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Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache.
Kapitel: Das Kind wurde versorgt, aber die neue Anordnung war unausweichlich verwirrend für eine junge Intelligenz, die intensiv spürte, dass etwas geschehen war, das ziemlich wichtig sein musste und ängstlich auf die Auswirkungen eines so großen Ereignisses achtete. Das Schicksal dieses geduldigen kleinen Mädchens sollte es sein, viel mehr zu sehen, als sie anfangs verstand, aber auch schon zu Beginn viel mehr zu verstehen als jedes andere kleine Mädchen, so geduldig es auch sein mochte, jemals zuvor verstanden hatte. Nur ein Trommlerjunge in einer Ballade oder Geschichte hätte sich so mitten im Kampf befunden. Sie wurde in das Vertrauen von Leidenschaften eingeweiht, auf die sie genau den Blick heftete, den sie für Bilder an der Wand hatte, die im Lichtbild einer Laterna magica hin und her hüpften. Ihre kleine Welt war phantasmagorisch - seltsame Schatten tanzten auf einem Tuch. Es war, als ob die ganze Vorstellung für sie gegeben worden wäre - ein kleines, halb verängstigtes Kind in einem großen, düsteren Theater. Kurz gesagt wurde sie mit einer Großzügigkeit ins Leben eingeführt, bei der das Egoismus anderer seinen Vorteil fand, und es gab nichts, das das Opfer hätte abwenden können, außer der Bescheidenheit ihrer Jugend.
Ihr erst
Kannst du eine passende Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Wir lernen Maisie kennen, die sechs Jahre alt ist, und finden heraus, wie ihre Welt aussieht, während sie ihr "erstes Semester mit ihrem Vater" verbringt. Nach der unpersönlichen Einleitung zeigt uns James' Erzähler, wie es sich anfühlt, Maisie zu sein, und der Roman wird sich weitgehend aus ihrer Perspektive zeigen. Kurz gesagt, Maisie hat ein hartes Leben vor sich. Beale Farange versteckt seinen Ärger nicht zum Vorteil seiner Tochter und lästert regelmäßig über Maisies Mutter in ihrer Gegenwart. Wir treffen auch auf Maisies Babysitterin, Moddle. Moddle erzählt Maisie immer, was für ein schlechtes Paar ihre Eltern sind. Moddle verspricht Maisie, dass es besser wird, wenn sie bei ihrer Mutter ist. Doch das Kapitel endet damit, dass Maisie auf Wunsch ihres Vaters eine Beleidigung wiederholt, die sicherlich Ida Farange ärgern wird: "'Er hat gesagt, ich soll dir das von ihm ausrichten', berichtete sie treu, 'dass du ein gemeines, böses Schwein bist!'" Autsch. |
Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache.
Chapter: Clerval then put the following letter into my hands.
"_To_ V. FRANKENSTEIN.
"MY DEAR COUSIN,
"I cannot describe to you the uneasiness we have all felt concerning
your health. We cannot help imagining that your friend Clerval conceals
the extent of your disorder: for it is now several months since we have
seen your hand-writing; and all this time you have been obliged to
dictate your letters to Henry. Surely, Victor, you must have been
exceedingly ill; and this makes us all very wretched, as much so nearly
as after the death of your dear mother. My uncle was almost persuaded
that you were indeed dangerously ill, and could hardly be restrained
from undertaking a journey to Ingolstadt. Clerval always writes that you
are getting better; I eagerly hope that you will confirm this
intelligence soon in your own hand-writing; for indeed, indeed, Victor,
we are all very miserable on this account. Relieve us from this fear,
and we shall be the happiest creatures in the world. Your father's
health is now so vigorous, that he appears ten years younger since last
winter. Ernest also is so much improved, that you would hardly know him:
he is now nearly sixteen, and has lost that sickly appearance which he
had some years ago; he is grown quite robust and active.
"My uncle and I conversed a long time last night about what profession
Ernest should follow. His constant illness when young has deprived him
of the habits of application; and now that he enjoys good health, he is
continually in the open air, climbing the hills, or rowing on the lake.
I therefore proposed that he should be a farmer; which you know, Cousin,
is a favourite scheme of mine. A farmer's is a very healthy happy life;
and the least hurtful, or rather the most beneficial profession of any.
My uncle had an idea of his being educated as an advocate, that through
his interest he might become a judge. But, besides that he is not at all
fitted for such an occupation, it is certainly more creditable to
cultivate the earth for the sustenance of man, than to be the confidant,
and sometimes the accomplice, of his vices; which is the profession of a
lawyer. I said, that the employments of a prosperous farmer, if they
were not a more honourable, they were at least a happier species of
occupation than that of a judge, whose misfortune it was always to
meddle with the dark side of human nature. My uncle smiled, and said,
that I ought to be an advocate myself, which put an end to the
conversation on that subject.
"And now I must tell you a little story that will please, and perhaps
amuse you. Do you not remember Justine Moritz? Probably you do not; I
will relate her history, therefore, in a few words. Madame Moritz, her
mother, was a widow with four children, of whom Justine was the third.
This girl had always been the favourite of her father; but, through a
strange perversity, her mother could not endure her, and, after the
death of M. Moritz, treated her very ill. My aunt observed this; and,
when Justine was twelve years of age, prevailed on her mother to allow
her to live at her house. The republican institutions of our country
have produced simpler and happier manners than those which prevail in
the great monarchies that surround it. Hence there is less distinction
between the several classes of its inhabitants; and the lower orders
being neither so poor nor so despised, their manners are more refined
and moral. A servant in Geneva does not mean the same thing as a servant
in France and England. Justine, thus received in our family, learned the
duties of a servant; a condition which, in our fortunate country, does
not include the idea of ignorance, and a sacrifice of the dignity of a
human being.
"After what I have said, I dare say you well remember the heroine of my
little tale: for Justine was a great favourite of your's; and I
recollect you once remarked, that if you were in an ill humour, one
glance from Justine could dissipate it, for the same reason that Ariosto
gives concerning the beauty of Angelica--she looked so frank-hearted and
happy. My aunt conceived a great attachment for her, by which she was
induced to give her an education superior to that which she had at
first intended. This benefit was fully repaid; Justine was the most
grateful little creature in the world: I do not mean that she made any
professions, I never heard one pass her lips; but you could see by her
eyes that she almost adored her protectress. Although her disposition
was gay, and in many respects inconsiderate, yet she paid the greatest
attention to every gesture of my aunt. She thought her the model of all
excellence, and endeavoured to imitate her phraseology and manners, so
that even now she often reminds me of her.
"When my dearest aunt died, every one was too much occupied in their own
grief to notice poor Justine, who had attended her during her illness
with the most anxious affection. Poor Justine was very ill; but other
trials were reserved for her.
"One by one, her brothers and sister died; and her mother, with the
exception of her neglected daughter, was left childless. The conscience
of the woman was troubled; she began to think that the deaths of her
favourites was a judgment from heaven to chastise her partiality. She
was a Roman Catholic; and I believe her confessor confirmed the idea
which she had conceived. Accordingly, a few months after your departure
for Ingolstadt, Justine was called home by her repentant mother. Poor
girl! she wept when she quitted our house: she was much altered since
the death of my aunt; grief had given softness and a winning mildness to
her manners, which had before been remarkable for vivacity. Nor was her
residence at her mother's house of a nature to restore her gaiety. The
poor woman was very vacillating in her repentance. She sometimes begged
Justine to forgive her unkindness, but much oftener accused her of
having caused the deaths of her brothers and sister. Perpetual fretting
at length threw Madame Moritz into a decline, which at first increased
her irritability, but she is now at peace for ever. She died on the
first approach of cold weather, at the beginning of this last winter.
