--when--" But he
paused a moment.
"When I myself have mattered so little?"
"That of course is not what I meant to say. When I've known and
appreciated such a woman as you."
"Isabel Archer's better than I," said Madame Merle.
Her companion gave a laugh. "How little you must think of her to say
that!"
"Do you suppose I'm capable of jealousy? Please answer me that."
"With regard to me? No; on the whole I don't."
"Come and see me then, two days hence. I'm staying at Mrs.
Touchett's--Palazzo Crescentini--and the girl will be there."
"Why didn't you ask me that at first simply, without speaking of the
girl?" said Osmond. "You could have had her there at any rate."
Madame Merle looked at him in the manner of a woman whom no question he
could ever put would find unprepared. "Do you wish to know why? Because
I've spoken of you to her."
Osmond frowned and turned away. "I'd rather not know that." Then in
a moment he pointed out the easel supporting the little water-colour
drawing. "Have you seen what's there--my last?"
Madame Merle drew near and considered. "Is it the Venetian Alps--one of
your last year's sketches?"
"Yes--but how you guess everything!"
She looked a moment longer, then turned away. "You know I don't care for
your drawings."
"I know it, yet I'm always surprised at it. They're really so much
better than most people's."
"That may very well be. But as the only thing you do--well, it's so
little. I should have liked you to do so many other things: those were
my ambitions."
"Yes; you've told me many times--things that were impossible."
"Things that were impossible," said Madame Merle. And then in quite a
different tone: "In itself your little picture's very good." She looked
about the room--at the old cabinets, pictures, tapestries, surfaces
of faded silk. "Your rooms at least are perfect. I'm struck with that
afresh whenever I come back; I know none better anywhere. You understand
this sort of thing as nobody anywhere does. You've such adorable taste."
"I'm sick of my adorable taste," said Gilbert Osmond.
"You must nevertheless let Miss Archer come and see it. I've told her
about it."
"I don't object to showing my things--when people are not idiots."
"You do it delightfully. As cicerone of your museum you appear to
particular advantage."
Mr. Osmond, in return for this compliment, simply looked at once colder
and more attentive. "Did you say she was rich?"
"She has seventy thousand pounds."
"En ecus bien comptes?"
"There's no doubt whatever about her fortune. I've seen it, as I may
say."
"Satisfactory woman!--I mean you. And if I go to see her shall I see the
mother?"
"The mother? She has none--nor father either."
"The aunt then--whom did you say?--Mrs. Touchett. I can easily keep her
out of the way."
"I don't object to her," said Osmond; "I rather like Mrs. Touchett.
She has a sort of old-fashioned character that's passing away--a vivid
identity. But that long jackanapes the son--is he about the place?"
"He's there, but he won't trouble you."
"He's a good deal of a donkey."
"I think you're mistaken. He's a very clever man. But he's not fond of
being about when I'm there, because he doesn't like me."
"What could he be more asinine than that? Did you say she has looks?"
Osmond went on.
"Yes; but I won't say it again, lest you should be disappointed in them.
Come and make a beginning; that's all I ask of you."
"A beginning of what?"
Madame Merle was silent a little. "I want you of course to marry her."
"The beginning of the end? Well, I'll see for myself. Have you told her
that?"
"For what do you take me? She's not so coarse a piece of machinery--nor
am I."
"Really," said Osmond after some meditation, "I don't understand your
ambitions."
"I think you'll understand this one after you've seen Miss Archer.
Suspend your judgement." Madame Merle, as she spoke, had drawn near the
open door of the garden, where she stood a moment looking out. "Pansy
has really grown pretty," she presently added.
"So it seemed to me."
"But she has had enough of the convent."
"I don't know," said Osmond. "I like what they've made of her. It's very
charming."
"That's not the convent. It's the child's nature."
"It's the combination, I think. She's as pure as a pearl."
"Why doesn't she come back with my flowers then?" Madame Merle asked.
"She's not in a hurry."
"We'll go and get them."
"She doesn't like me," the visitor murmured as she raised her parasol
and they passed into the garden.
| Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a "face" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a "coin" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can "do with them." She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she "knows" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme. | analysis |
Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at
the invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the
hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to
Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know
him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do
in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason
of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame
Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of
friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous
visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would
find it well to "meet"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever
in the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of
the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen
years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in
Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite
another affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the
effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and
his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one,
saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince
in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just
exactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his
distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many
people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his
perversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the
men really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally
for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that
for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and
dull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like
Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At
any rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in
Italy without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the
country than any one except two or three German professors. And if
they had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and
taste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her
friend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the
deeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie
binding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always
somehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest
created by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr.
Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm
friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had
enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a
great many men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as
possible, so as to get used to them."
"Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes
seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. "Why, I'm not
afraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys."
"Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to
with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you
don't despise."
This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself
to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that
as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the
most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the
beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle
had promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to
gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery.
She was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it
a joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his
eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the
treasures of Florence again and again and had always something else
to do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of
memory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the
position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it.
She had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art,
differing often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her
interpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened
to the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that
she might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the
advantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the
clear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs.
Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin
through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in
the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some
dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at
the pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her,
and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a
presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed
all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to
Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat
in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising
tears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But
the return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the
return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs.
Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the
high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the
sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of
advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow
street whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and
found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of
her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as
archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared
and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for
Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This
vague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake.
Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young
lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion
little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned
to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had
paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and
these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They
talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might
have been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had
the rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle
appealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore
any learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put
dreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be
depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved
she could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in
the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more
important she should get an impression of him than that she should
produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an
impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in
general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to
glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred
air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the
first show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his
head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as
one of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the
Uffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its
clearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with
making her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration
of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the
pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak.
"Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day
next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if
you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they
call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for
she's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very
glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving
his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if you could know my
daughter," he went on a moment afterwards.
Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that
if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be
very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after
which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been
so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the
mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments,
"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you.
You're never disappointing."
A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more
probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange
to say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first
feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more
than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I
know of to charm Mr. Osmond."
Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to
retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for
yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters
little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM."
"I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters
either."
"Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle returned
with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time another old
friend's concerned."
Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be
admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph
sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by
his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance
for that.
"Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well,
but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he
apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is
he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living
these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained?
Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his
family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he
rather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a
fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He
used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here;
I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great
dread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I
know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly
large. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself.
He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He
also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these
parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should
think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories
about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you
ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than
I."
"I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said Isabel.
"A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you
care for that?"
"Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more
information one has about one's dangers the better."
"I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about
people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths,
are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you
about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself."
"That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do that people call
you conceited."
"You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what
they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or
your enemy."
Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some things I
can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I
myself am praised."
"Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as
critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them all!"
"I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised to pay
him a visit."
"To pay him a visit?"
"To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know
exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many
ladies call on him."
"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said Ralph.
"She knows none but the best people."
Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her
cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. "It
seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean,
but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either
mention them frankly or else say nothing at all."
Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than
he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her:
with an even exaggerated respect."
"Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of."
"I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated."
"By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service."
"No, no; by herself."
"Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a woman who
made small claims--!"
"You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's
exaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect
right to make large ones."
"Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself."
"Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably blameless; a
pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a
chance."
"A chance for what?"
"Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but
that one little fault."
Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you; you're too
paradoxical for my plain mind."
"Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the
vulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of
herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too
far--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too
kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's
too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and
that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt
about Aristides the Just."
Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked
in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. "Do you
wish Madame Merle to be banished?"
"By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,"
said Ralph Touchett simply.
"You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if
he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend.
"Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the
character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if
I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be
able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a
leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!"
"That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head. "That
is why I like her so much."
"She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world
you couldn't have a better guide."
"I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?"
"Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!"
It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to
believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in
Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find
it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly
unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying
sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the
administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his
mother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph
Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could
have been nothing so "sustained" to attend to as the general performance
of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an
opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments
when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the
moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had
been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was
far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training,
but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle,
the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large
acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as
universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast
between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he
supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of
the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial
guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in
too-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much
in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her
eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not,
without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of
it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of
itself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons
knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an
important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least
a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the
conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had
a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame
Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable
that Isabel would be injured.
| At Mrs. Touchett's place, the Palazzo Crescenti in Florence, Merle comes to visit. She arranges for Isabel and Gilbert Osmond to meet. When Osmond visits the house, Isabel is uncharacteristically silent, finding it more important to get an accurate impression of him than she finds it important to produce her own impression of him. Osmond, in spite of Isabel's silence is interested in her. He invites her to visit his house with Madame Merle sometime. Isabel expects that Madame Merle will scold her for her silence and stupidity when Osmond leaves, but instead Merle tells her that she behaved just as she wished. Isabel feels displeasure at this comment, claiming that she is under no obligation to charm Mr. Osmond. Merle flushes at this. When Isabel asks Ralph about Osmond, Ralph only knows that he is a vague, unexplained American who has lived for thirty years in Italy. He knows that Osmond dreads the vulgar, but other than that he has no special talents. Isabel says that she wants to have more information about him because it is better to know about one's dangers. Ralph responds that knowing that much may actually make people more dangerous. He cautions her to judge for herself. Isabel has noticed that Ralph has something against Madame Merle. When she asks him what he thinks of her, he responds that he feels sorry for Madame Merle, that she was ambitious but unaccomplished. He finds her, in her overall aspect, to be an exaggerated person, never allowing others to have the chance to call her a fool. Ralph thinks to himself that Isabel's friendship with Madame Merle will not last forever, noting that neither person knew the other as well as she supposed. He believes that each will discover the true nature of the other | summary |
Madame Merle, who had come to Florence on Mrs. Touchett's arrival at
the invitation of this lady--Mrs. Touchett offering her for a month the
hospitality of Palazzo Crescentini--the judicious Madame Merle spoke to
Isabel afresh about Gilbert Osmond and expressed the hope she might know
him; making, however, no such point of the matter as we have seen her do
in recommending the girl herself to Mr. Osmond's attention. The reason
of this was perhaps that Isabel offered no resistance whatever to Madame
Merle's proposal. In Italy, as in England, the lady had a multitude of
friends, both among the natives of the country and its heterogeneous
visitors. She had mentioned to Isabel most of the people the girl would
find it well to "meet"--of course, she said, Isabel could know whomever
in the wide world she would--and had placed Mr. Osmond near the top of
the list. He was an old friend of her own; she had known him these dozen
years; he was one of the cleverest and most agreeable men--well, in
Europe simply. He was altogether above the respectable average; quite
another affair. He wasn't a professional charmer--far from it, and the
effect he produced depended a good deal on the state of his nerves and
his spirits. When not in the right mood he could fall as low as any one,
saved only by his looking at such hours rather like a demoralised prince
in exile. But if he cared or was interested or rightly challenged--just
exactly rightly it had to be--then one felt his cleverness and his
distinction. Those qualities didn't depend, in him, as in so many
people, on his not committing or exposing himself. He had his
perversities--which indeed Isabel would find to be the case with all the
men really worth knowing--and didn't cause his light to shine equally
for all persons. Madame Merle, however, thought she could undertake that
for Isabel he would be brilliant. He was easily bored, too easily, and
dull people always put him out; but a quick and cultivated girl like
Isabel would give him a stimulus which was too absent from his life. At
any rate he was a person not to miss. One shouldn't attempt to live in
Italy without making a friend of Gilbert Osmond, who knew more about the
country than any one except two or three German professors. And if
they had more knowledge than he it was he who had most perception and
taste--being artistic through and through. Isabel remembered that her
friend had spoken of him during their plunge, at Gardencourt, into the
deeps of talk, and wondered a little what was the nature of the tie
binding these superior spirits. She felt that Madame Merle's ties always
somehow had histories, and such an impression was part of the interest
created by this inordinate woman. As regards her relations with Mr.
Osmond, however, she hinted at nothing but a long-established calm
friendship. Isabel said she should be happy to know a person who had
enjoyed so high a confidence for so many years. "You ought to see a
great many men," Madame Merle remarked; "you ought to see as many as
possible, so as to get used to them."
"Used to them?" Isabel repeated with that solemn stare which sometimes
seemed to proclaim her deficient in the sense of comedy. "Why, I'm not
afraid of them--I'm as used to them as the cook to the butcher-boys."
"Used to them, I mean, so as to despise them. That's what one comes to
with most of them. You'll pick out, for your society, the few whom you
don't despise."
This was a note of cynicism that Madame Merle didn't often allow herself
to sound; but Isabel was not alarmed, for she had never supposed that
as one saw more of the world the sentiment of respect became the
most active of one's emotions. It was excited, none the less, by the
beautiful city of Florence, which pleased her not less than Madame Merle
had promised; and if her unassisted perception had not been able to
gauge its charms she had clever companions as priests to the mystery.
She was--in no want indeed of esthetic illumination, for Ralph found it
a joy that renewed his own early passion to act as cicerone to his
eager young kinswoman. Madame Merle remained at home; she had seen the
treasures of Florence again and again and had always something else
to do. But she talked of all things with remarkable vividness of
memory--she recalled the right-hand corner of the large Perugino and the
position of the hands of the Saint Elizabeth in the picture next to it.
She had her opinions as to the character of many famous works of art,
differing often from Ralph with great sharpness and defending her
interpretations with as much ingenuity as good-humour. Isabel listened
to the discussions taking place between the two with a sense that
she might derive much benefit from them and that they were among the
advantages she couldn't have enjoyed for instance in Albany. In the
clear May mornings before the formal breakfast--this repast at Mrs.