Justine has returned to us; and I assure you I love her tenderly. She is
very clever and gentle, and extremely pretty; as I mentioned before, her
mien and her expressions continually remind me of my dear aunt.
"I must say also a few words to you, my dear cousin, of little darling
William. I wish you could see him; he is very tall of his age, with
sweet laughing blue eyes, dark eye-lashes, and curling hair. When he
smiles, two little dimples appear on each cheek, which are rosy with
health. He has already had one or two little _wives_, but Louisa Biron
is his favourite, a pretty little girl of five years of age.
"Now, dear Victor, I dare say you wish to be indulged in a little gossip
concerning the good people of Geneva. The pretty Miss Mansfield has
already received the congratulatory visits on her approaching marriage
with a young Englishman, John Melbourne, Esq. Her ugly sister, Manon,
married M. Duvillard, the rich banker, last autumn. Your favourite
schoolfellow, Louis Manoir, has suffered several misfortunes since the
departure of Clerval from Geneva. But he has already recovered his
spirits, and is reported to be on the point of marrying a very lively
pretty Frenchwoman, Madame Tavernier. She is a widow, and much older
than Manoir; but she is very much admired, and a favourite with every
body.
"I have written myself into good spirits, dear cousin; yet I cannot
conclude without again anxiously inquiring concerning your health. Dear
Victor, if you are not very ill, write yourself, and make your father
and all of us happy; or----I cannot bear to think of the other side of
the question; my tears already flow. Adieu, my dearest cousin."
"ELIZABETH LAVENZA.
"Geneva, March 18th, 17--."
* * * * *
"Dear, dear Elizabeth!" I exclaimed when I had read her letter, "I will
write instantly, and relieve them from the anxiety they must feel." I
wrote, and this exertion greatly fatigued me; but my convalescence had
commenced, and proceeded regularly. In another fortnight I was able to
leave my chamber.
One of my first duties on my recovery was to introduce Clerval to the
several professors of the university. In doing this, I underwent a kind
of rough usage, ill befitting the wounds that my mind had sustained.
Ever since the fatal night, the end of my labours, and the beginning of
my misfortunes, I had conceived a violent antipathy even to the name of
natural philosophy. When I was otherwise quite restored to health, the
sight of a chemical instrument would renew all the agony of my nervous
symptoms. Henry saw this, and had removed all my apparatus from my view.
He had also changed my apartment; for he perceived that I had acquired a
dislike for the room which had previously been my laboratory. But these
cares of Clerval were made of no avail when I visited the professors. M.
Waldman inflicted torture when he praised, with kindness and warmth, the
astonishing progress I had made in the sciences. He soon perceived that
I disliked the subject; but, not guessing the real cause, he attributed
my feelings to modesty, and changed the subject from my improvement to
the science itself, with a desire, as I evidently saw, of drawing me
out. What could I do? He meant to please, and he tormented me. I felt as
if he had placed carefully, one by one, in my view those instruments
which were to be afterwards used in putting me to a slow and cruel
death. I writhed under his words, yet dared not exhibit the pain I felt.
Clerval, whose eyes and feelings were always quick in discerning the
sensations of others, declined the subject, alleging, in excuse, his
total ignorance; and the conversation took a more general turn. I
thanked my friend from my heart, but I did not speak. I saw plainly that
he was surprised, but he never attempted to draw my secret from me; and
although I loved him with a mixture of affection and reverence that knew
no bounds, yet I could never persuade myself to confide to him that
event which was so often present to my recollection, but which I feared
the detail to another would only impress more deeply.
M. Krempe was not equally docile; and in my condition at that time, of
almost insupportable sensitiveness, his harsh blunt encomiums gave me
even more pain than the benevolent approbation of M. Waldman. "D--n the
fellow!" cried he; "why, M. Clerval, I assure you he has outstript us
all. Aye, stare if you please; but it is nevertheless true. A youngster
who, but a few years ago, believed Cornelius Agrippa as firmly as the
gospel, has now set himself at the head of the university; and if he is
not soon pulled down, we shall all be out of countenance.--Aye, aye,"
continued he, observing my face expressive of suffering, "M.
Frankenstein is modest; an excellent quality in a young man. Young men
should be diffident of themselves, you know, M. Clerval; I was myself
when young: but that wears out in a very short time."
M. Krempe had now commenced an eulogy on himself, which happily turned
the conversation from a subject that was so annoying to me.
Clerval was no natural philosopher. His imagination was too vivid for
the minutiae of science. Languages were his principal study; and he
sought, by acquiring their elements, to open a field for
self-instruction on his return to Geneva. Persian, Arabic, and Hebrew,
gained his attention, after he had made himself perfectly master of
Greek and Latin. For my own part, idleness had ever been irksome to me;
and now that I wished to fly from reflection, and hated my former
studies, I felt great relief in being the fellow-pupil with my friend,
and found not only instruction but consolation in the works of the
orientalists. Their melancholy is soothing, and their joy elevating to a
degree I never experienced in studying the authors of any other country.
When you read their writings, life appears to consist in a warm sun and
garden of roses,--in the smiles and frowns of a fair enemy, and the fire
that consumes your own heart. How different from the manly and heroical
poetry of Greece and Rome.
Summer passed away in these occupations, and my return to Geneva was
fixed for the latter end of autumn; but being delayed by several
accidents, winter and snow arrived, the roads were deemed impassable,
and my journey was retarded until the ensuing spring. I felt this delay
very bitterly; for I longed to see my native town, and my beloved
friends. My return had only been delayed so long from an unwillingness
to leave Clerval in a strange place, before he had become acquainted
with any of its inhabitants. The winter, however, was spent cheerfully;
and although the spring was uncommonly late, when it came, its beauty
compensated for its dilatoriness.
The month of May had already commenced, and I expected the letter daily
which was to fix the date of my departure, when Henry proposed a
pedestrian tour in the environs of Ingolstadt that I might bid a
personal farewell to the country I had so long inhabited. I acceded
with pleasure to this proposition: I was fond of exercise, and Clerval
had always been my favourite companion in the rambles of this nature
that I had taken among the scenes of my native country.
We passed a fortnight in these perambulations: my health and spirits had
long been restored, and they gained additional strength from the
salubrious air I breathed, the natural incidents of our progress, and
the conversation of my friend. Study had before secluded me from the
intercourse of my fellow-creatures, and rendered me unsocial; but
Clerval called forth the better feelings of my heart; he again taught me
to love the aspect of nature, and the cheerful faces of children.
Excellent friend! how sincerely did you love me, and endeavour to
elevate my mind, until it was on a level with your own. A selfish
pursuit had cramped and narrowed me, until your gentleness and affection
warmed and opened my senses; I became the same happy creature who, a few
years ago, loving and beloved by all, had no sorrow or care. When happy,
inanimate nature had the power of bestowing on me the most delightful
sensations. A serene sky and verdant fields filled me with ecstacy. The
present season was indeed divine; the flowers of spring bloomed in the
hedges, while those of summer were already in bud: I was undisturbed by
thoughts which during the preceding year had pressed upon me,
notwithstanding my endeavours to throw them off, with an invincible
burden.
Henry rejoiced in my gaiety, and sincerely sympathized in my feelings:
he exerted himself to amuse me, while he expressed the sensations that
filled his soul. The resources of his mind on this occasion were truly
astonishing: his conversation was full of imagination; and very often,
in imitation of the Persian and Arabic writers, he invented tales of
wonderful fancy and passion. At other times he repeated my favourite
poems, or drew me out into arguments, which he supported with great
ingenuity.
We returned to our college on a Sunday afternoon: the peasants were
dancing, and every one we met appeared gay and happy. My own spirits
were high, and I bounded along with feelings of unbridled joy and
hilarity.
Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben genannten Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Elizabeths Brief drückt Besorgnis um das Wohlergehen von Victor aus und Dankbarkeit gegenüber Henry für seine Fürsorge. Sie berichtet über lokale Klatschgeschichten und aktuelle Familienereignisse. Der vertrauenswürdigste Diener der Familie, Justine Moritz, ist nach dem Tod ihrer entfremdeten Mutter wieder zur Familie zurückgekehrt. Victor's jüngerer Bruder, Ernest, ist jetzt sechzehn Jahre alt und strebt danach, dem Auswärtigen Dienst beizutreten; sein anderer Bruder, William, ist fünf geworden und macht wunderbare Fortschritte. Elizabeth bittet Victor inständig, zu schreiben und sie zu besuchen, da sie ihn und seinen Vater schrecklich vermissen. Frankenstein wird von einem Gewissensbiss ergriffen und beschließt, ihnen sofort zu schreiben. Innerhalb von zwei Wochen kann Victor sein Zimmer verlassen. Henry hat ihm eine neue Wohnung besorgt und alle seine wissenschaftlichen Instrumente aus seinem früheren Labor entfernt, nachdem er Victors Abneigung dagegen bemerkt hat. Clerval den Professoren von Ingolstadt vorzustellen, ist reine Folter, da sie unaufhörlich den wissenschaftlichen Sachverstand von Victor bewundern. Victor selbst kann das Lob nicht ertragen und lässt sich von Henry überreden, die Wissenschaft für das Studium der orientalischen Sprachen aufzugeben. Diese - zusammen mit der glorreichen Melancholie der Poesie - bieten Frankenstein eine dringend benötigte Ablenkung. Der Sommer vergeht und Victor beschließt, am Ende des Herbstes nach Genf zurückzukehren. Zu seinem Bedauern verschiebt sich seine Abreise jedoch bis zum Frühling. In der Zwischenzeit verbringt er viele wunderbare Stunden in Begleitung von Clerval. Sie machen einen zweiwöchigen Ausflug durch die Landschaft und Victor reflektiert darüber, dass Henry in der Lage ist, "die besseren Gefühle seines Herzens" hervorzurufen. Die beiden Freunde lieben einander auf leidenschaftliche Weise. Langsam kehrt Victor zu seinem alten, sorgenfreien Selbst zurück. Er erfreut sich an der Natur und kann sein früheres Elend vergessen. Die beiden sind in Hochstimmung, als sie zur Universität zurückkehren. |
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Chapter: INCIDENT AT THE WINDOW
IT chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk
with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the
by-street; and that when they came in front of the door, both
stopped to gaze on it.
"Well," said Enfield, "that story's at an end at least. We shall
never see more of Mr. Hyde."
"I hope not," said Utterson. "Did I ever tell you that I once saw
him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?"
"It was impossible to do the one without the other," returned
Enfield. "And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me,
not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll's! It was
partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did."
"So you found it out, did you?" said Utterson. "But if that be
so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To
tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even
outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him
good."
49)
The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature
twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright
with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way
open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an
infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner,
Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll.
"What! Jekyll!" he cried. "I trust you are better."
"I am very low, Utterson," replied the doctor, drearily, "very
low. It will not last long, thank God."
"You stay too much indoors," said the lawyer. "You should be out,
whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my
cousin--Mr. Enfield--Dr. Jekyll.) Come, now; get your hat and
take a quick turn with us."
"You are very good," sighed the other. "I should like to very
much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But
indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a
great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place
is really not fit."
"Why then," said the lawyer, good-naturedly, "the best thing we
can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we
are."
"That is just what I was about to venture to propose," returned
the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered,
before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded
50)
by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the
very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a
glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that
glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court
without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-street;
and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring
thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some
stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at
his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering
horror in their eyes.
"God forgive us, God forgive us," said Mr. Utterson.
But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously and walked on
once more in silence.
51)
Können Sie eine geeignete Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Herr Enfield und Herr Utterson gehen erneut an der geheimnisvollen Tür entlang. Durch eines der Fenster entdeckt Utterson Dr. Jekyll, den er seit Wochen nicht gesehen hat. Utterson ruft nach Jekyll und sagt ihm, er solle öfter nach draußen gehen. Jekyll antwortet, dass er es gerne würde, es sich aber nicht traut. Als er seinen Satz beendet, verschwindet sein Lächeln aus seinem Gesicht und ein Ausdruck absoluter Angst tritt ein. Es scheint, als würde Jekyll einen Art Anfall erleiden. Enfield und Utterson sahen nur kurz den Schmerz in Jekylls Gesicht, bevor er das Fenster schnell schloss, aber beide sind bestürzt. Sie gehen weiter, ohne über den Vorfall zu sprechen. |
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Kapitel: SZENE 4.
Frankreich. Vor Orleans.
Betrete, auf den Mauern, den OBERKANONIER
VON ORLEANS und seinen JUNGEN
OBERKANONIER. Hör mal, du weißt, wie Orleans
belagert ist,
Und wie die Engländer die Vororte gewonnen haben.
JUNGE. Vater, ich weiß es; und oft habe ich auf sie geschossen,
Auch wenn ich unglücklicherweise mein Ziel verfehlt habe.
OBERKANONIER. Aber jetzt sollst du nicht. Sei gehorsam
mir gegenüber.
Ich bin der oberste Kanonier dieser Stadt;
Etwas muss ich tun, um mir Gnade zu erkaufen.
Die Spione des Prinzen haben mir berichtet,
Wie die Engländer in den nahe gelegenen Vororten
Durch ein geheimes Eisengitter
In jenem Turm über die Stadt schauen,
Und von dort aus entdecken, wie sie uns
Am besten mit Geschossen oder Angriff quälen können.
Um diese Unannehmlichkeit abzufangen,
Habe ich eine Kanone dagegen platziert;
Und diese drei Tage habe ich gewacht,
Ob ich sie sehen könnte. Nun wach du,
Denn länger kann ich nicht bleiben.
Wenn du irgendwelche entdeckst, lauf und bring mir Bescheid;
Und du findest mich beim Gouverneur. Geht ab
JUNGE. Vater, keine Sorge; kümmere dich nicht;
Ich werde dich nie stören, wenn ich sie entdecken kann. Geht ab
Betreten SALISBURY und TALBOT die Türme, mit
SIR WILLIAM GLANSDALE, SIR THOMAS GARGRAVE
und anderen
SALISBURY. Talbot, mein Leben, meine Freude, bist zurückgekehrt!
Wie wurdest du behandelt als Gefangener?
Oder wie hast du es geschafft, befreit zu werden?
Erzähle, ich bitte dich, auf der Spitze dieses Turms.
TALBOT. Der Earl von Bedford hatte einen Gefangenen
Namens der tapfere Lord Ponton de Santrailles;
Für ihn wurde ich ausgetauscht und freigekauft.