Touchett's was served at twelve o'clock--she wandered with her cousin
through the narrow and sombre Florentine streets, resting a while in
the thicker dusk of some historic church or the vaulted chambers of some
dispeopled convent. She went to the galleries and palaces; she looked at
the pictures and statues that had hitherto been great names to her,
and exchanged for a knowledge which was sometimes a limitation a
presentiment which proved usually to have been a blank. She performed
all those acts of mental prostration in which, on a first visit to
Italy, youth and enthusiasm so freely indulge; she felt her heart beat
in the presence of immortal genius and knew the sweetness of rising
tears in eyes to which faded fresco and darkened marble grew dim. But
the return, every day, was even pleasanter than the going forth; the
return into the wide, monumental court of the great house in which Mrs.
Touchett, many years before, had established herself, and into the
high, cool rooms where the carven rafters and pompous frescoes of the
sixteenth century looked down on the familiar commodities of the age of
advertisement. Mrs. Touchett inhabited an historic building in a narrow
street whose very name recalled the strife of medieval factions; and
found compensation for the darkness of her frontage in the modicity of
her rent and the brightness of a garden where nature itself looked as
archaic as the rugged architecture of the palace and which cleared
and scented the rooms in regular use. To live in such a place was, for
Isabel, to hold to her ear all day a shell of the sea of the past. This
vague eternal rumour kept her imagination awake.
Gilbert Osmond came to see Madame Merle, who presented him to the young
lady lurking at the other side of the room. Isabel took on this occasion
little part in the talk; she scarcely even smiled when the others turned
to her invitingly; she sat there as if she had been at the play and had
paid even a large sum for her place. Mrs. Touchett was not present, and
these two had it, for the effect of brilliancy, all their own way. They
talked of the Florentine, the Roman, the cosmopolite world, and might
have been distinguished performers figuring for a charity. It all had
the rich readiness that would have come from rehearsal. Madame Merle
appealed to her as if she had been on the stage, but she could ignore
any learnt cue without spoiling the scene--though of course she thus put
dreadfully in the wrong the friend who had told Mr. Osmond she could be
depended on. This was no matter for once; even if more had been involved
she could have made no attempt to shine. There was something in
the visitor that checked her and held her in suspense--made it more
important she should get an impression of him than that she should
produce one herself. Besides, she had little skill in producing an
impression which she knew to be expected: nothing could be happier, in
general, than to seem dazzling, but she had a perverse unwillingness to
glitter by arrangement. Mr. Osmond, to do him justice, had a well-bred
air of expecting nothing, a quiet ease that covered everything, even the
first show of his own wit. This was the more grateful as his face, his
head, was sensitive; he was not handsome, but he was fine, as fine as
one of the drawings in the long gallery above the bridge of the
Uffizi. And his very voice was fine--the more strangely that, with its
clearness, it yet somehow wasn't sweet. This had had really to do with
making her abstain from interference. His utterance was the vibration
of glass, and if she had put out her finger she might have changed the
pitch and spoiled the concert. Yet before he went she had to speak.
"Madame Merle," he said, "consents to come up to my hill-top some day
next week and drink tea in my garden. It would give me much pleasure if
you would come with her. It's thought rather pretty--there's what they
call a general view. My daughter too would be so glad--or rather, for
she's too young to have strong emotions, I should be so glad--so very
glad." And Mr. Osmond paused with a slight air of embarrassment, leaving
his sentence unfinished. "I should be so happy if you could know my
daughter," he went on a moment afterwards.
Isabel replied that she should be delighted to see Miss Osmond and that
if Madame Merle would show her the way to the hill-top she should be
very grateful. Upon this assurance the visitor took his leave; after
which Isabel fully expected her friend would scold her for having been
so stupid. But to her surprise that lady, who indeed never fell into the
mere matter-of-course, said to her in a few moments,
"You were charming, my dear; you were just as one would have wished you.
You're never disappointing."
A rebuke might possibly have been irritating, though it is much more
probable that Isabel would have taken it in good part; but, strange
to say, the words that Madame Merle actually used caused her the first
feeling of displeasure she had known this ally to excite. "That's more
than I intended," she answered coldly. "I'm under no obligation that I
know of to charm Mr. Osmond."
Madame Merle perceptibly flushed, but we know it was not her habit to
retract. "My dear child, I didn't speak for him, poor man; I spoke for
yourself. It's not of course a question as to his liking you; it matters
little whether he likes you or not! But I thought you liked HIM."
"I did," said Isabel honestly. "But I don't see what that matters
either."
"Everything that concerns you matters to me," Madame Merle returned
with her weary nobleness; "especially when at the same time another old
friend's concerned."
Whatever Isabel's obligations may have been to Mr. Osmond, it must be
admitted that she found them sufficient to lead her to put to Ralph
sundry questions about him. She thought Ralph's judgements distorted by
his trials, but she flattered herself she had learned to make allowance
for that.
"Do I know him?" said her cousin. "Oh, yes, I 'know' him; not well,
but on the whole enough. I've never cultivated his society, and he
apparently has never found mine indispensable to his happiness. Who is
he, what is he? He's a vague, unexplained American who has been living
these thirty years, or less, in Italy. Why do I call him unexplained?
Only as a cover for my ignorance; I don't know his antecedents, his
family, his origin. For all I do know he may be a prince in disguise; he
rather looks like one, by the way--like a prince who has abdicated in a
fit of fastidiousness and has been in a state of disgust ever since. He
used to live in Rome; but of late years he has taken up his abode here;
I remember hearing him say that Rome has grown vulgar. He has a great
dread of vulgarity; that's his special line; he hasn't any other that I
know of. He lives on his income, which I suspect of not being vulgarly
large. He's a poor but honest gentleman that's what he calls himself.
He married young and lost his wife, and I believe he has a daughter. He
also has a sister, who's married to some small Count or other, of these
parts; I remember meeting her of old. She's nicer than he, I should
think, but rather impossible. I remember there used to be some stories
about her. I don't think I recommend you to know her. But why don't you
ask Madame Merle about these people? She knows them all much better than
I."
"I ask you because I want your opinion as well as hers," said Isabel.
"A fig for my opinion! If you fall in love with Mr. Osmond what will you
care for that?"
"Not much, probably. But meanwhile it has a certain importance. The more
information one has about one's dangers the better."
"I don't agree to that--it may make them dangers. We know too much about
people in these days; we hear too much. Our ears, our minds, our mouths,
are stuffed with personalities. Don't mind anything any one tells you
about any one else. Judge everyone and everything for yourself."
"That's what I try to do," said Isabel "but when you do that people call
you conceited."
"You're not to mind them--that's precisely my argument; not to mind what
they say about yourself any more than what they say about your friend or
your enemy."
Isabel considered. "I think you're right; but there are some things I
can't help minding: for instance when my friend's attacked or when I
myself am praised."
"Of course you're always at liberty to judge the critic. Judge people as
critics, however," Ralph added, "and you'll condemn them all!"
"I shall see Mr. Osmond for myself," said Isabel. "I've promised to pay
him a visit."
"To pay him a visit?"
"To go and see his view, his pictures, his daughter--I don't know
exactly what. Madame Merle's to take me; she tells me a great many
ladies call on him."
"Ah, with Madame Merle you may go anywhere, de confiance," said Ralph.
"She knows none but the best people."
Isabel said no more about Mr. Osmond, but she presently remarked to her
cousin that she was not satisfied with his tone about Madame Merle. "It
seems to me you insinuate things about her. I don't know what you mean,
but if you've any grounds for disliking her I think you should either
mention them frankly or else say nothing at all."
Ralph, however, resented this charge with more apparent earnestness than
he commonly used. "I speak of Madame Merle exactly as I speak to her:
with an even exaggerated respect."
"Exaggerated, precisely. That's what I complain of."
"I do so because Madame Merle's merits are exaggerated."
"By whom, pray? By me? If so I do her a poor service."
"No, no; by herself."
"Ah, I protest!" Isabel earnestly cried. "If ever there was a woman who
made small claims--!"
"You put your finger on it," Ralph interrupted. "Her modesty's
exaggerated. She has no business with small claims--she has a perfect
right to make large ones."
"Her merits are large then. You contradict yourself."
"Her merits are immense," said Ralph. "She's indescribably blameless; a
pathless desert of virtue; the only woman I know who never gives one a
chance."
"A chance for what?"
"Well, say to call her a fool! She's the only woman I know who has but
that one little fault."
Isabel turned away with impatience. "I don't understand you; you're too
paradoxical for my plain mind."
"Let me explain. When I say she exaggerates I don't mean it in the
vulgar sense--that she boasts, overstates, gives too fine an account of
herself. I mean literally that she pushes the search for perfection too
far--that her merits are in themselves overstrained. She's too good, too
kind, too clever, too learned, too accomplished, too everything. She's
too complete, in a word. I confess to you that she acts on my nerves and
that I feel about her a good deal as that intensely human Athenian felt
about Aristides the Just."
Isabel looked hard at her cousin; but the mocking spirit, if it lurked
in his words, failed on this occasion to peep from his face. "Do you
wish Madame Merle to be banished?"
"By no means. She's much too good company. I delight in Madame Merle,"
said Ralph Touchett simply.
"You're very odious, sir!" Isabel exclaimed. And then she asked him if
he knew anything that was not to the honour of her brilliant friend.
"Nothing whatever. Don't you see that's just what I mean? On the
character of every one else you may find some little black speck; if
I were to take half an hour to it, some day, I've no doubt I should be
able to find one on yours. For my own, of course, I'm spotted like a
leopard. But on Madame Merle's nothing, nothing, nothing!"
"That's just what I think!" said Isabel with a toss of her head. "That
is why I like her so much."
"She's a capital person for you to know. Since you wish to see the world
you couldn't have a better guide."
"I suppose you mean by that that she's worldly?"
"Worldly? No," said Ralph, "she's the great round world itself!"
It had certainly not, as Isabel for the moment took it into her head to
believe, been a refinement of malice in him to say that he delighted in
Madame Merle. Ralph Touchett took his refreshment wherever he could find
it, and he would not have forgiven himself if he had been left wholly
unbeguiled by such a mistress of the social art. There are deep-lying
sympathies and antipathies, and it may have been that, in spite of the
administered justice she enjoyed at his hands, her absence from his
mother's house would not have made life barren to him. But Ralph
Touchett had learned more or less inscrutably to attend, and there could
have been nothing so "sustained" to attend to as the general performance
of Madame Merle. He tasted her in sips, he let her stand, with an
opportuneness she herself could not have surpassed. There were moments
when he felt almost sorry for her; and these, oddly enough, were the
moments when his kindness was least demonstrative. He was sure she had
been yearningly ambitious and that what she had visibly accomplished was
far below her secret measure. She had got herself into perfect training,
but had won none of the prizes. She was always plain Madame Merle,
the widow of a Swiss negociant, with a small income and a large
acquaintance, who stayed with people a great deal and was almost as
universally "liked" as some new volume of smooth twaddle. The contrast
between this position and any one of some half-dozen others that he
supposed to have at various moments engaged her hope had an element of
the tragical. His mother thought he got on beautifully with their genial
guest; to Mrs. Touchett's sense two persons who dealt so largely in
too-ingenious theories of conduct--that is of their own--would have much
in common. He had given due consideration to Isabel's intimacy with her
eminent friend, having long since made up his mind that he could not,
without opposition, keep his cousin to himself; and he made the best of
it, as he had done of worse things. He believed it would take care of
itself; it wouldn't last forever. Neither of these two superior persons
knew the other as well as she supposed, and when each had made an
important discovery or two there would be, if not a rupture, at least
a relaxation. Meanwhile he was quite willing to admit that the
conversation of the elder lady was an advantage to the younger, who had
a great deal to learn and would doubtless learn it better from Madame
Merle than from some other instructors of the young. It was not probable
that Isabel would be injured.
| Gilbert Osmond is described as an aesthete. He has impeccable taste, but there seems to be something substantially lacking in him. His house is described in very sinister terms: it is a surface, just a "face" that bars communication with the outside. The architecture and style of his house is a symbol of Osmond's own personality. He is superficial and heartless, but appears to be very cultured. His relationship to his daughter is somewhat odd, because the daughter seems to admire him very much, even though he is not a very warm person. James' description of Osmond as a "coin" that is not in the general circulation is a hint at Osmond's own relation to commodities: he is a selfish hoarder, and has no interest in the communicative aspects of style. The conversation between Merle and Osmond suggests a very intimate nature of their relationship, although why exactly this is the case is left obscure. They seem to be antagonistic in some respects, exchanging insults, but they are also very forthright with each other. They seem to both know each other too intimately, and the suggestion is that they typically do not allow others to have true knowledge of their character. It is unclear why Merle would want Isabel to marry Osmond, since she thinks highly of Isabel and she thinks Osmond is heartless. There is something sinister about Merle's dealings, especially because she declares that she does not know what Isabel is good for, but she only knows what she can "do with them." She makes it sound as if she will use Isabel for some purpose of her own, but we do not know how her plan of getting Isabel and Osmond to marry will benefit her. Isabel is uncharacteristically silent and un-opinionated when she meets Osmond. She is more interested in gaining an accurate impression of him than of forming her own opinion of him -- this seems to be the exact opposite of her usual approach to people. This foreshadows to us that Osmond will be perceived differently than all her other suitors. Why though, is Isabel so reticent when she meets him? Ralph insinuates that Isabel's abundance of second-hand knowledge on his character is the reason she is so interested in him. It seems that Madame Merle has exploited Isabel's imaginative possibilities: the more Isabel thinks she "knows" the less she is able to experience for herself. This brings up an interesting theme that Henry James treats in other of his novels: What is the relationship between knowledge and experience? Does having knowledge of something prejudice us towards the way we experience it? Can one have an experience without having knowledge or prejudice about that thing? His short novel, What Maisie Knew, is one of his more extended explorations of this theme. | analysis |
It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to
her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top. Nothing
could have been more charming than this occasion--a soft afternoon in
the full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the
Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the
fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and
wound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming
orchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the
small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of
the villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least
a very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide,
high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched
galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their
slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There
was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as
if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For
Isabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out,
but only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber--it
was cold even in the month of May--and ushered her, with her
conductress, into the apartment to which we have already been
introduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a
little, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two
persons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on
whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated
to Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. "And that's my little
girl," he said, "who has just come out of her convent."
Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged
in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles.
She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed.
The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see
she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at
all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird--a long
beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin
that receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various
intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman,
and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself
and made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate,
bristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her
attitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched
upon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never
known any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most
affected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as
an acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view
the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the
violent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with fluttering
streamers.
"You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only because
I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come and see my
brother--I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible--I
don't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my
horses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to give me another
pair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's very
disagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in the
carriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. But
I've always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've always
managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows a
horse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according to
his poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so it's
all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you," she went
on, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond doesn't often invite me;
I don't think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming
to-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. But
don't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are some very
good seats here, but there are also some horrors."
These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of
roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of
good English, or rather of good American, in adversity.
"I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure you're
invaluable."
"I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking about her.
"Everything seems to me beautiful and precious."
"I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've nothing very
bad. But I've not what I should have liked."
He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his
manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to
hint that nothing but the right "values" was of any consequence. Isabel
made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his
family. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white
dress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her,
stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion,
even Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not
entirely artless.
"You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti--that's what
you'd have liked," said Madame Merle.
"Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" the Countess Gemini
exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her
ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made
it and looked at her from head to foot.
Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could
say to Isabel. "Won't you have some tea?--you must be very tired," he at
last bethought himself of remarking.
"No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isabel felt a
certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was
something in the air, in her general impression of things--she could
hardly have said what it was--that deprived her of all disposition to
put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people,
signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand--she
would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless
not aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to
cover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her
pride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms
that excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing
himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours,
to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the
entertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered
less observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered
more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less
complacently than might have been expected. "What a fool I was to
have let myself so needlessly in--!" she could fancy his exclaiming to
himself.
"You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and
gives you a lecture on each," said the Countess Gemini.
"I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have learned
something."
"Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of learning
anything," said Mr. Osmond.
"Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more--I know too
much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are."
"You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished
her education," Madame Merle interposed with a smile. "Pansy will
never know any harm," said the child's father. "Pansy's a little
convent-flower."
"Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with a flutter of
her ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there;
I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be good, but the nuns
do. Don't you see what I mean?" she went on, appealing to Isabel.
Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad
at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself
detested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste--he would
always discuss. "For me," she said, "one should like a thing or one
shouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But one shouldn't
attempt to reason it out--you never know where it may lead you. There
are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know?
And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons.
Don't you see what I mean? I don't care anything about reasons, but I
know what I like."
"Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that
her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to
intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this
moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy
with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that
would admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a
rather hopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation to
another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter,
who had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended by
drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees,
leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The
child fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which
seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond
talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable
when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have
chosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat
a little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew
each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel
heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the
latter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as
if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of
Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the
abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks;
the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world
as all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the
social failure--by which he meant the people who couldn't "realise," as
they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there,
in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an
inconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were
advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of
beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable
to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from
time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything.
Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even
fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a
better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and
dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character,
didn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social
and other "cheek" that flourished in Paris and London. "We're sweetly
provincial," said Mr. Osmond, "and I'm perfectly aware that I myself am
as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little
to talk with you--not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very
complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll be going
away before I've seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you
after that. That's what it is to live in a country that people come to.
When they're disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeable
it's still worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've been
deceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myself
to feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be really
comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she may
be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an old
one; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she must
have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure she
didn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much
like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that
must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one.
Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope
you don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea
you don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there's
no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular
admirer of Mrs. Touchett."
While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat
confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met
her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there
was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage.
Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they
should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out
her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!" she
exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "She
has been brought quite into the family."
"Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to
which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it
had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.
"I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in
me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer," the
Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he
has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of
his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three
that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your
bonnet."
"I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," said
Isabel, who had risen to her feet.
The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation,
pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to
her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other's
Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio."
"Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess
Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never so
historical."
"Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are
Machiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"
"We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert
Osmond resignedly sighed.
Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the
garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave
the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who
had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking
up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited,
with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed;
she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her
a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through
the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess
stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her
eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding
had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and
cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward
one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he
said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?"
She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your
sister too little."
"Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that
there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family
tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know how
it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to
say--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only
a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I
sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among
things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments,
with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners,
forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let
me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister.
She's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's rather
unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to show
it tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid
husband, though I'm not sure she makes the best of him. Of course,
however, a horrid husband's an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her
excellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary
to learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't put
them together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she's not
grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was
very right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take down
that picture; you want more light."
He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some
curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he
gave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to
a young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his
medallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel
felt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as they
seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most
of the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen
specimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think for
instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other
people who were, relatively speaking, original--original, as one might
say, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta
Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when
one came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types already
present to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural
place to Mr. Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that she
recognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into
order before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this "new
relation" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle
had had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediately
gained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did,
but rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those
signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of
old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged
in no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original without
being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain.
The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended to
impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouched
features, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very
evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness
of structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers
produce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal points
struck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity,
somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and
critical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had governed
him--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of
vulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted,
arranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He had
consulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sick
man consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was
what made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something of
this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter
of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous
excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything
was in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding him
completely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see
what he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--which
was exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a
harmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement
of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very
interesting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what
then was the finish of the capital? And she could put this question
in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness as
his--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectly
consistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of
standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure the
vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance,
who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; he
was critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting a good deal
of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical view
of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not
grossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected that
gradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both what
pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her
what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that
he was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge
of his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiring
mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal
feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.
There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been
received, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments
Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree
curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of
ciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held his
little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend,
who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was
oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which
she found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had
ceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive
eyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought
her quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame
Merle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in
the end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real
intelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel's
fatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed
Madame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with
her) of exposing--not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively
little--but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed
her to express a liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment,
would think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which the
truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall into
that grotesqueness--in which she had seen women (and it was a warning)
serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was very careful therefore as to
what she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more careful
than she had ever been before.
They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been
served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as
Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount
distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden
without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought
out, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should
take their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the
servant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the golden
light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that
stretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richly
as the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary
charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the
landscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline,
its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly
human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and
classic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted
to come back," Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the angles
of the terrace.
"I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of what you say
about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one's
natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I
were to settle in Florence."
"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated."
"The point's to find out where that is."
"Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People
ought to make it very plain to her."
"Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me," smiled Isabel.
"I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had
given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought
she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world."
"I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day."
"I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of pleasures."
"It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought to choose
something very deliberately, and be faithful to that."
"By that rule then, I've not been frivolous."
"Have you never made plans?"
"Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day."
"It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted herself to
observe.
"It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible."
"As quiet?" the girl repeated.
"Not to worry--not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be
content with little." He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses
between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor's with the
conscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something.
"Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony.
"Yes, because it's negative."
"Has your life been negative?"
"Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference.
Mind you, not my natural indifference--I HAD none. But my studied, my
wilful renunciation."
She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were
joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund
of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his
affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. "I don't see why
you should have renounced," she said in a moment.
"Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was
not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in
life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There
were two or three people in the world I envied--the Emperor of Russia,
for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I
envied the Pope of Rome--for the consideration he enjoys. I should have
been delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn't
be I didn't care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go
in for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself,
and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in
Italy--I couldn't even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have
had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to
say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it
then was, to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here on
that quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't mean
to say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for have
been definite--limited. The events of my life have been absolutely
unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a
bargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering,
as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some
inspired idiot."
This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's career if
Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human
element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been
mingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn't
expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from
provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her
everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now
desired to be--would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly
told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to
express a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preserved
his independence. "That's a very pleasant life," she said, "to renounce
everything but Correggio!"
"Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm whining
about it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy."
This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Have you lived here
always?"
"No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in
Rome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change,
however; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. My
daughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the
Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best for
Pansy."
"Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl."
"Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of heaven!
She is my great happiness!"
| Isabel has the opportunity to visit Gilbert Osmond in his own home. Isabel meets Gilbert Osmond's sister, Countess Gemini and his daughter, Pansy there. She notes that Countess Gemini has features like that of a tropical bird and that she has a "great deal of manner". The Countess informs her that she has visited Gilbert in order to see Isabel, rather than to see her own brother. Mr. Osmond notes of his possessions that, "I've a few good things. indeed I've nothing very bad. But I've not what I should have liked". He seems to hint that "nothing but the right 'values' was of any consequence. Isabel notes that being simple is not the way of this particular family. She also realizes that the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" and she feels ill equipped to understand what it is. She also feels like she ought to offer some sort of entertainment, but is too timid to do so. Mr. Osmond does much of the talking instead. Madame Merle and Countess Gemini seem to know each other quite well. Mr. Osmond speaks of living in Florence , in such a secluded house. He believes that he might have been a better man had he not lived in Florence, but that he declares that Florence is a place where one could get impressions unlike anywhere else. He admits himself to being "rusty as key" , as he has ceased to form attachments and social relations. Countess Gemini and Madame Merle go off into the garden, leaving Osmond and Isabel alone with Pansy for a few minutes. Osmond asks Isabel what she thinks of his sister, telling her his own opinion of Countess Gemini: he thinks that she is more honest than she seems, that she is unhappy especially with her horrible husband, but she shows this unhappiness comically. He then goes on to tell her about the objects in his salon. The narrator then focuses in on Isabel's thoughts during this scene, rather than describing exactly what is said. Isabel finds Osmond's talk interesting, but she finds him much more so, because he is unlike anyone else she has ever seen. She notes that he does not use any uncommon terms or idioms, but he is simply an original. She sees that he "consulted his taste in everything" , just as a sick man consults a lawyer. She thinks him similar to Ralph, but sees Osmond as more in harmony with his environment. She wonders what Osmond means when he refers to his own provincial mind, his tendency to be reclusive. She notes that he is shy, but realizes that this shyness is a sign of his own good breeding. She takes his question about Countess Gemini to be a sign of his own interest in Isabel herself. Isabel though finds it tiring to appear as intelligent as she thinks Madame Merle has described her. She carefully tries not to disagree with Osmond. Before they take afternoon tea with the rest of the party, Osmond asks Isabel if she will come back. She says she will, although she wonders if it will deter her from her natural mission if she ends up staying in Florence. Osmond retorts: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated". Madame Merle, hearing this, says that Isabel has a plan to go around the world. Isabel confesses that she changes her plans every day, and she feels frivolous for it. Osmond declares that he himself made a plan many years ago, and continues to live by it: "To resign myself. To be content with little". Isabel wonders if this is really a simple way of living. He thinks it is simple because it is "negative. He admits to having had no prospects, no talents. Isabel is surprised that he has shared some private information about himself. His own self-description would have been dry, but Isabel's own imagination supplies a "human element" to it. The chapter ends with Gilbert Osmond declaring how his daughter is his great happiness | summary |
It would certainly have been hard to see what injury could arise to
her from the visit she presently paid to Mr. Osmond's hill-top. Nothing
could have been more charming than this occasion--a soft afternoon in
the full maturity of the Tuscan spring. The companions drove out of the
Roman Gate, beneath the enormous blank superstructure which crowns the
fine clear arch of that portal and makes it nakedly impressive, and
wound between high-walled lanes into which the wealth of blossoming
orchards over-drooped and flung a fragrance, until they reached the
small superurban piazza, of crooked shape, where the long brown wall of
the villa occupied in part by Mr. Osmond formed a principal, or at least
a very imposing, object. Isabel went with her friend through a wide,
high court, where a clear shadow rested below and a pair of light-arched
galleries, facing each other above, caught the upper sunshine upon their
slim columns and the flowering plants in which they were dressed. There
was something grave and strong in the place; it looked somehow as
if, once you were in, you would need an act of energy to get out. For
Isabel, however, there was of course as yet no thought of getting out,
but only of advancing. Mr. Osmond met her in the cold ante-chamber--it
was cold even in the month of May--and ushered her, with her
conductress, into the apartment to which we have already been
introduced. Madame Merle was in front, and while Isabel lingered a
little, talking with him, she went forward familiarly and greeted two
persons who were seated in the saloon. One of these was little Pansy, on
whom she bestowed a kiss; the other was a lady whom Mr. Osmond indicated
to Isabel as his sister, the Countess Gemini. "And that's my little
girl," he said, "who has just come out of her convent."
Pansy had on a scant white dress, and her fair hair was neatly arranged
in a net; she wore her small shoes tied sandal-fashion about her ankles.
She made Isabel a little conventual curtsey and then came to be kissed.