Aber mit einem wesentlich minderwertigen Mann
Würden sie sich einst in Verachtung mit mir tauschen wollen;
Was ich verachtend verschmähte und den Tod wünschte,
Anstatt dass ich so schändlich geschätzt werde.
Kurz gesagt, erlöst wurde ich, wie ich es wünschte.
Aber, oh! Der hinterhältige Fastolfe verletzt mein Herz,
Den ich mit bloßen Fäusten hinrichten würde,
Wenn ich ihn jetzt in meine Gewalt brächte.
SALISBURY. Doch erzählst du nicht, wie du empfangen wurdest.
TALBOT. Mit Spott, Hohn und verächtlichen Verhöhnungen,
Im offenen Marktplatz stellten sie mich zur Schau;
Hier, sagten sie, ist der Schrecken der Franzosen,
Die Vogelscheuche, die unsere Kinder erschreckt.
Dann brach ich von den Offizieren los, die mich führten,
Und mit meinen Nägeln grub ich Steine aus dem Boden,
Um sie auf die Betrachter meiner Schande zu werfen;
Mein schreckliches Aussehen ließ andere fliehen;
Niemand wagte es, in Angst vor plötzlichem Tod nahe zu kommen.
In eisernen Wänden fühlten sie mich nicht sicher;
So groß war die Furcht vor meinem Namen unter ihnen verbreitet,
Dass sie glaubten, ich könnte Stahlstangen zerreißen
Und Adamsapfelpfosten zertrümmern;
Deshalb hatte ich eine Leibwache aus auserlesenen Schützen,
Die ständig um mich herumgingen;
Und wenn ich nur aus dem Bett aufstehen würde,
Waren sie bereit, mich ins Herz zu schießen.
Betrete der JUNGE mit einem Lunte
SALISBURY. Es schmerzt mich, von den Qualen zu hören, die du ertragen hast;
Aber wir werden uns ausreichend rächen.
Jetzt ist es Suppenzeit in Orleans:
Hier, durch dieses Gitter, zähle ich jeden einzelnen
Und betrachte die Franzosen bei ihrer Befestigung.
Lasst uns hineinschauen; der Anblick wird dich sehr erfreuen.
Sir Thomas Gargrave und Sir William Glansdale,
Lasst mich eure ausdrücklichen Meinungen haben,
Wo der beste Ort ist, um unsere Kanonen als nächstes aufzustellen.
GARGRAVE. Ich denke, am Nordtor; denn dort stehen die Herren.
GLANSDALE. Und ich hier, an der Festung der Brücke.
TALBOT. Soweit ich sehen kann, muss diese Stadt verhungern,
Oder durch leichte Scharmützel geschwächt sein.
[Hier schießen sie, und SALISBURY und GARGRAVE
stürzen nieder]
SALISBURY. Oh Herr, habe Erbarmen mit uns, armseligen Sündern!
GARGRAVE. Oh Herr, habe Erbarmen mit mir, elendem Mann!
TALBOT. Was ist das für ein Zufall, der uns plötzlich überfallen hat?
Sprich, Salisbury; wenigstens, wenn du sprechen kannst.
Wie geht es dir, Spiegelbild aller Krieger?
Ein Auge und eine Wange von dir entfernt!
Verfluchter Turm! Verfluchte verhängnisvolle Hand,
Die dieses beklagenswerte Drama verursacht hat!
In dreizehn Schlachten überwand Salisbury;
Heinrich der Fünfte führte er zuerst in den Krieg;
Solange eine Trompete erklang oder eine Trommel schlug,
Verließ sein Schwert nie das Schlachtfeld.
Lebst du dennoch, Salisbury? Obwohl dir die Worte versagen,
Hast du ein Auge, um zum Himmel um Gnade zu schauen;
Die Sonne betrachtet mit einem Auge die ganze Welt.
Himmel, sei keinem Lebenden gnädig,
Wenn Salisbury Erbarmen von dir verlangt!
Tragt seinen Körper weg; ich werde bei der Beerdigung helfen.
Sir Thomas Gargrave, hast du noch Leben?
Sprich zu Talbot; nein, sieh zu ihm auf.
Salisbury, tröste deinen Geist mit diesem Trost,
Du wirst nicht sterben,
Er deutet mit der Hand und lächelt mich an,
Als wer sagt: 'Wenn ich tot und gegangen bin,
Erinnere dich daran, die Franzosen für mich zu rächen.'
Plantagenet, das werde ich tun; und wie du, Nero,
Ich werde die Laute spielen und die Städte brennen sehen.
Elend wird Frankreich nur in meinem Namen sein.
[Hier eine Alarmglocke, und es donnert und blitzt]
Was ist hier los? Was für ein Aufruhr ist im Himmel?
Woher kommt dieser Alarm und der Lärm?
Betritt ein BOTE
BOTE. Mein Herr, mein Herr, die Franzosen haben
an Stärke gewonnen,
Der Dauphin, verbunden mit Jeanne d'Arc,
Einer gerade erst aufgestiegenen heiligen Prophetin,
Ist mit großer Macht gekommen, um die Belagerung zu brechen.
[Hier erhebt sich SALISBURY und stöhnt]
TALBOT. Hör, hör, wie der sterbende Salisbury stöhnt.
Es schmerzt sein Herz, dass er sich nicht rächen kann.
Franzosen, ich werde ein Salisbury für euch sein.
Pucelle oder Täuscherin, Delphin oder Dornhai,
Eure Herzen werde ich mit den Hufen meines Pferdes zertreten
Und eine Matschpfütze aus eurem gemischten Gehirn machen.
Bringt mich Salisbury in sein Lagerzelt,
Und dann werden wir sehen, was diese feigen Franzosen wagen.
Alarm. Ab
Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der oben stehenden Absätze verfassen? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Inzwischen, zurück auf dem Bauernhof, oder genauer gesagt, in der Stadt Orleans in Frankreich, treffen wir den Oberkanonier und seinen Jungen. Der Kanonier erinnert den Jungen daran, dass die Stadt belagert ist und die Engländer tatsächlich die Vororte eingenommen haben. Der Junge sagt, er habe oft auf die Engländer geschossen, sie aber nie getroffen; er hat etwas zu beweisen. Der Oberkanonier sagt, er habe auch etwas zu beweisen, und enthüllt seinen Plan. Die Engländer haben einen hinterhältigen Plan, um die französische Position auszuspähen, aber er hat eine Kanone aufgestellt, damit er auf sie schießen kann, wenn sie es tun. Er muss den Gouverneur aufsuchen, also wird der Junge übernehmen müssen. Der Junge stimmt zu. Zurück im englischen Lager in Orleans. Erinnert ihr euch an Talbot, den englischen Anführer, der in Szene 1 gefangen genommen wurde? Er ist frei und wieder bei den Engländern. Der englische Anführer Salisbury begrüßt ihn herzlich und fragt ihn, wie er entkommen ist. Talbot sagt, dass die Franzosen und Engländer Gefangene ausgetauscht haben. Talbot ist froh, dass der Gefangene, gegen den sie ihn ausgetauscht haben, ein tapferer Anführer ist, und er beschwert sich, dass sie ihn anfangs gegen jemanden weniger mutigen hätten tauschen wollen. Er sagt, er würde lieber sterben, als auf solch eine Weise ausgelöst zu werden, und er freut sich daher darüber, wie der Handel schließlich funktionierte. Er beschwert sich auch über die Feigheit von Sir John Fastolfe und sagt dann wie in einem klassischen Western-Film, dass er ihn mit bloßen Fäusten hinrichten würde, wenn er ihn in die Finger bekäme. Denkt daran, dass Fastolfes Feigheit der Grund war, warum Talbot überhaupt gefangen genommen wurde. Salisbury fragt, wie die Franzosen Talbot behandelt haben. Schlecht, wie sich herausstellt. Sie zerrten ihn auf den Marktplatz und machten sich öffentlich über ihn lustig. Er sagt, dass er sich von den Wachen befreit und Steine auf die Menge geworfen habe, was ziemlich beeindruckend ist, wenn man bedenkt, dass er völlig unterlegen und ein Gefangener war. Offensichtlich waren die Franzosen so beeindruckt, dass sie danach überall Scharfschützen postiert haben. Okay, Scharfschützen wie in "Die Bourne Identität" gab es zu der Zeit noch nicht. Aber ihr versteht schon. Salisbury sagt, dass es ihn betrübt, was mit Talbot passiert ist, aber keine Sorge, denn sie werden sich rächen. Sie fangen an, das französische Lager vom Standort des französischen Kanoniers auszuspionieren und entscheiden, wo sie angreifen sollen. Die französischen Kanoniere sind bereit und schießen auf sie. Sie erwischen Salisbury und einen weiteren englischen Anführer, und Talbot trauert und schwört Rache. Plötzlich gibt es einen lauten Knall und viel Donner und Blitz. Ein Bote tritt ein. Eine unheilverkündende Ankunft, oder? Das ist wie diese große Trommelwirbel und hektischen Streicher in einem Film, wenn schlechte Nachrichten kommen. Es stellt sich heraus, dass die Nachricht ziemlich schlimm ist: Die Franzosen haben einen neuen Champion, Johanna Puzel, und sie wird als heilige Prophetin angesehen. Um es klarzustellen: In dieser Zeit wollen die Menschen wirklich sagen, dass Gott auf ihrer Seite in einer Schlacht ist. Salisbury, der im Sterben liegt, stöhnt. Talbot hat definitiv keine Angst. Er schwört noch stärker Rache und sagt, er werde Salisburys Platz einnehmen und die Franzosen angreifen. |
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Chapter: My new mistress proved to be all she appeared when I first met her at
the door,--a woman of the kindest heart and finest feelings. She had
never had a slave under her control previously to myself, and prior to
her marriage she had been dependent upon her own industry for a living.
She was by trade a weaver; and by constant application to her business,
she had been in a good degree preserved from the blighting and
dehumanizing effects of slavery. I was utterly astonished at her
goodness. I scarcely knew how to behave towards her. She was entirely
unlike any other white woman I had ever seen. I could not approach her
as I was accustomed to approach other white ladies. My early instruction
was all out of place. The crouching servility, usually so acceptable a
quality in a slave, did not answer when manifested toward her. Her favor
was not gained by it; she seemed to be disturbed by it. She did not
deem it impudent or unmannerly for a slave to look her in the face.
The meanest slave was put fully at ease in her presence, and none
left without feeling better for having seen her. Her face was made of
heavenly smiles, and her voice of tranquil music.
But, alas! this kind heart had but a short time to remain such. The
fatal poison of irresponsible power was already in her hands, and soon
commenced its infernal work. That cheerful eye, under the influence
of slavery, soon became red with rage; that voice, made all of sweet
accord, changed to one of harsh and horrid discord; and that angelic
face gave place to that of a demon.
Very soon after I went to live with Mr. and Mrs. Auld, she very kindly
commenced to teach me the A, B, C. After I had learned this, she
assisted me in learning to spell words of three or four letters. Just at
this point of my progress, Mr. Auld found out what was going on, and at
once forbade Mrs. Auld to instruct me further, telling her, among other
things, that it was unlawful, as well as unsafe, to teach a slave to
read. To use his own words, further, he said, "If you give a nigger an
inch, he will take an ell. A nigger should know nothing but to obey his
master--to do as he is told to do. Learning would _spoil_ the best nigger
in the world. Now," said he, "if you teach that nigger (speaking of
myself) how to read, there would be no keeping him. It would forever
unfit him to be a slave. He would at once become unmanageable, and of no
value to his master. As to himself, it could do him no good, but a great
deal of harm. It would make him discontented and unhappy." These
words sank deep into my heart, stirred up sentiments within that lay
slumbering, and called into existence an entirely new train of thought.
It was a new and special revelation, explaining dark and mysterious
things, with which my youthful understanding had struggled, but
struggled in vain. I now understood what had been to me a most
perplexing difficulty--to wit, the white man's power to enslave the
black man. It was a grand achievement, and I prized it highly. From that
moment, I understood the pathway from slavery to freedom. It was just
what I wanted, and I got it at a time when I the least expected it.
Whilst I was saddened by the thought of losing the aid of my kind
mistress, I was gladdened by the invaluable instruction which, by the
merest accident, I had gained from my master. Though conscious of the
difficulty of learning without a teacher, I set out with high hope, and
a fixed purpose, at whatever cost of trouble, to learn how to read. The
very decided manner with which he spoke, and strove to impress his wife
with the evil consequences of giving me instruction, served to convince
me that he was deeply sensible of the truths he was uttering. It gave me
the best assurance that I might rely with the utmost confidence on the
results which, he said, would flow from teaching me to read. What he
most dreaded, that I most desired. What he most loved, that I most
hated. That which to him was a great evil, to be carefully shunned, was
to me a great good, to be diligently sought; and the argument which he
so warmly urged, against my learning to read, only served to inspire
me with a desire and determination to learn. In learning to read, I owe
almost as much to the bitter opposition of my master, as to the kindly
aid of my mistress. I acknowledge the benefit of both.
I had resided but a short time in Baltimore before I observed a marked
difference, in the treatment of slaves, from that which I had witnessed
in the country. A city slave is almost a freeman, compared with a
slave on the plantation. He is much better fed and clothed, and enjoys
privileges altogether unknown to the slave on the plantation. There is
a vestige of decency, a sense of shame, that does much to curb and
check those outbreaks of atrocious cruelty so commonly enacted upon the
plantation. He is a desperate slaveholder, who will shock the humanity
of his non-slaveholding neighbors with the cries of his lacerated slave.
Few are willing to incur the odium attaching to the reputation of being
a cruel master; and above all things, they would not be known as not
giving a slave enough to eat. Every city slaveholder is anxious to have
it known of him, that he feeds his slaves well; and it is due to them
to say, that most of them do give their slaves enough to eat. There are,
however, some painful exceptions to this rule. Directly opposite to us,
on Philpot Street, lived Mr. Thomas Hamilton. He owned two slaves. Their
names were Henrietta and Mary. Henrietta was about twenty-two years
of age, Mary was about fourteen; and of all the mangled and emaciated
creatures I ever looked upon, these two were the most so. His heart
must be harder than stone, that could look upon these unmoved. The
head, neck, and shoulders of Mary were literally cut to pieces. I have
frequently felt her head, and found it nearly covered with festering
sores, caused by the lash of her cruel mistress. I do not know that her
master ever whipped her, but I have been an eye-witness to the cruelty
of Mrs. Hamilton. I used to be in Mr. Hamilton's house nearly every day.