The Countess Gemini simply nodded without getting up: Isabel could see
she was a woman of high fashion. She was thin and dark and not at
all pretty, having features that suggested some tropical bird--a long
beak-like nose, small, quickly-moving eyes and a mouth and chin
that receded extremely. Her expression, however, thanks to various
intensities of emphasis and wonder, of horror and joy, was not inhuman,
and, as regards her appearance, it was plain she understood herself
and made the most of her points. Her attire, voluminous and delicate,
bristling with elegance, had the look of shimmering plumage, and her
attitudes were as light and sudden as those of a creature who perched
upon twigs. She had a great deal of manner; Isabel, who had never
known any one with so much manner, immediately classed her as the most
affected of women. She remembered that Ralph had not recommended her as
an acquaintance; but she was ready to acknowledge that to a casual view
the Countess Gemini revealed no depths. Her demonstrations suggested the
violent waving of some flag of general truce--white silk with fluttering
streamers.
"You'll believe I'm glad to see you when I tell you it's only because
I knew you were to be here that I came myself. I don't come and see my
brother--I make him come and see me. This hill of his is impossible--I
don't see what possesses him. Really, Osmond, you'll be the ruin of my
horses some day, and if it hurts them you'll have to give me another
pair. I heard them wheezing to-day; I assure you I did. It's very
disagreeable to hear one's horses wheezing when one's sitting in the
carriage; it sounds too as if they weren't what they should be. But
I've always had good horses; whatever else I may have lacked I've always
managed that. My husband doesn't know much, but I think he knows a
horse. In general Italians don't, but my husband goes in, according to
his poor light, for everything English. My horses are English--so it's
all the greater pity they should be ruined. I must tell you," she went
on, directly addressing Isabel, "that Osmond doesn't often invite me;
I don't think he likes to have me. It was quite my own idea, coming
to-day. I like to see new people, and I'm sure you're very new. But
don't sit there; that chair's not what it looks. There are some very
good seats here, but there are also some horrors."
These remarks were delivered with a series of little jerks and pecks, of
roulades of shrillness, and in an accent that was as some fond recall of
good English, or rather of good American, in adversity.
"I don't like to have you, my dear?" said her brother. "I'm sure you're
invaluable."
"I don't see any horrors anywhere," Isabel returned, looking about her.
"Everything seems to me beautiful and precious."
"I've a few good things," Mr. Osmond allowed; "indeed I've nothing very
bad. But I've not what I should have liked."
He stood there a little awkwardly, smiling and glancing about; his
manner was an odd mixture of the detached and the involved. He seemed to
hint that nothing but the right "values" was of any consequence. Isabel
made a rapid induction: perfect simplicity was not the badge of his
family. Even the little girl from the convent, who, in her prim white
dress, with her small submissive face and her hands locked before her,
stood there as if she were about to partake of her first communion,
even Mr. Osmond's diminutive daughter had a kind of finish that was not
entirely artless.
"You'd have liked a few things from the Uffizi and the Pitti--that's what
you'd have liked," said Madame Merle.
"Poor Osmond, with his old curtains and crucifixes!" the Countess Gemini
exclaimed: she appeared to call her brother only by his family-name. Her
ejaculation had no particular object; she smiled at Isabel as she made
it and looked at her from head to foot.
Her brother had not heard her; he seemed to be thinking what he could
say to Isabel. "Won't you have some tea?--you must be very tired," he at
last bethought himself of remarking.
"No indeed, I'm not tired; what have I done to tire me?" Isabel felt a
certain need of being very direct, of pretending to nothing; there was
something in the air, in her general impression of things--she could
hardly have said what it was--that deprived her of all disposition to
put herself forward. The place, the occasion, the combination of people,
signified more than lay on the surface; she would try to understand--she
would not simply utter graceful platitudes. Poor Isabel was doubtless
not aware that many women would have uttered graceful platitudes to
cover the working of their observation. It must be confessed that her
pride was a trifle alarmed. A man she had heard spoken of in terms
that excited interest and who was evidently capable of distinguishing
himself, had invited her, a young lady not lavish of her favours,
to come to his house. Now that she had done so the burden of the
entertainment rested naturally on his wit. Isabel was not rendered
less observant, and for the moment, we judge, she was not rendered
more indulgent, by perceiving that Mr. Osmond carried his burden less
complacently than might have been expected. "What a fool I was to
have let myself so needlessly in--!" she could fancy his exclaiming to
himself.
"You'll be tired when you go home, if he shows you all his bibelots and
gives you a lecture on each," said the Countess Gemini.
"I'm not afraid of that; but if I'm tired I shall at least have learned
something."
"Very little, I suspect. But my sister's dreadfully afraid of learning
anything," said Mr. Osmond.
"Oh, I confess to that; I don't want to know anything more--I know too
much already. The more you know the more unhappy you are."
"You should not undervalue knowledge before Pansy, who has not finished
her education," Madame Merle interposed with a smile. "Pansy will
never know any harm," said the child's father. "Pansy's a little
convent-flower."
"Oh, the convents, the convents!" cried the Countess with a flutter of
her ruffles. "Speak to me of the convents! You may learn anything there;
I'm a convent-flower myself. I don't pretend to be good, but the nuns
do. Don't you see what I mean?" she went on, appealing to Isabel.
Isabel was not sure she saw, and she answered that she was very bad
at following arguments. The Countess then declared that she herself
detested arguments, but that this was her brother's taste--he would
always discuss. "For me," she said, "one should like a thing or one
shouldn't; one can't like everything, of course. But one shouldn't
attempt to reason it out--you never know where it may lead you. There
are some very good feelings that may have bad reasons, don't you know?
And then there are very bad feelings, sometimes, that have good reasons.
Don't you see what I mean? I don't care anything about reasons, but I
know what I like."
"Ah, that's the great thing," said Isabel, smiling and suspecting that
her acquaintance with this lightly flitting personage would not lead to
intellectual repose. If the Countess objected to argument Isabel at this
moment had as little taste for it, and she put out her hand to Pansy
with a pleasant sense that such a gesture committed her to nothing that
would admit of a divergence of views. Gilbert Osmond apparently took a
rather hopeless view of his sister's tone; he turned the conversation to
another topic. He presently sat down on the other side of his daughter,
who had shyly brushed Isabel's fingers with her own; but he ended by
drawing her out of her chair and making her stand between his knees,
leaning against him while he passed his arm round her slimness. The
child fixed her eyes on Isabel with a still, disinterested gaze which
seemed void of an intention, yet conscious of an attraction. Mr. Osmond
talked of many things; Madame Merle had said he could be agreeable
when he chose, and to-day, after a little, he appeared not only to have
chosen but to have determined. Madame Merle and the Countess Gemini sat
a little apart, conversing in the effortless manner of persons who knew
each other well enough to take their ease; but every now and then Isabel
heard the Countess, at something said by her companion, plunge into the
latter's lucidity as a poodle splashes after a thrown stick. It was as
if Madame Merle were seeing how far she would go. Mr. Osmond talked of
Florence, of Italy, of the pleasure of living in that country and of the
abatements to the pleasure. There were both satisfactions and drawbacks;
the drawbacks were numerous; strangers were too apt to see such a world
as all romantic. It met the case soothingly for the human, for the
social failure--by which he meant the people who couldn't "realise," as
they said, on their sensibility: they could keep it about them there,
in their poverty, without ridicule, as you might keep an heirloom or an
inconvenient entailed place that brought you in nothing. Thus there were
advantages in living in the country which contained the greatest sum of
beauty. Certain impressions you could get only there. Others, favourable
to life, you never got, and you got some that were very bad. But from
time to time you got one of a quality that made up for everything.
Italy, all the same, had spoiled a great many people; he was even
fatuous enough to believe at times that he himself might have been a
better man if he had spent less of his life there. It made one idle and
dilettantish and second-rate; it had no discipline for the character,
didn't cultivate in you, otherwise expressed, the successful social
and other "cheek" that flourished in Paris and London. "We're sweetly
provincial," said Mr. Osmond, "and I'm perfectly aware that I myself am
as rusty as a key that has no lock to fit it. It polishes me up a little
to talk with you--not that I venture to pretend I can turn that very
complicated lock I suspect your intellect of being! But you'll be going
away before I've seen you three times, and I shall perhaps never see you
after that. That's what it is to live in a country that people come to.
When they're disagreeable here it's bad enough; when they're agreeable
it's still worse. As soon as you like them they're off again! I've been
deceived too often; I've ceased to form attachments, to permit myself
to feel attractions. You mean to stay--to settle? That would be really
comfortable. Ah yes, your aunt's a sort of guarantee; I believe she may
be depended on. Oh, she's an old Florentine; I mean literally an old
one; not a modern outsider. She's a contemporary of the Medici; she must
have been present at the burning of Savonarola, and I'm not sure she
didn't throw a handful of chips into the flame. Her face is very much
like some faces in the early pictures; little, dry, definite faces that
must have had a good deal of expression, but almost always the same one.
Indeed I can show you her portrait in a fresco of Ghirlandaio's. I hope
you don't object to my speaking that way of your aunt, eh? I've an idea
you don't. Perhaps you think that's even worse. I assure you there's
no want of respect in it, to either of you. You know I'm a particular
admirer of Mrs. Touchett."
While Isabel's host exerted himself to entertain her in this somewhat
confidential fashion she looked occasionally at Madame Merle, who met
her eyes with an inattentive smile in which, on this occasion, there
was no infelicitous intimation that our heroine appeared to advantage.
Madame Merle eventually proposed to the Countess Gemini that they
should go into the garden, and the Countess, rising and shaking out
her feathers, began to rustle toward the door. "Poor Miss Archer!" she
exclaimed, surveying the other group with expressive compassion. "She
has been brought quite into the family."
"Miss Archer can certainly have nothing but sympathy for a family to
which you belong," Mr. Osmond answered, with a laugh which, though it
had something of a mocking ring, had also a finer patience.
"I don't know what you mean by that! I'm sure she'll see no harm in
me but what you tell her. I'm better than he says, Miss Archer," the
Countess went on. "I'm only rather an idiot and a bore. Is that all he
has said? Ah then, you keep him in good-humour. Has he opened on one of
his favourite subjects? I give you notice that there are two or three
that he treats a fond. In that case you had better take off your
bonnet."
"I don't think I know what Mr. Osmond's favourite subjects are," said
Isabel, who had risen to her feet.
The Countess assumed for an instant an attitude of intense meditation,
pressing one of her hands, with the finger-tips gathered together, to
her forehead. "I'll tell you in a moment. One's Machiavelli; the other's
Vittoria Colonna; the next is Metastasio."
"Ah, with me," said Madame Merle, passing her arm into the Countess
Gemini's as if to guide her course to the garden, "Mr. Osmond's never so
historical."
"Oh you," the Countess answered as they moved away, "you yourself are
Machiavelli--you yourself are Vittoria Colonna!"
"We shall hear next that poor Madame Merle is Metastasio!" Gilbert
Osmond resignedly sighed.
Isabel had got up on the assumption that they too were to go into the
garden; but her host stood there with no apparent inclination to leave
the room, his hands in the pockets of his jacket and his daughter, who
had now locked her arm into one of his own, clinging to him and looking
up while her eyes moved from his own face to Isabel's. Isabel waited,
with a certain unuttered contentedness, to have her movements directed;
she liked Mr. Osmond's talk, his company: she had what always gave her
a very private thrill, the consciousness of a new relation. Through
the open doors of the great room she saw Madame Merle and the Countess
stroll across the fine grass of the garden; then she turned, and her
eyes wandered over the things scattered about her. The understanding
had been that Mr. Osmond should show her his treasures; his pictures and
cabinets all looked like treasures. Isabel after a moment went toward
one of the pictures to see it better; but just as she had done so he
said to her abruptly: "Miss Archer, what do you think of my sister?"
She faced him with some surprise. "Ah, don't ask me that--I've seen your
sister too little."
"Yes, you've seen her very little; but you must have observed that
there is not a great deal of her to see. What do you think of our family
tone?" he went on with his cool smile. "I should like to know how
it strikes a fresh, unprejudiced mind. I know what you're going to
say--you've had almost no observation of it. Of course this is only
a glimpse. But just take notice, in future, if you have a chance. I
sometimes think we've got into a rather bad way, living off here among
things and people not our own, without responsibilities or attachments,
with nothing to hold us together or keep us up; marrying foreigners,
forming artificial tastes, playing tricks with our natural mission. Let
me add, though, that I say that much more for myself than for my sister.
She's a very honest lady--more so than she seems. She's rather
unhappy, and as she's not of a serious turn she doesn't tend to show
it tragically: she shows it comically instead. She has got a horrid
husband, though I'm not sure she makes the best of him. Of course,
however, a horrid husband's an awkward thing. Madame Merle gives her
excellent advice, but it's a good deal like giving a child a dictionary
to learn a language with. He can look out the words, but he can't put
them together. My sister needs a grammar, but unfortunately she's not
grammatical. Pardon my troubling you with these details; my sister was
very right in saying you've been taken into the family. Let me take down
that picture; you want more light."
He took down the picture, carried it toward the window, related some
curious facts about it. She looked at the other works of art, and he
gave her such further information as might appear most acceptable to
a young lady making a call on a summer afternoon. His pictures, his
medallions and tapestries were interesting; but after a while Isabel
felt the owner much more so, and independently of them, thickly as they
seemed to overhang him. He resembled no one she had ever seen; most
of the people she knew might be divided into groups of half a dozen
specimens. There were one or two exceptions to this; she could think for
instance of no group that would contain her aunt Lydia. There were other
people who were, relatively speaking, original--original, as one might
say, by courtesy such as Mr. Goodwood, as her cousin Ralph, as Henrietta
Stackpole, as Lord Warburton, as Madame Merle. But in essentials, when
one came to look at them, these individuals belonged to types already
present to her mind. Her mind contained no class offering a natural
place to Mr. Osmond--he was a specimen apart. It was not that she
recognised all these truths at the hour, but they were falling into
order before her. For the moment she only said to herself that this "new
relation" would perhaps prove her very most distinguished. Madame Merle
had had that note of rarity, but what quite other power it immediately
gained when sounded by a man! It was not so much what he said and did,
but rather what he withheld, that marked him for her as by one of those
signs of the highly curious that he was showing her on the underside of
old plates and in the corner of sixteenth-century drawings: he indulged
in no striking deflections from common usage, he was an original without
being an eccentric. She had never met a person of so fine a grain.