Mrs. Hamilton used to sit in a large chair in the middle of the room,
with a heavy cowskin always by her side, and scarce an hour passed
during the day but was marked by the blood of one of these slaves. The
girls seldom passed her without her saying, "Move faster, you _black
gip!_" at the same time giving them a blow with the cowskin over the
head or shoulders, often drawing the blood. She would then say, "Take
that, you _black gip!_" continuing, "If you don't move faster, I'll move
you!" Added to the cruel lashings to which these slaves were subjected,
they were kept nearly half-starved. They seldom knew what it was to eat
a full meal. I have seen Mary contending with the pigs for the offal
thrown into the street. So much was Mary kicked and cut to pieces, that
she was oftener called "_pecked_" than by her name.
Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obenstehenden Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Frau Sophia Auld war anders als alle weißen Personen, die Douglass zuvor getroffen hatte, denn sie hatte "das freundlichste Herz und die feinsten Gefühle". Sie hatte nie einen Sklaven besessen und war vor ihrer Ehe eine fleißige Weberin. Aber ihre Persönlichkeit änderte sich bald. Zunächst lehrte Frau Auld Douglass, wie man liest, doch Herr Auld ermahnte sie und erklärte: "Das Lernen würde den besten Neger der Welt verderben... Wenn du diesem Neger beibringst, wie man liest, gibt es kein Zurück mehr. Es würde ihn für immer unfähig machen, ein Sklave zu sein." Sklaven in den Städten wurden im Allgemeinen besser behandelt als diejenigen auf den Plantagen. Douglass wurde in Baltimore besser ernährt und gekleidet als je zuvor. Es gab auch Gemeinschaftsstandards, wie Sklaven behandelt werden sollten: "Nur wenige sind bereit, den Ruf eines grausamen Herrn zu erlangen... Jeder Sklavenhalter in der Stadt ist bestrebt, bekannt zu machen, dass er seine Sklaven gut versorgt." Douglass beendet jedoch dieses Kapitel mit einer Ausnahme – Mary, eine Sklavin in der Nachbarschaft, wird von ihrem Herrn brutal behandelt. |
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Chapter: Mr. Weston was a native of Highbury, and born of a respectable family,
which for the last two or three generations had been rising into
gentility and property. He had received a good education, but, on
succeeding early in life to a small independence, had become indisposed
for any of the more homely pursuits in which his brothers were engaged,
and had satisfied an active, cheerful mind and social temper by entering
into the militia of his county, then embodied.
Captain Weston was a general favourite; and when the chances of his
military life had introduced him to Miss Churchill, of a great Yorkshire
family, and Miss Churchill fell in love with him, nobody was surprized,
except her brother and his wife, who had never seen him, and who were
full of pride and importance, which the connexion would offend.
Miss Churchill, however, being of age, and with the full command of her
fortune--though her fortune bore no proportion to the family-estate--was
not to be dissuaded from the marriage, and it took place, to the
infinite mortification of Mr. and Mrs. Churchill, who threw her off with
due decorum. It was an unsuitable connexion, and did not produce much
happiness. Mrs. Weston ought to have found more in it, for she had a
husband whose warm heart and sweet temper made him think every thing due
to her in return for the great goodness of being in love with him;
but though she had one sort of spirit, she had not the best. She had
resolution enough to pursue her own will in spite of her brother,
but not enough to refrain from unreasonable regrets at that brother's
unreasonable anger, nor from missing the luxuries of her former home.
They lived beyond their income, but still it was nothing in comparison
of Enscombe: she did not cease to love her husband, but she wanted at
once to be the wife of Captain Weston, and Miss Churchill of Enscombe.
Captain Weston, who had been considered, especially by the Churchills,
as making such an amazing match, was proved to have much the worst of
the bargain; for when his wife died, after a three years' marriage, he
was rather a poorer man than at first, and with a child to maintain.
From the expense of the child, however, he was soon relieved. The boy
had, with the additional softening claim of a lingering illness of his
mother's, been the means of a sort of reconciliation; and Mr. and Mrs.
Churchill, having no children of their own, nor any other young creature
of equal kindred to care for, offered to take the whole charge of the
little Frank soon after her decease. Some scruples and some reluctance
the widower-father may be supposed to have felt; but as they were
overcome by other considerations, the child was given up to the care and
the wealth of the Churchills, and he had only his own comfort to seek,
and his own situation to improve as he could.
A complete change of life became desirable. He quitted the militia and
engaged in trade, having brothers already established in a good way in
London, which afforded him a favourable opening. It was a concern which
brought just employment enough. He had still a small house in Highbury,
where most of his leisure days were spent; and between useful occupation
and the pleasures of society, the next eighteen or twenty years of his
life passed cheerfully away. He had, by that time, realised an easy
competence--enough to secure the purchase of a little estate adjoining
Highbury, which he had always longed for--enough to marry a woman as
portionless even as Miss Taylor, and to live according to the wishes of
his own friendly and social disposition.
It was now some time since Miss Taylor had begun to influence his
schemes; but as it was not the tyrannic influence of youth on youth,
it had not shaken his determination of never settling till he could
purchase Randalls, and the sale of Randalls was long looked forward to;
but he had gone steadily on, with these objects in view, till they were
accomplished. He had made his fortune, bought his house, and obtained
his wife; and was beginning a new period of existence, with every
probability of greater happiness than in any yet passed through. He had
never been an unhappy man; his own temper had secured him from that,
even in his first marriage; but his second must shew him how delightful
a well-judging and truly amiable woman could be, and must give him the
pleasantest proof of its being a great deal better to choose than to be
chosen, to excite gratitude than to feel it.
He had only himself to please in his choice: his fortune was his own;
for as to Frank, it was more than being tacitly brought up as his
uncle's heir, it had become so avowed an adoption as to have him assume
the name of Churchill on coming of age. It was most unlikely, therefore,
that he should ever want his father's assistance. His father had no
apprehension of it. The aunt was a capricious woman, and governed her
husband entirely; but it was not in Mr. Weston's nature to imagine that
any caprice could be strong enough to affect one so dear, and, as he
believed, so deservedly dear. He saw his son every year in London, and
was proud of him; and his fond report of him as a very fine young man
had made Highbury feel a sort of pride in him too. He was looked on as
sufficiently belonging to the place to make his merits and prospects a
kind of common concern.
Mr. Frank Churchill was one of the boasts of Highbury, and a lively
curiosity to see him prevailed, though the compliment was so little
returned that he had never been there in his life. His coming to visit
his father had been often talked of but never achieved.
Now, upon his father's marriage, it was very generally proposed, as a
most proper attention, that the visit should take place. There was not a
dissentient voice on the subject, either when Mrs. Perry drank tea with
Mrs. and Miss Bates, or when Mrs. and Miss Bates returned the visit. Now
was the time for Mr. Frank Churchill to come among them; and the hope
strengthened when it was understood that he had written to his new
mother on the occasion. For a few days, every morning visit in Highbury
included some mention of the handsome letter Mrs. Weston had received.
"I suppose you have heard of the handsome letter Mr. Frank Churchill
has written to Mrs. Weston? I understand it was a very handsome letter,
indeed. Mr. Woodhouse told me of it. Mr. Woodhouse saw the letter, and
he says he never saw such a handsome letter in his life."
It was, indeed, a highly prized letter. Mrs. Weston had, of course,
formed a very favourable idea of the young man; and such a pleasing
attention was an irresistible proof of his great good sense, and a most
welcome addition to every source and every expression of congratulation
which her marriage had already secured. She felt herself a most
fortunate woman; and she had lived long enough to know how fortunate
she might well be thought, where the only regret was for a partial
separation from friends whose friendship for her had never cooled, and
who could ill bear to part with her.