The peculiarity was physical, to begin with, and it extended to
impalpabilities. His dense, delicate hair, his overdrawn, retouched
features, his clear complexion, ripe without being coarse, the very
evenness of the growth of his beard, and that light, smooth slenderness
of structure which made the movement of a single one of his fingers
produce the effect of an expressive gesture--these personal points
struck our sensitive young woman as signs of quality, of intensity,
somehow as promises of interest. He was certainly fastidious and
critical; he was probably irritable. His sensibility had governed
him--possibly governed him too much; it had made him impatient of
vulgar troubles and had led him to live by himself, in a sorted, sifted,
arranged world, thinking about art and beauty and history. He had
consulted his taste in everything--his taste alone perhaps, as a sick
man consciously incurable consults at last only his lawyer: that was
what made him so different from every one else. Ralph had something of
this same quality, this appearance of thinking that life was a matter
of connoisseurship; but in Ralph it was an anomaly, a kind of humorous
excrescence, whereas in Mr. Osmond it was the keynote, and everything
was in harmony with it. She was certainly far from understanding him
completely; his meaning was not at all times obvious. It was hard to see
what he meant for instance by speaking of his provincial side--which
was exactly the side she would have taken him most to lack. Was it a
harmless paradox, intended to puzzle her? or was it the last refinement
of high culture? She trusted she should learn in time; it would be very
interesting to learn. If it was provincial to have that harmony, what
then was the finish of the capital? And she could put this question
in spite of so feeling her host a shy personage; since such shyness as
his--the shyness of ticklish nerves and fine perceptions--was perfectly
consistent with the best breeding. Indeed it was almost a proof of
standards and touchstones other than the vulgar: he must be so sure the
vulgar would be first on the ground. He wasn't a man of easy assurance,
who chatted and gossiped with the fluency of a superficial nature; he
was critical of himself as well as of others, and, exacting a good deal
of others, to think them agreeable, probably took a rather ironical view
of what he himself offered: a proof into the bargain that he was not
grossly conceited. If he had not been shy he wouldn't have effected that
gradual, subtle, successful conversion of it to which she owed both what
pleased her in him and what mystified her. If he had suddenly asked her
what she thought of the Countess Gemini, that was doubtless a proof that
he was interested in her; it could scarcely be as a help to knowledge
of his own sister. That he should be so interested showed an enquiring
mind; but it was a little singular he should sacrifice his fraternal
feeling to his curiosity. This was the most eccentric thing he had done.
There were two other rooms, beyond the one in which she had been
received, equally full of romantic objects, and in these apartments
Isabel spent a quarter of an hour. Everything was in the last degree
curious and precious, and Mr. Osmond continued to be the kindest of
ciceroni as he led her from one fine piece to another and still held his
little girl by the hand. His kindness almost surprised our young friend,
who wondered why he should take so much trouble for her; and she was
oppressed at last with the accumulation of beauty and knowledge to which
she found herself introduced. There was enough for the present; she had
ceased to attend to what he said; she listened to him with attentive
eyes, but was not thinking of what he told her. He probably thought
her quicker, cleverer in every way, more prepared, than she was. Madame
Merle would have pleasantly exaggerated; which was a pity, because in
the end he would be sure to find out, and then perhaps even her real
intelligence wouldn't reconcile him to his mistake. A part of Isabel's
fatigue came from the effort to appear as intelligent as she believed
Madame Merle had described her, and from the fear (very unusual with
her) of exposing--not her ignorance; for that she cared comparatively
little--but her possible grossness of perception. It would have annoyed
her to express a liking for something he, in his superior enlightenment,
would think she oughtn't to like; or to pass by something at which the
truly initiated mind would arrest itself. She had no wish to fall into
that grotesqueness--in which she had seen women (and it was a warning)
serenely, yet ignobly, flounder. She was very careful therefore as to
what she said, as to what she noticed or failed to notice; more careful
than she had ever been before.
They came back into the first of the rooms, where the tea had been
served; but as the two other ladies were still on the terrace, and as
Isabel had not yet been made acquainted with the view, the paramount
distinction of the place, Mr. Osmond directed her steps into the garden
without more delay. Madame Merle and the Countess had had chairs brought
out, and as the afternoon was lovely the Countess proposed they should
take their tea in the open air. Pansy therefore was sent to bid the
servant bring out the preparations. The sun had got low, the golden
light took a deeper tone, and on the mountains and the plain that
stretched beneath them the masses of purple shadow glowed as richly
as the places that were still exposed. The scene had an extraordinary
charm. The air was almost solemnly still, and the large expanse of the
landscape, with its garden-like culture and nobleness of outline,
its teeming valley and delicately-fretted hills, its peculiarly
human-looking touches of habitation, lay there in splendid harmony and
classic grace. "You seem so well pleased that I think you can be trusted
to come back," Osmond said as he led his companion to one of the angles
of the terrace.
"I shall certainly come back," she returned, "in spite of what you say
about its being bad to live in Italy. What was that you said about one's
natural mission? I wonder if I should forsake my natural mission if I
were to settle in Florence."
"A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated."
"The point's to find out where that is."
"Very true--she often wastes a great deal of time in the enquiry. People
ought to make it very plain to her."
"Such a matter would have to be made very plain to me," smiled Isabel.
"I'm glad, at any rate, to hear you talk of settling. Madame Merle had
given me an idea that you were of a rather roving disposition. I thought
she spoke of your having some plan of going round the world."
"I'm rather ashamed of my plans; I make a new one every day."
"I don't see why you should be ashamed; it's the greatest of pleasures."
"It seems frivolous, I think," said Isabel. "One ought to choose
something very deliberately, and be faithful to that."
"By that rule then, I've not been frivolous."
"Have you never made plans?"
"Yes, I made one years ago, and I'm acting on it to-day."
"It must have been a very pleasant one," Isabel permitted herself to
observe.
"It was very simple. It was to be as quiet as possible."
"As quiet?" the girl repeated.
"Not to worry--not to strive nor struggle. To resign myself. To be
content with little." He spoke these sentences slowly, with short pauses
between, and his intelligent regard was fixed on his visitor's with the
conscious air of a man who has brought himself to confess something.
"Do you call that simple?" she asked with mild irony.
"Yes, because it's negative."
"Has your life been negative?"
"Call it affirmative if you like. Only it has affirmed my indifference.
Mind you, not my natural indifference--I HAD none. But my studied, my
wilful renunciation."
She scarcely understood him; it seemed a question whether he were
joking or not. Why should a man who struck her as having a great fund
of reserve suddenly bring himself to be so confidential? This was his
affair, however, and his confidences were interesting. "I don't see why
you should have renounced," she said in a moment.
"Because I could do nothing. I had no prospects, I was poor, and I was
not a man of genius. I had no talents even; I took my measure early in
life. I was simply the most fastidious young gentleman living. There
were two or three people in the world I envied--the Emperor of Russia,
for instance, and the Sultan of Turkey! There were even moments when I
envied the Pope of Rome--for the consideration he enjoys. I should have
been delighted to be considered to that extent; but since that couldn't
be I didn't care for anything less, and I made up my mind not to go
in for honours. The leanest gentleman can always consider himself,
and fortunately I was, though lean, a gentleman. I could do nothing in
Italy--I couldn't even be an Italian patriot. To do that I should have
had to get out of the country; and I was too fond of it to leave it, to
say nothing of my being too well satisfied with it, on the whole, as it
then was, to wish it altered. So I've passed a great many years here on
that quiet plan I spoke of. I've not been at all unhappy. I don't mean
to say I've cared for nothing; but the things I've cared for have
been definite--limited. The events of my life have been absolutely
unperceived by any one save myself; getting an old silver crucifix at a
bargain (I've never bought anything dear, of course), or discovering,
as I once did, a sketch by Correggio on a panel daubed over by some
inspired idiot."
This would have been rather a dry account of Mr. Osmond's career if
Isabel had fully believed it; but her imagination supplied the human
element which she was sure had not been wanting. His life had been
mingled with other lives more than he admitted; naturally she couldn't
expect him to enter into this. For the present she abstained from
provoking further revelations; to intimate that he had not told her
everything would be more familiar and less considerate than she now
desired to be--would in fact be uproariously vulgar. He had certainly
told her quite enough. It was her present inclination, however, to
express a measured sympathy for the success with which he had preserved
his independence. "That's a very pleasant life," she said, "to renounce
everything but Correggio!"
"Oh, I've made in my way a good thing of it. Don't imagine I'm whining
about it. It's one's own fault if one isn't happy."
This was large; she kept down to something smaller. "Have you lived here
always?"
"No, not always. I lived a long time at Naples, and many years in
Rome. But I've been here a good while. Perhaps I shall have to change,
however; to do something else. I've no longer myself to think of. My
daughter's growing up and may very possibly not care so much for the
Correggios and crucifixes as I. I shall have to do what's best for
Pansy."
"Yes, do that," said Isabel. "She's such a dear little girl."
"Ah," cried Gilbert Osmond beautifully, "she's a little saint of heaven!
She is my great happiness!"
| In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the "grave" air of the place, as if one would "need an act of energy to get out" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about "advancing" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher "value" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated," he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond. | analysis |
While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after
we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion,
breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks.
They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude
especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a
more nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success
the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for
would not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their
own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend
from her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did.
The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her
pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place
it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which
point her eyes followed them.
"My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me if I
don't congratulate you!"
"Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should."
"Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the
Countess nodded at the sequestered couple.
Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at
her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very well," she smiled.
"No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just
now you DON'T wish."
"You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle gravely,
yet without bitterness.
"You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such
things?"
"What your brother says has a point."
"Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he
you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But
it will be much better that you should understand me."
"Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?"
"If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to
appreciate the danger of my interfering with it."
Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be
something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think me more
calculating than I am."
"It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong.
You've done so in this case."
"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that."
"No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said the
Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very
much."
"So do I," Madame Merle mentioned.
"You've a strange way of showing it."
"Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance."
"That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that could
happen to her!"
Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was
odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon
the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. "My
dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not to agitate yourself.
The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose
than yourself."
"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very
strong of purpose?"
"Quite as much so as we."
"Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's her
interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!"
"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed
to compulsion or deception."
"I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I
don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But
together you're dangerous--like some chemical combination."
"You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle.
"I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl."
"My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into
your head."
"I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like
her."
Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you."
The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a
grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!"
"If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her," said
Madame Merle.
"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two
interviews."
Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house.
He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and
she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view,
persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered
her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment,
while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle
rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced.
The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery
and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time
manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out
with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back
and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to
return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with
the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together
upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer
assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently
approached her aunt.
"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"
The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without
answering her question. "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best
frock?"
"Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common
occasions."
"Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say
nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder."
Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons
mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile.
"I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I
expose it beside your beautiful things?"
"Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the
prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't
dress you so well as they might."
The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a good
little dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would
allow me?"
"Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me, your
father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better.
Ask HER."
Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty question--let
me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful
little daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of
the house--when she grows up."
"So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how well
I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself at the
table.
"Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle,
remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the
Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of your
visitor."
"Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's," Pansy objected.
"Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle.
"I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me."
"Do you like her then?" the Countess asked.
"She's charming--charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat
conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly."
"And how do you think she pleases your father?"
"Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and call
them to tea," she went on to the child.
"You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed to
summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace.
"If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know
if the child likes her," said the Countess.
"If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame
Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to
need a husband rather than a stepmother."
"And will you provide the husband as well?"
"I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I
imagine you'll do the same."
"Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all women, set
such a price on a husband?"
"You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a
husband I mean a good one."
"There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one."
Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I
don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really object
either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time
comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we
shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her
together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help."
"Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me.
Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman."
"It's much better that we should always act together," Madame Merle went
on.
"Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising. Madame
Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed, you've not my
coolness!"
Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel
had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd make her
happy?" the Countess demanded.
"If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman."
The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do you
mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of
course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that.
But does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's
a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen
any one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more
than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who
is he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything
particularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior
clay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been
any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have
made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But
there's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of
course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person
nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally
been said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's
descended from the gods."
"You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened to
this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because
her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves
with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a fine
race--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother,
like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not
had the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely
distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little
princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter
for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try."
"I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little."
"We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men."
"I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he
has done."
"What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he
has known how to wait."
"To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?"
"That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has seventy
thousand pounds."
"Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be
sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior."
"If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must
have the best."
"Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet
the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her
happiness!"
| Meanwhile, Madame Merle and Countess Gemini's conversation, occurring at the same time as Isabel and Osmond's conversation, is recounted. Countess Gemini declares that she does not approve of Madame Merle's plan. Madame Merle claims that she has no plan, and that she is not calculating. Countess Gemini declares that she will thwart Merle and Osmond's plan, warning Isabel of her brother's character. Merle warns her that this will simply backfire, and Isabel will dislike Gemini. Merle believes that Isabel has already fallen in love with Osmond, after only two meetings. Madame Merle has Pansy make some tea, and Pansy is very eager to please. Merle and Gemini continue the discussion. Countess Gemini asks Merle if she thinks Osmond will make Isabel happy, and Merle responds that he would at least behave like a gentleman. Merle informs the countess that Isabel has seventy thousand pounds, and Countess Gemini responds by saying that it is a pity that such a charming girl needs to be sacrificed | summary |
While this sufficiently intimate colloquy (prolonged for some time after
we cease to follow it) went forward Madame Merle and her companion,
breaking a silence of some duration, had begun to exchange remarks.
They were sitting in an attitude of unexpressed expectancy; an attitude
especially marked on the part of the Countess Gemini, who, being of a
more nervous temperament than her friend, practised with less success
the art of disguising impatience. What these ladies were waiting for
would not have been apparent and was perhaps not very definite to their
own minds. Madame Merle waited for Osmond to release their young friend
from her tete-a-tete, and the Countess waited because Madame Merle did.
The Countess, moreover, by waiting, found the time ripe for one of her
pretty perversities. She might have desired for some minutes to place
it. Her brother wandered with Isabel to the end of the garden, to which
point her eyes followed them.
"My dear," she then observed to her companion, "you'll excuse me if I
don't congratulate you!"
"Very willingly, for I don't in the least know why you should."
"Haven't you a little plan that you think rather well of?" And the
Countess nodded at the sequestered couple.
Madame Merle's eyes took the same direction; then she looked serenely at
her neighbour. "You know I never understand you very well," she smiled.
"No one can understand better than you when you wish. I see that just
now you DON'T wish."
"You say things to me that no one else does," said Madame Merle gravely,
yet without bitterness.
"You mean things you don't like? Doesn't Osmond sometimes say such
things?"
"What your brother says has a point."
"Yes, a poisoned one sometimes. If you mean that I'm not so clever as he
you mustn't think I shall suffer from your sense of our difference. But
it will be much better that you should understand me."
"Why so?" asked Madame Merle. "To what will it conduce?"
"If I don't approve of your plan you ought to know it in order to
appreciate the danger of my interfering with it."
Madame Merle looked as if she were ready to admit that there might be
something in this; but in a moment she said quietly: "You think me more
calculating than I am."
"It's not your calculating I think ill of; it's your calculating wrong.
You've done so in this case."
"You must have made extensive calculations yourself to discover that."
"No, I've not had time. I've seen the girl but this once," said the
Countess, "and the conviction has suddenly come to me. I like her very
much."
"So do I," Madame Merle mentioned.
"You've a strange way of showing it."
"Surely I've given her the advantage of making your acquaintance."
"That indeed," piped the Countess, "is perhaps the best thing that could
happen to her!"
Madame Merle said nothing for some time. The Countess's manner was
odious, was really low; but it was an old story, and with her eyes upon
the violet slope of Monte Morello she gave herself up to reflection. "My
dear lady," she finally resumed, "I advise you not to agitate yourself.
The matter you allude to concerns three persons much stronger of purpose
than yourself."
"Three persons? You and Osmond of course. But is Miss Archer also very
strong of purpose?"
"Quite as much so as we."
"Ah then," said the Countess radiantly, "if I convince her it's her
interest to resist you she'll do so successfully!"
"Resist us? Why do you express yourself so coarsely? She's not exposed
to compulsion or deception."
"I'm not sure of that. You're capable of anything, you and Osmond. I
don't mean Osmond by himself, and I don't mean you by yourself. But
together you're dangerous--like some chemical combination."
"You had better leave us alone then," smiled Madame Merle.
"I don't mean to touch you--but I shall talk to that girl."
"My poor Amy," Madame Merle murmured, "I don't see what has got into
your head."
"I take an interest in her--that's what has got into my head. I like
her."
Madame Merle hesitated a moment. "I don't think she likes you."
The Countess's bright little eyes expanded and her face was set in a
grimace. "Ah, you ARE dangerous--even by yourself!"
"If you want her to like you don't abuse your brother to her," said
Madame Merle.
"I don't suppose you pretend she has fallen in love with him in two
interviews."
Madame Merle looked a moment at Isabel and at the master of the house.
He was leaning against the parapet, facing her, his arms folded; and
she at present was evidently not lost in the mere impersonal view,
persistently as she gazed at it. As Madame Merle watched her she lowered
her eyes; she was listening, possibly with a certain embarrassment,
while she pressed the point of her parasol into the path. Madame Merle
rose from her chair. "Yes, I think so!" she pronounced.
The shabby footboy, summoned by Pansy--he might, tarnished as to livery
and quaint as to type, have issued from some stray sketch of old-time
manners, been "put in" by the brush of a Longhi or a Goya--had come out
with a small table and placed it on the grass, and then had gone back
and fetched the tea-tray; after which he had again disappeared, to
return with a couple of chairs. Pansy had watched these proceedings with
the deepest interest, standing with her small hands folded together
upon the front of her scanty frock; but she had not presumed to offer
assistance. When the tea-table had been arranged, however, she gently
approached her aunt.
"Do you think papa would object to my making the tea?"
The Countess looked at her with a deliberately critical gaze and without
answering her question. "My poor niece," she said, "is that your best
frock?"
"Ah no," Pansy answered, "it's just a little toilette for common
occasions."
"Do you call it a common occasion when I come to see you?--to say
nothing of Madame Merle and the pretty lady yonder."
Pansy reflected a moment, turning gravely from one of the persons
mentioned to the other. Then her face broke into its perfect smile.
"I have a pretty dress, but even that one's very simple. Why should I
expose it beside your beautiful things?"
"Because it's the prettiest you have; for me you must always wear the
prettiest. Please put it on the next time. It seems to me they don't
dress you so well as they might."
The child sparingly stroked down her antiquated skirt. "It's a good
little dress to make tea--don't you think? Don't you believe papa would
allow me?"
"Impossible for me to say, my child," said the Countess. "For me, your
father's ideas are unfathomable. Madame Merle understands them better.
Ask HER."
Madame Merle smiled with her usual grace. "It's a weighty question--let
me think. It seems to me it would please your father to see a careful
little daughter making his tea. It's the proper duty of the daughter of
the house--when she grows up."
"So it seems to me, Madame Merle!" Pansy cried. "You shall see how well
I'll make it. A spoonful for each." And she began to busy herself at the
table.
"Two spoonfuls for me," said the Countess, who, with Madame Merle,
remained for some moments watching her. "Listen to me, Pansy," the
Countess resumed at last. "I should like to know what you think of your
visitor."
"Ah, she's not mine--she's papa's," Pansy objected.
"Miss Archer came to see you as well," said Madame Merle.
"I'm very happy to hear that. She has been very polite to me."
"Do you like her then?" the Countess asked.
"She's charming--charming," Pansy repeated in her little neat
conversational tone. "She pleases me thoroughly."
"And how do you think she pleases your father?"
"Ah really, Countess!" murmured Madame Merle dissuasively. "Go and call
them to tea," she went on to the child.
"You'll see if they don't like it!" Pansy declared; and departed to
summon the others, who had still lingered at the end of the terrace.
"If Miss Archer's to become her mother it's surely interesting to know
if the child likes her," said the Countess.
"If your brother marries again it won't be for Pansy's sake," Madame
Merle replied. "She'll soon be sixteen, and after that she'll begin to
need a husband rather than a stepmother."
"And will you provide the husband as well?"
"I shall certainly take an interest in her marrying fortunately. I
imagine you'll do the same."
"Indeed I shan't!" cried the Countess. "Why should I, of all women, set
such a price on a husband?"
"You didn't marry fortunately; that's what I'm speaking of. When I say a
husband I mean a good one."
"There are no good ones. Osmond won't be a good one."
Madame Merle closed her eyes a moment. "You're irritated just now; I
don't know why," she presently said. "I don't think you'll really object
either to your brother's or to your niece's marrying, when the time
comes for them to do so; and as regards Pansy I'm confident that we
shall some day have the pleasure of looking for a husband for her
together. Your large acquaintance will be a great help."
"Yes, I'm irritated," the Countess answered. "You often irritate me.
Your own coolness is fabulous. You're a strange woman."
"It's much better that we should always act together," Madame Merle went
on.
"Do you mean that as a threat?" asked the Countess rising. Madame
Merle shook her head as for quiet amusement. "No indeed, you've not my
coolness!"
Isabel and Mr. Osmond were now slowly coming toward them and Isabel
had taken Pansy by the hand. "Do you pretend to believe he'd make her
happy?" the Countess demanded.
"If he should marry Miss Archer I suppose he'd behave like a gentleman."
The Countess jerked herself into a succession of attitudes. "Do you
mean as most gentlemen behave? That would be much to be thankful for! Of
course Osmond's a gentleman; his own sister needn't be reminded of that.
But does he think he can marry any girl he happens to pick out? Osmond's
a gentleman, of course; but I must say I've NEVER, no, no, never, seen
any one of Osmond's pretensions! What they're all founded on is more
than I can say. I'm his own sister; I might be supposed to know. Who
is he, if you please? What has he ever done? If there had been anything
particularly grand in his origin--if he were made of some superior
clay--I presume I should have got some inkling of it. If there had been
any great honours or splendours in the family I should certainly have
made the most of them: they would have been quite in my line. But
there's nothing, nothing, nothing. One's parents were charming people of
course; but so were yours, I've no doubt. Every one's a charming person
nowadays. Even I'm a charming person; don't laugh, it has literally
been said. As for Osmond, he has always appeared to believe that he's
descended from the gods."
"You may say what you please," said Madame Merle, who had listened to
this quick outbreak none the less attentively, we may believe, because
her eye wandered away from the speaker and her hands busied themselves
with adjusting the knots of ribbon on her dress. "You Osmonds are a fine
race--your blood must flow from some very pure source. Your brother,
like an intelligent man, has had the conviction of it if he has not
had the proofs. You're modest about it, but you yourself are extremely
distinguished. What do you say about your niece? The child's a little
princess. Nevertheless," Madame Merle added, "it won't be an easy matter
for Osmond to marry Miss Archer. Yet he can try."
"I hope she'll refuse him. It will take him down a little."
"We mustn't forget that he is one of the cleverest of men."
"I've heard you say that before, but I haven't yet discovered what he
has done."
"What he has done? He has done nothing that has had to be undone. And he
has known how to wait."
"To wait for Miss Archer's money? How much of it is there?"
"That's not what I mean," said Madame Merle. "Miss Archer has seventy
thousand pounds."
"Well, it's a pity she's so charming," the Countess declared. "To be
sacrificed, any girl would do. She needn't be superior."
"If she weren't superior your brother would never look at her. He must
have the best."
"Yes," returned the Countess as they went forward a little to meet
the others, "he's very hard to satisfy. That makes me tremble for her
happiness!"
| In Chapter 24, Isabel gets an impression of Osmond's home. Note that she does not see it as so ominous an object as the narrator has previously described the villa. Rather than seeing it as a house with windows that do not allow communication with the world , Isabel's perspective allows the narrator to briefly remark upon the "grave" air of the place, as if one would "need an act of energy to get out" of it once inside . The narrator counterbalances this observation with the remark that Isabel is only thinking about "advancing" though, and her thoughts are not nearly so foreboding. In the previous conversation between Madame Merle and Osmond, the setting has offered a reflection of the atmosphere: something sinister is going on between Madame Merle and Osmond, in this very secluded house. In this scene however, the signs are ignored, or poorly read. Notably Isabel herself realizes that she does not know how to read the people and the objects in the house, as the occasion "signified more than lay on the surface" for her . In other words, the narrator is setting up a contrast between a more objective interpretation of the house and Isabel's more interested, ambitious reading of the house. She wants to see more than lays beyond the surface, she wants to read into the signs, but she believes it is written in a cryptic language. The narrator's previous description of the house signifies that there is not much more than a superficial shell in this house: that signs do not point to a deeper meaning to be interpreted, but rather everything points to keeping the interpreter mystified through its lack of depth. This kind of deception is a reference to the larger deception that aesthetic objects play on people. Aesthetics is the analysis of art; it refers to the philosophical question of why we find something beautiful. So, for example, one can look at a beautiful artistic object and believe that there must be some deeper meaning or some higher "value" that is being referred to in it. One might believe it is a moral value, or an intellectual value, to which the various signs in a painting refer. Or, we could apply the same question to a novel: why do we read? What makes a book worthy of being read? Does it make us more moral people when we read? Or do we learn some higher truth about life? We believe that the signs of fiction might point us in a particular direction in life, give us some guidance. However, by treating aesthetics in the context of a novel, James is hinting at the idea that art is all an illusion. There is a trick being played: it looks like all the signs refer to some deeper meaning, but in fact, they are creating the illusion of depth by means of blocking the reader from pinning a definite interpretation upon them. That is what is happening to Isabel here. She is unable to figure out what values Osmond is referring to, what standards he uses to judge. But she is still interested because she believes there is a value. But if Osmond is revealed to be a bad person with no morality and no higher values, then it will show that she has created the illusion of value from her own inability to interpret the signs. She has tricked herself into believing there is depth, when there is only superficiality. Another theme that is relevant is the relationship between commodities and people. It is notable that many of Henry James' descriptions of characters end up being a comparison between a person and inanimate objects. Here, it seems that Osmond, who has so many nice objects and allows their value to all appreciate here in his own home as if they were collector's items, is comparing a woman to a commodity: "A woman's natural mission is to be where she's most appreciated," he says . This is an eerie description of moral value, with an indication that he is actually referring to financial value. Similarly, Isabel begins to see him as an aesthetic object: a painting with a low-tone. In Chapter 25, we get a sense of what the true motivations of the characters are, beneath their appearances. There is the mention of money and marriage again: Isabel has seventy thousand pounds. But it is not quite clear why Madame Merle would be interested in giving Osmond Isabel's fortune through marriage. What does she have to gain from making this match? As a first time reader, it would be easy to overlook this chapter as the eccentric worries of Countess Gemini, who has been portrayed as a busybody. This foreshadows the true nature of Osmond. | analysis |
Gilbert Osmond came to see Isabel again; that is he came to Palazzo
Crescentini. He had other friends there as well, and to Mrs. Touchett
and Madame Merle he was always impartially civil; but the former of
these ladies noted the fact that in the course of a fortnight he
called five times, and compared it with another fact that she found no
difficulty in remembering. Two visits a year had hitherto constituted
his regular tribute to Mrs. Touchett's worth, and she had never
observed him select for such visits those moments, of almost periodical
recurrence, when Madame Merle was under her roof. It was not for Madame
Merle that he came; these two were old friends and he never put himself
out for her. He was not fond of Ralph--Ralph had told her so--and it was
not supposable that Mr. Osmond had suddenly taken a fancy to her son.