She knew that at times she must be missed; and could not think, without
pain, of Emma's losing a single pleasure, or suffering an hour's ennui,
from the want of her companionableness: but dear Emma was of no feeble
character; she was more equal to her situation than most girls would
have been, and had sense, and energy, and spirits that might be hoped
would bear her well and happily through its little difficulties and
privations. And then there was such comfort in the very easy distance of
Randalls from Hartfield, so convenient for even solitary female walking,
and in Mr. Weston's disposition and circumstances, which would make the
approaching season no hindrance to their spending half the evenings in
the week together.
Her situation was altogether the subject of hours of gratitude to Mrs.
Weston, and of moments only of regret; and her satisfaction--her more
than satisfaction--her cheerful enjoyment, was so just and so apparent,
that Emma, well as she knew her father, was sometimes taken by surprize
at his being still able to pity 'poor Miss Taylor,' when they left her
at Randalls in the centre of every domestic comfort, or saw her go away
in the evening attended by her pleasant husband to a carriage of her
own. But never did she go without Mr. Woodhouse's giving a gentle sigh,
and saying, "Ah, poor Miss Taylor! She would be very glad to stay."
There was no recovering Miss Taylor--nor much likelihood of ceasing to
pity her; but a few weeks brought some alleviation to Mr. Woodhouse.
The compliments of his neighbours were over; he was no longer teased by
being wished joy of so sorrowful an event; and the wedding-cake, which
had been a great distress to him, was all eat up. His own stomach
could bear nothing rich, and he could never believe other people to be
different from himself. What was unwholesome to him he regarded as unfit
for any body; and he had, therefore, earnestly tried to dissuade them
from having any wedding-cake at all, and when that proved vain, as
earnestly tried to prevent any body's eating it. He had been at the
pains of consulting Mr. Perry, the apothecary, on the subject. Mr. Perry
was an intelligent, gentlemanlike man, whose frequent visits were one
of the comforts of Mr. Woodhouse's life; and upon being applied to, he
could not but acknowledge (though it seemed rather against the bias
of inclination) that wedding-cake might certainly disagree with
many--perhaps with most people, unless taken moderately. With such an
opinion, in confirmation of his own, Mr. Woodhouse hoped to influence
every visitor of the newly married pair; but still the cake was eaten;
and there was no rest for his benevolent nerves till it was all gone.
There was a strange rumour in Highbury of all the little Perrys being
seen with a slice of Mrs. Weston's wedding-cake in their hands: but Mr.
Woodhouse would never believe it.
Können Sie eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Wir treffen Mr. Weston, den ehemaligen Colonel, der gerade Mrs. Weston von den Woodhouses gestohlen hat. Weston ist ein rundum guter Kerl - ein großartiger Soldat, ein Gentleman und Eigentümer einer Immobilie. Lassen Sie uns betonen, dass er ein guter Kerl ist. Verstanden? Als ob das nicht genug wäre, treffen wir auch auf Mr. Westons Sohn, Frank Churchill. Warum ist er nicht Frank Weston? Das ist eine gute Frage. Mehr dazu später.... Frank ist der Sohn aus Mr. Westons erster Ehe. Frank wurde von einer wohlhabenden Tante aufgezogen, was bedeutet, dass Mr. Weston ihn selten sieht. Gerüchten zufolge könnte Frank jedoch zu einem Hochzeitsbesuch zurückkehren, was die ganze Stadt in Aufregung versetzt. Unser Erzähler führt uns zurück zur Hochzeitsfeier, wo Mr. Woodhouse verzweifelt versucht, die gesamte Hochzeitsgesellschaft davon zu überzeugen, dass Kuchen ungesund ist. Er holt sich die fachliche Meinung seines Arztes, Mr. Perry, ein. |
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Kapitel: Erster Akt. Szene 1.
Leonato, der Gouverneur von Messina, Innogen, seine Frau, Hero, seine Tochter, und Beatrice, seine Nichte, betreten die Bühne, begleitet von einem Boten.
Leonato: Ich erfahre aus diesem Brief, dass Don Pedro von Arragon heute Abend nach Messina kommt.
Bote: Er ist sehr nah dran. Als ich ihn verließ, war er keine drei Meilen entfernt.
Leonato: Wie viele Edelleute habt ihr in dieser Aktion verloren?
Bote: Nur wenige von irgendeiner Sorte, aber keiner von Bedeutung.
Leonato: Ein Sieg ist doppelt so viel wert, wenn derjenige, der ihn errungen hat, eine große Anzahl von Kämpfern heimbringt. Ich sehe hier, dass Don Pedro viel Ehre einem jungen Florentiner namens Claudio erweisen hat.
Bote: Das hat er sich sehr verdient und Don Pedro erinnert sich ebenso daran. Er hat sich weit über das Versprechen seines Alters hinaus bewährt. Er hat in der Gestalt eines Lammes Taten vollbracht, die einem Löwen zustehen. Tatsächlich hat er die Erwartungen übertroffen, aber ich werde euch nicht erzählen, wie sehr.
Leonato: Er hat hier einen Onkel in Messina, der sehr erfreut darüber sein wird.
Bote: Ich habe ihm bereits Briefe überbracht und es scheint, dass er sehr glücklich darüber ist. So glücklich, dass seine Freude sich nicht bescheiden genug zeigen konnte, ohne einen bitteren Beigeschmack.
Leonato: Hat er Tränen vergossen?
Bote: In großen Mengen.
Leonato: Eine übermäßige Zuneigung, denn es gibt kein Gesicht, das aufrichtiger ist als eines, das mit Tränen gewaschen wurde. Wie viel besser ist es, vor Freude zu weinen, als über Freude zu jubeln?
Beatrice: Sag mal, ist Signior Mountanto von den Kriegen zurückgekehrt oder nicht?
Bote: Ich kenne niemanden mit diesem Namen, Lady. In der Armee gab es niemanden derartiges.
Leonato: Wen fragst du da, Nichte?
Hero: Meine Cousine meint Signior Benedick aus Padua.
Bote: Oh ja, er ist zurückgekehrt und genauso fröhlich wie immer.
Beatrice: Er hat in Messina seine Botschaften aufgehängt und den Liebesgott Cupido zum Wettstreit herausgefordert. Und mein Onkels Narr hat die Herausforderung gelesen und als Cupido unterschrieben, und ihm den Burbolt duellvorgeschlagen. Sag mal, wie viele hat er in diesem Krieg getötet und gegessen? Aber wie viele hat er getötet? Denn ich habe versprochen, alles von seinem Töten zu essen.
Leonato: Im Ernst, Nichte, du überschätzt Signior Benedick. Aber er wird es dir heimzahlen, da zweifle ich nicht.
Bote: Er hat guten Dienst geleistet, Mylady, in diesen Kriegen.
Beatrice: Du hattest schlechtes Essen, und er hat dir geholfen, es zu verdauen: Er ist ein sehr tapferer Esser. Er hat einen exzellenten Appetit.
Bote: Und ein guter Soldat, Lady.
Beatrice: Und ein guter Soldat für eine Lady. Aber was ist er für einen Lord?
Bote: Ein Lord für einen Lord, ein Mann für einen Mann, er ist mit allen ehrenhaften Tugenden ausgestattet.
Beatrice: Das ist in der Tat so, er ist nicht weniger als ein mit Tugenden gefüllter Mann. Aber was das Füllen betrifft, so sind wir alle sterblich.