Ralph was imperturbable--Ralph had a kind of loose-fitting urbanity
that wrapped him about like an ill-made overcoat, but of which he
never divested himself; he thought Mr. Osmond very good company and was
willing at any time to look at him in the light of hospitality. But he
didn't flatter himself that the desire to repair a past injustice was
the motive of their visitor's calls; he read the situation more clearly.
Isabel was the attraction, and in all conscience a sufficient one.
Osmond was a critic, a student of the exquisite, and it was natural he
should be curious of so rare an apparition. So when his mother observed
to him that it was plain what Mr. Osmond was thinking of, Ralph replied
that he was quite of her opinion. Mrs. Touchett had from far back found
a place on her scant list for this gentleman, though wondering dimly by
what art and what process--so negative and so wise as they were--he
had everywhere effectively imposed himself. As he had never been an
importunate visitor he had had no chance to be offensive, and he was
recommended to her by his appearance of being as well able to do without
her as she was to do without him--a quality that always, oddly enough,
affected her as providing ground for a relation with her. It gave her
no satisfaction, however, to think that he had taken it into his head to
marry her niece. Such an alliance, on Isabel's part, would have an air
of almost morbid perversity. Mrs. Touchett easily remembered that the
girl had refused an English peer; and that a young lady with whom Lord
Warburton had not successfully wrestled should content herself with an
obscure American dilettante, a middle-aged widower with an uncanny child
and an ambiguous income, this answered to nothing in Mrs. Touchett's
conception of success. She took, it will be observed, not the
sentimental, but the political, view of matrimony--a view which has
always had much to recommend it. "I trust she won't have the folly
to listen to him," she said to her son; to which Ralph replied that
Isabel's listening was one thing and Isabel's answering quite another.
He knew she had listened to several parties, as his father would
have said, but had made them listen in return; and he found much
entertainment in the idea that in these few months of his knowing her he
should observe a fresh suitor at her gate. She had wanted to see life,
and fortune was serving her to her taste; a succession of fine gentlemen
going down on their knees to her would do as well as anything else.
Ralph looked forward to a fourth, a fifth, a tenth besieger; he had no
conviction she would stop at a third. She would keep the gate ajar and
open a parley; she would certainly not allow number three to come in.
He expressed this view, somewhat after this fashion, to his mother, who
looked at him as if he had been dancing a jig. He had such a fanciful,
pictorial way of saying things that he might as well address her in the
deaf-mute's alphabet.
"I don't think I know what you mean," she said; "you use too many
figures of speech; I could never understand allegories. The two words in
the language I most respect are Yes and No. If Isabel wants to marry Mr.
Osmond she'll do so in spite of all your comparisons. Let her alone to
find a fine one herself for anything she undertakes. I know very little
about the young man in America; I don't think she spends much of her
time in thinking of him, and I suspect he has got tired of waiting for
her. There's nothing in life to prevent her marrying Mr. Osmond if
she only looks at him in a certain way. That's all very well; no one
approves more than I of one's pleasing one's self. But she takes her
pleasure in such odd things; she's capable of marrying Mr. Osmond for
the beauty of his opinions or for his autograph of Michael Angelo.
She wants to be disinterested: as if she were the only person who's
in danger of not being so! Will HE be so disinterested when he has the
spending of her money? That was her idea before your father's death, and
it has acquired new charms for her since. She ought to marry some one of
whose disinterestedness she shall herself be sure; and there would be no
such proof of that as his having a fortune of his own."
"My dear mother, I'm not afraid," Ralph answered. "She's making fools of
us all. She'll please herself, of course; but she'll do so by studying
human nature at close quarters and yet retaining her liberty. She has
started on an exploring expedition, and I don't think she'll change her
course, at the outset, at a signal from Gilbert Osmond. She may have
slackened speed for an hour, but before we know it she'll be steaming
away again. Excuse another metaphor."
Mrs. Touchett excused it perhaps, but was not so much reassured as to
withhold from Madame Merle the expression of her fears. "You who
know everything," she said, "you must know this: whether that curious
creature's really making love to my niece."
"Gilbert Osmond?" Madame Merle widened her clear eyes and, with a full
intelligence, "Heaven help us," she exclaimed, "that's an idea!"
"Hadn't it occurred to you?"
"You make me feel an idiot, but I confess it hadn't. I wonder," she
added, "if it has occurred to Isabel."
"Oh, I shall now ask her," said Mrs. Touchett.
Madame Merle reflected. "Don't put it into her head. The thing would be
to ask Mr. Osmond."
"I can't do that," said Mrs. Touchett. "I won't have him enquire
of me--as he perfectly may with that air of his, given Isabel's
situation--what business it is of mine."
"I'll ask him myself," Madame Merle bravely declared.
"But what business--for HIM--is it of yours?"
"It's being none whatever is just why I can afford to speak. It's so
much less my business than any one's else that he can put me off with
anything he chooses. But it will be by the way he does this that I shall
know."
"Pray let me hear then," said Mrs. Touchett, "of the fruits of your
penetration. If I can't speak to him, however, at least I can speak to
Isabel."
Her companion sounded at this the note of warning. "Don't be too quick
with her. Don't inflame her imagination."
"I never did anything in life to any one's imagination. But I'm always
sure of her doing something--well, not of MY kind."
"No, you wouldn't like this," Madame Merle observed without the point of
interrogation.
"Why in the world should I, pray? Mr. Osmond has nothing the least solid
to offer."
Again Madame Merle was silent while her thoughtful smile drew up her
mouth even more charmingly than usual toward the left corner. "Let us
distinguish. Gilbert Osmond's certainly not the first comer. He's a man
who in favourable conditions might very well make a great impression. He
has made a great impression, to my knowledge, more than once."
"Don't tell me about his probably quite cold-blooded love-affairs;
they're nothing to me!" Mrs. Touchett cried. "What you say's precisely
why I wish he would cease his visits. He has nothing in the world that
I know of but a dozen or two of early masters and a more or less pert
little daughter."
"The early masters are now worth a good deal of money," said Madame
Merle, "and the daughter's a very young and very innocent and very
harmless person."
"In other words she's an insipid little chit. Is that what you mean?
Having no fortune she can't hope to marry as they marry here; so that
Isabel will have to furnish her either with a maintenance or with a
dowry."
"Isabel probably wouldn't object to being kind to her. I think she likes
the poor child."
"Another reason then for Mr. Osmond's stopping at home! Otherwise, a
week hence, we shall have my niece arriving at the conviction that her
mission in life's to prove that a stepmother may sacrifice herself--and
that, to prove it, she must first become one."
"She would make a charming stepmother," smiled Madame Merle; "but I
quite agree with you that she had better not decide upon her mission
too hastily. Changing the form of one's mission's almost as difficult as
changing the shape of one's nose: there they are, each, in the middle of
one's face and one's character--one has to begin too far back. But I'll
investigate and report to you."
All this went on quite over Isabel's head; she had no suspicions that
her relations with Mr. Osmond were being discussed. Madame Merle had
said nothing to put her on her guard; she alluded no more pointedly to
him than to the other gentlemen of Florence, native and foreign, who now
arrived in considerable numbers to pay their respects to Miss Archer's
aunt. Isabel thought him interesting--she came back to that; she liked
so to think of him. She had carried away an image from her visit to his
hill-top which her subsequent knowledge of him did nothing to efface
and which put on for her a particular harmony with other supposed
and divined things, histories within histories: the image of a quiet,
clever, sensitive, distinguished man, strolling on a moss-grown terrace
above the sweet Val d'Arno and holding by the hand a little girl whose
bell-like clearness gave a new grace to childhood. The picture had no
flourishes, but she liked its lowness of tone and the atmosphere of
summer twilight that pervaded it. It spoke of the kind of personal issue
that touched her most nearly; of the choice between objects, subjects,
contacts--what might she call them?--of a thin and those of a rich
association; of a lonely, studious life in a lovely land; of an old
sorrow that sometimes ached to-day; of a feeling of pride that was
perhaps exaggerated, but that had an element of nobleness; of a care
for beauty and perfection so natural and so cultivated together that the
career appeared to stretch beneath it in the disposed vistas and with
the ranges of steps and terraces and fountains of a formal Italian
garden--allowing only for arid places freshened by the natural dews of
a quaint half-anxious, half-helpless fatherhood. At Palazzo Crescentini
Mr. Osmond's manner remained the same; diffident at first--oh
self-conscious beyond doubt! and full of the effort (visible only to a
sympathetic eye) to overcome this disadvantage; an effort which
usually resulted in a great deal of easy, lively, very positive, rather
aggressive, always suggestive talk. Mr. Osmond's talk was not injured by
the indication of an eagerness to shine; Isabel found no difficulty
in believing that a person was sincere who had so many of the signs of
strong conviction--as for instance an explicit and graceful appreciation
of anything that might be said on his own side of the question, said
perhaps by Miss Archer in especial. What continued to please this young
woman was that while he talked so for amusement he didn't talk, as she
had heard people, for "effect." He uttered his ideas as if, odd as
they often appeared, he were used to them and had lived with them; old
polished knobs and heads and handles, of precious substance, that could
be fitted if necessary to new walking-sticks--not switches plucked in
destitution from the common tree and then too elegantly waved about. One
day he brought his small daughter with him, and she rejoiced to renew
acquaintance with the child, who, as she presented her forehead to be
kissed by every member of the circle, reminded her vividly of an ingenue
in a French play. Isabel had never seen a little person of this pattern;
American girls were very different--different too were the maidens of
England. Pansy was so formed and finished for her tiny place in the
world, and yet in imagination, as one could see, so innocent and
infantine. She sat on the sofa by Isabel; she wore a small grenadine
mantle and a pair of the useful gloves that Madame Merle had given
her--little grey gloves with a single button. She was like a sheet of
blank paper--the ideal jeune fille of foreign fiction. Isabel hoped that
so fair and smooth a page would be covered with an edifying text.
The Countess Gemini also came to call upon her, but the Countess was
quite another affair. She was by no means a blank sheet; she had been
written over in a variety of hands, and Mrs. Touchett, who felt by no
means honoured by her visit, pronounced that a number of unmistakeable
blots were to be seen upon her surface. The Countess gave rise indeed to
some discussion between the mistress of the house and the visitor from
Rome, in which Madame Merle (who was not such a fool as to irritate
people by always agreeing with them) availed herself felicitously enough
of that large licence of dissent which her hostess permitted as freely
as she practised it. Mrs. Touchett had declared it a piece of audacity
that this highly compromised character should have presented herself at
such a time of day at the door of a house in which she was esteemed so
little as she must long have known herself to be at Palazzo Crescentini.
Isabel had been made acquainted with the estimate prevailing under that
roof: it represented Mr. Osmond's sister as a lady who had so mismanaged
her improprieties that they had ceased to hang together at all--which
was at the least what one asked of such matters--and had become the mere
floating fragments of a wrecked renown, incommoding social circulation.
She had been married by her mother--a more administrative person, with
an appreciation of foreign titles which the daughter, to do her justice,
had probably by this time thrown off--to an Italian nobleman who had
perhaps given her some excuse for attempting to quench the consciousness
of outrage. The Countess, however, had consoled herself outrageously,
and the list of her excuses had now lost itself in the labyrinth of her
adventures. Mrs. Touchett had never consented to receive her, though the
Countess had made overtures of old. Florence was not an austere city;
but, as Mrs. Touchett said, she had to draw the line somewhere.
Madame Merle defended the luckless lady with a great deal of zeal and
wit. She couldn't see why Mrs. Touchett should make a scapegoat of a
woman who had really done no harm, who had only done good in the wrong
way. One must certainly draw the line, but while one was about it one
should draw it straight: it was a very crooked chalk-mark that would
exclude the Countess Gemini. In that case Mrs. Touchett had better
shut up her house; this perhaps would be the best course so long as
she remained in Florence. One must be fair and not make arbitrary
differences: the Countess had doubtless been imprudent, she had not been
so clever as other women. She was a good creature, not clever at
all; but since when had that been a ground of exclusion from the best
society? For ever so long now one had heard nothing about her, and there
could be no better proof of her having renounced the error of her ways
than her desire to become a member of Mrs. Touchett's circle. Isabel
could contribute nothing to this interesting dispute, not even a patient
attention; she contented herself with having given a friendly welcome to
the unfortunate lady, who, whatever her defects, had at least the merit
of being Mr. Osmond's sister. As she liked the brother Isabel thought it
proper to try and like the sister: in spite of the growing complexity of
things she was still capable of these primitive sequences. She had not
received the happiest impression of the Countess on meeting her at the
villa, but was thankful for an opportunity to repair the accident.
Had not Mr. Osmond remarked that she was a respectable person? To have
proceeded from Gilbert Osmond this was a crude proposition, but Madame
Merle bestowed upon it a certain improving polish. She told Isabel
more about the poor Countess than Mr. Osmond had done, and related the
history of her marriage and its consequences. The Count was a member of
an ancient Tuscan family, but of such small estate that he had been glad
to accept Amy Osmond, in spite of the questionable beauty which had yet
not hampered her career, with the modest dowry her mother was able
to offer--a sum about equivalent to that which had already formed her
brother's share of their patrimony. Count Gemini since then, however,
had inherited money, and now they were well enough off, as Italians
went, though Amy was horribly extravagant. The Count was a low-lived
brute; he had given his wife every pretext. She had no children; she had
lost three within a year of their birth. Her mother, who had bristled
with pretensions to elegant learning and published descriptive poems and
corresponded on Italian subjects with the English weekly journals, her
mother had died three years after the Countess's marriage, the father,
lost in the grey American dawn of the situation, but reputed originally
rich and wild, having died much earlier. One could see this in Gilbert
Osmond, Madame Merle held--see that he had been brought up by a woman;
though, to do him justice, one would suppose it had been by a more
sensible woman than the American Corinne, as Mrs. Osmond had liked to be
called. She had brought her children to Italy after her husband's death,
and Mrs. Touchett remembered her during the year that followed her
arrival. She thought her a horrible snob; but this was an irregularity
of judgement on Mrs. Touchett's part, for she, like Mrs. Osmond,
approved of political marriages. The Countess was very good company and
not really the featherhead she seemed; all one had to do with her was
to observe the simple condition of not believing a word she said.
Madame Merle had always made the best of her for her brother's sake;
he appreciated any kindness shown to Amy, because (if it had to be
confessed for him) he rather felt she let down their common name.
Naturally he couldn't like her style, her shrillness, her egotism,
her violations of taste and above all of truth: she acted badly on his
nerves, she was not HIS sort of woman. What was his sort of woman? Oh,
the very opposite of the Countess, a woman to whom the truth should be
habitually sacred. Isabel was unable to estimate the number of times her
visitor had, in half an hour, profaned it: the Countess indeed had
given her an impression of rather silly sincerity. She had talked almost
exclusively about herself; how much she should like to know Miss Archer;
how thankful she should be for a real friend; how base the people in
Florence were; how tired she was of the place; how much she should
like to live somewhere else--in Paris, in London, in Washington; how
impossible it was to get anything nice to wear in Italy except a little
old lace; how dear the world was growing everywhere; what a life of
suffering and privation she had led. Madame Merle listened with interest
to Isabel's account of this passage, but she had not needed it to feel
exempt from anxiety. On the whole she was not afraid of the Countess,
and she could afford to do what was altogether best--not to appear so.
Isabel had meanwhile another visitor, whom it was not, even behind her
back, so easy a matter to patronise. Henrietta Stackpole, who had left
Paris after Mrs. Touchett's departure for San Remo and had worked her
way down, as she said, through the cities of North Italy, reached the
banks of the Arno about the middle of May. Madame Merle surveyed her
with a single glance, took her in from head to foot, and after a pang
of despair determined to endure her. She determined indeed to delight
in her. She mightn't be inhaled as a rose, but she might be grasped as
a nettle. Madame Merle genially squeezed her into insignificance, and
Isabel felt that in foreseeing this liberality she had done justice to
her friend's intelligence. Henrietta's arrival had been announced by
Mr. Bantling, who, coming down from Nice while she was at Venice, and
expecting to find her in Florence, which she had not yet reached, called
at Palazzo Crescentini to express his disappointment. Henrietta's own
advent occurred two days later and produced in Mr. Bantling an emotion
amply accounted for by the fact that he had not seen her since the
termination of the episode at Versailles. The humorous view of his
situation was generally taken, but it was uttered only by Ralph
Touchett, who, in the privacy of his own apartment, when Bantling smoked
a cigar there, indulged in goodness knew what strong comedy on the
subject of the all-judging one and her British backer. This gentleman
took the joke in perfectly good part and candidly confessed that he
regarded the affair as a positive intellectual adventure. He liked
Miss Stackpole extremely; he thought she had a wonderful head on her
shoulders, and found great comfort in the society of a woman who was not
perpetually thinking about what would be said and how what she did, how
what they did--and they had done things!--would look. Miss Stackpole
never cared how anything looked, and, if she didn't care, pray why
should he? But his curiosity had been roused; he wanted awfully to see
if she ever WOULD care. He was prepared to go as far as she--he didn't
see why he should break down first.
Henrietta showed no signs of breaking down. Her prospects had brightened
on her leaving England, and she was now in the full enjoyment of her
copious resources. She had indeed been obliged to sacrifice her hopes
with regard to the inner life; the social question, on the Continent,
bristled with difficulties even more numerous than those she had
encountered in England. But on the Continent there was the outer
life, which was palpable and visible at every turn, and more easily
convertible to literary uses than the customs of those opaque islanders.
Out of doors in foreign lands, as she ingeniously remarked, one seemed
to see the right side of the tapestry; out of doors in England one
seemed to see the wrong side, which gave one no notion of the figure.
The admission costs her historian a pang, but Henrietta, despairing of
more occult things, was now paying much attention to the outer life. She
had been studying it for two months at Venice, from which city she sent
to the Interviewer a conscientious account of the gondolas, the Piazza,
the Bridge of Sighs, the pigeons and the young boatman who chanted
Tasso. The Interviewer was perhaps disappointed, but Henrietta was at
least seeing Europe. Her present purpose was to get down to Rome before
the malaria should come on--she apparently supposed that it began on a
fixed day; and with this design she was to spend at present but few days
in Florence. Mr. Bantling was to go with her to Rome, and she pointed
out to Isabel that as he had been there before, as he was a military man
and as he had had a classical education--he had been bred at Eton, where
they study nothing but Latin and Whyte-Melville, said Miss Stackpole--he
would be a most useful companion in the city of the Caesars. At this
juncture Ralph had the happy idea of proposing to Isabel that she also,
under his own escort, should make a pilgrimage to Rome. She expected
to pass a portion of the next winter there--that was very well; but
meantime there was no harm in surveying the field. There were ten days
left of the beautiful month of May--the most precious month of all
to the true Rome-lover. Isabel would become a Rome-lover; that was a
foregone conclusion. She was provided with a trusty companion of her
own sex, whose society, thanks to the fact of other calls on this lady's
attention, would probably not be oppressive. Madame Merle would remain
with Mrs. Touchett; she had left Rome for the summer and wouldn't
care to return. She professed herself delighted to be left at peace
in Florence; she had locked up her apartment and sent her cook home to
Palestrina. She urged Isabel, however, to assent to Ralph's proposal,
and assured her that a good introduction to Rome was not a thing to
be despised. Isabel in truth needed no urging, and the party of four
arranged its little journey. Mrs. Touchett, on this occasion, had
resigned herself to the absence of a duenna; we have seen that she
now inclined to the belief that her niece should stand alone. One of
Isabel's preparations consisted of her seeing Gilbert Osmond before she
started and mentioning her intention to him.
"I should like to be in Rome with you," he commented. "I should like to
see you on that wonderful ground."
She scarcely faltered. "You might come then."
"But you'll have a lot of people with you."
"Ah," Isabel admitted, "of course I shall not be alone."
For a moment he said nothing more. "You'll like it," he went on at last.
"They've spoiled it, but you'll rave about it."
"Ought I to dislike it because, poor old dear--the Niobe of Nations, you
know--it has been spoiled?" she asked.
"No, I think not. It has been spoiled so often," he smiled. "If I were
to go, what should I do with my little girl?"
"Can't you leave her at the villa?"
"I don't know that I like that--though there's a very good old woman who
looks after her. I can't afford a governess."
"Bring her with you then," said Isabel promptly.
Mr. Osmond looked grave. "She has been in Rome all winter, at her
convent; and she's too young to make journeys of pleasure."
"You don't like bringing her forward?" Isabel enquired.
"No, I think young girls should be kept out of the world."
"I was brought up on a different system."
"You? Oh, with you it succeeded, because you--you were exceptional."
"I don't see why," said Isabel, who, however, was not sure there was not
some truth in the speech.
Mr. Osmond didn't explain; he simply went on: "If I thought it would
make her resemble you to join a social group in Rome I'd take her there
to-morrow."
"Don't make her resemble me," said Isabel. "Keep her like herself."
"I might send her to my sister," Mr. Osmond observed. He had almost
the air of asking advice; he seemed to like to talk over his domestic
matters with Miss Archer.
"Yes," she concurred; "I think that wouldn't do much towards making her
resemble me!"
After she had left Florence Gilbert Osmond met Madame Merle at the
Countess Gemini's. There were other people present; the Countess's
drawing-room was usually well filled, and the talk had been general,
but after a while Osmond left his place and came and sat on an ottoman
half-behind, half-beside Madame Merle's chair. "She wants me to go to
Rome with her," he remarked in a low voice.
"To go with her?"
"To be there while she's there. She proposed it.
"I suppose you mean that you proposed it and she assented."
"Of course I gave her a chance. But she's encouraging--she's very
encouraging."
"I rejoice to hear it--but don't cry victory too soon. Of course you'll
go to Rome."
"Ah," said Osmond, "it makes one work, this idea of yours!"
"Don't pretend you don't enjoy it--you're very ungrateful. You've not
been so well occupied these many years."
"The way you take it's beautiful," said Osmond. "I ought to be grateful
for that."
"Not too much so, however," Madame Merle answered. She talked with
her usual smile, leaning back in her chair and looking round the room.
"You've made a very good impression, and I've seen for myself that
you've received one. You've not come to Mrs. Touchett's seven times to
oblige me."
"The girl's not disagreeable," Osmond quietly conceded.
Madame Merle dropped her eye on him a moment, during which her lips
closed with a certain firmness. "Is that all you can find to say about
that fine creature?"
"All? Isn't it enough? Of how many people have you heard me say more?"
She made no answer to this, but still presented her talkative grace to
the room. "You're unfathomable," she murmured at last. "I'm frightened
at the abyss into which I shall have cast her."
He took it almost gaily. "You can't draw back--you've gone too far."
"Very good; but you must do the rest yourself."
"I shall do it," said Gilbert Osmond.
Madame Merle remained silent and he changed his place again; but when
she rose to go he also took leave. Mrs. Touchett's victoria was awaiting
her guest in the court, and after he had helped his friend into it he
stood there detaining her. "You're very indiscreet," she said rather
wearily; "you shouldn't have moved when I did."
He had taken off his hat; he passed his hand over his forehead. "I
always forget; I'm out of the habit."
"You're quite unfathomable," she repeated, glancing up at the windows of
the house, a modern structure in the new part of the town.
He paid no heed to this remark, but spoke in his own sense. "She's
really very charming. I've scarcely known any one more graceful."
"It does me good to hear you say that. The better you like her the
better for me."
"I like her very much. She's all you described her, and into the bargain
capable, I feel, of great devotion. She has only one fault."
"What's that?"
"Too many ideas."
"I warned you she was clever."
"Fortunately they're very bad ones," said Osmond.
"Why is that fortunate?"
"Dame, if they must be sacrificed!"
Madame Merle leaned back, looking straight before her; then she spoke to
the coachman. But her friend again detained her. "If I go to Rome what
shall I do with Pansy?"
"I'll go and see her," said Madame Merle.
| Gilbert Osmond goes to visit Isabel five times at Palazzo Crescentini, where she and her aunt are staying. Mrs. Touchett notices the anomaly: while Osmond has visited her before, he has never done so quite so often. Ralph enjoys Osmond's company, and he understands Osmond's attraction to Isabel. They both guess at his true motivation. They both though do not believe Isabel would want to marry him. Mrs. Touchett believes she will not marry Osmond because he does not correspond with any conception of success that she has. Ralph believes Isabel will turn him down, because she is "studying human nature" and busy retaining her liberty. Mrs. Touchett wants to tell Isabel that Osmond will probably propose marriage, and Madame Merle prevents her, claiming that she will speak to Osmond about the matter. Madame Merle tells Mrs. Touchett not to inflame Isabel's imagination. Mrs. Touchett retorts that she never did such a thing in her whole life. Meanwhile, Isabel has no idea that others are discussing her relationship to Osmond. She merely has a picture in her mind of Osmond -- described as a picture without "flourishes" a low tone, and an atmosphere of summer twilight. Countess Gemini visits the house as well. She is not well regarded by others, as apparently some of her improprieties have managed to circulate as gossip around town. Madame Merle defends Countess Gemini against Mrs. Touchett's annoyance. Merle explains to Isabel that one need only observe the condition of not believing a single thing Countess Gemini said and then she was quite tolerable. Of course, according to Madame Merle's description of Countess Gemini, she is not well liked by her brother, because Osmond likes women who find the truth sacred. Mr. Bantling and Henrietta also pay a visit to Isabel. They decide to go to Rome together, as Henrietta Stackpole is now devoting herself to studying the outer aspects of life in Continental Europe. When Isabel informs Osmond of her intentions , he says he would like to see it with her, although he declines her invitation to do so in a group with others. He claims he cannot leave Pansy. Madame Merle and Osmond have a conversation at Countess Gemini's, in private. Madame Merle counsels him to go to Rome. Osmond thinks it sounds like a lot of work and Madame Merle responds that he is ungrateful. Osmond says that Isabel is not disagreeable, but she has one fault. She has too many ideas". He is glad, at the very least, that she has bad ideas, since they will have to be sacrificed | summary |