Leonato: Ihr versteht meine Nichte falsch, es gibt eine Art fröhlichen Krieg zwischen Signior Benedick und ihr. Sie treffen sich nie, aber es gibt immer eine geistige Auseinandersetzung zwischen ihnen.
Beatrice: Ach, er gewinnt nichts dadurch. In unserem letzten Konflikt hat er vier seiner fünf Sinne verloren und jetzt wird der ganze Mann von einem einzigen beherrscht. Wenn er genug Verstand hat, sich warm zu halten, dann möge er es als Unterschied zwischen sich und seinem Pferd betrachten. Denn das ist der einzige Reichtum, der ihm geblieben ist, als ein vernünftiges Wesen bekannt zu sein. Wer ist jetzt sein Begleiter? Jeden Monat hat er einen neuen Schwurbruder.
Bote: Ist das möglich?
Beatrice: Sehr leicht möglich. Er trägt seinen Glauben wie seine Hutmode, sie ändert sich immer mit dem nächsten Block.
Bote: Ich sehe, Lady, der Herr ist nicht in euren Gunstbüchern.
Beatrice: Nein, und wenn er es wäre, würde ich meine Studie verbrennen. Aber sag mir, wer ist sein Begleiter? Gibt es jetzt keinen jungen Hitzkopf mehr, der mit ihm in die Hölle reisen will?
Bote: Er ist am meisten in der Gesellschaft des illustren Claudio.
Beatrice: Oh Herr, er wird an ihm hängen wie an einer Krankheit. Er wird schneller erwischt als die Pest und derjenige, der ihn erwischt hat, wird schnell verrückt. Gott helfe dem edlen Claudio, wenn er den Benedict erwischt hat. Es wird ihn tausend Pfund kosten, bis er geheilt ist.
Bote: Ich werde mich mit Ihnen versöhnen, Lady.
Beatrice: Tun Sie das, guter Freund.
Leonato: Meine Nichte wird nie verrückt werden.
Beatrice: Nein, nicht vor einem heißen Januar.
Bote: Don Pedro nähert sich.
Don Pedro, Claudio, Benedicke, Balthasar und Iohn der Bastard betreten die Bühne.
Don Pedro: Guter Signior Leonato, ihr seid gekommen, um euer Leid zu begrüßen. Die Mode der Welt ist es, Kosten zu vermeiden, und ihr begegnet ihnen.
Leonato: Noch nie ist mir Ärger in meim Haus in der Gestalt eurer Gnade begegnet. Wenn der Ärger gegangen ist, sollte die Freude bleiben, aber wenn ihr von mir geht, bleibt die Traurigkeit und das Glück nimmt Abschied.
Don Pedro: Ihr umarmt eure Pflicht zu willig. Ich nehme an, das ist eure Tochter.
Leonato: Ihre Mutter hat es mir oft genug gesagt.
Benedick: Hattet ihr Zweifel, dass ihr sie gefragt habt?
Leonato: Signior Benedick, nein, sonst wärt ihr ja ein Kind.
Don Pedro: Ihr habt es vollständig erfasst, Benedick. Anhand dessen können wir erkennen, wer ihr seid, da ihr ein Mann seid. Wahrlich, die Dame ähnelt ihrem ehrenhaften Vater.
Benedick: Wenn Signior Leonato ihr Vater ist, dann würde sie seinen Kopf nicht auf ihren Schultern haben wollen, so ähnlich sieht sie ihm.
Beatrice: Ich wundere mich, dass du immer noch redest, Signior Benedick. Niemand achtet auf dich.
Benedick: Mein liebes Fräulein Verachtung, lebst du immer noch?
Beatrice: Ist es möglich, dass Verachtung stirbt, solange sie so geeignetes Futter hat, wie Signior Benedick? Selbst die höfliche Umgangsform musste zur Verachtung werden, wenn ihr in ihrer Anwesenheit seid.
Benedick: Dann ist Höflichkeit ein Verräter, aber sicherlich bin ich von allen Frauen geliebt, nur nicht von dir. Und ich wünschte, ich könnte in meinem Herzen dennoch nicht so ein hartherziger Mensch sein, denn wirklich, ich liebe niemanden.
Beatrice: Eine wunderbare Sache für Frauen, sonst wären sie von einem schädlichen Verehrer geplagt worden. Ich danke Gott und meinem kühlen Blut, dass ich in dieser Hinsicht mit dir übereinstimme. Ich würde lieber meinen Hund einen Raben anbellen hören, als einen Mann schwören zu hören, dass er mich liebt.
Benedick: Gott bewah
Clau. Benedicke, hast du die Tochter des Herrn Leonato bemerkt?
Bene. Ich habe sie nicht bemerkt, aber ich habe auf sie geschaut
Claud. Ist sie nicht ein bescheidenes junges Fräulein?
Bene. Fragest du mich, wie es sich für einen ehrlichen Mann gehört, nach meiner einfachen, wahren Beurteilung? Oder möchtest du, dass ich nach meiner Gewohnheit spreche, als wäre ich ein ausgesprochener Tyrann gegenüber ihrem Geschlecht?
Clau. Nein, ich bitte dich, sprich in nüchterner Beurteilung
Bene. Wahrhaftig, ich denke, sie ist zu gering für ein großes Lob, zu braun für ein schönes Lob und zu klein für ein großes Lob. Nur diese Empfehlung kann ich ihr geben, dass sie, wäre sie anders als sie ist, unschön wäre und da sie so ist, mag ich sie nicht
Clau. Du denkst wohl, ich mache Spaß. Ich bitte dich, sag mir ehrlich, wie du sie findest
Bene. Möchtest du sie kaufen, dass du so nach ihr fragst?
Clau. Kann die Welt einen solchen Schatz kaufen?
Bene. Ja, und ein Etui zum Aufbewahren dazu, aber sprichst du das mit ernster Miene? Oder spielst du den schelmischen Spaßvogel, um uns zu sagen, dass Amor ein guter Hase-Finder ist und Vulkan ein seltener Zimmermann: Komm, in welchem Ton willst du uns begleiten?
Clau. Nach meiner Ansicht ist sie die bezauberndste Lady, die ich je gesehen habe
Bene. Ich kann immer noch ohne Brille sehen, und ich sehe keine solche Schönheit: Hier ist ihre Cousine, und würde sie nicht von Raserei besessen, übertrifft sie sie genauso an Schönheit wie der erste Mai den letzten Dezember. Aber ich hoffe, du hast nicht vor, dich in einen Ehemann zu verwandeln, hast du?
Clau. Ich würde mir selbst kaum vertrauen, auch wenn ich das Gegenteil geschworen hätte, wenn Hero meine Frau würde
Bene. Ist es so weit gekommen? Glaubt denn die Welt, dass nur er seinen Hut mit Misstrauen tragen würde? Werde ich nie wieder einen Junggesellen von sechzig Jahren sehen? So sei es, sei doch unbesorgt und zwäng deinen Hals in ein Joch, trag den Abdruck davon und seufze jeden Sonntag dahin: Schau, Don Pedro ist zurückgekehrt, um dich zu suchen.
Es treten Don Pedro und der Bastard auf.
Pedr. Was hat dich hier aufgehalten, dass du nicht zu Leonato gefolgt bist?
Bened. Eure Gnaden, ich wünschte, Ihr würdet mich zwingen, es zu sagen
Pedro. Ich befehle es dir auf deinen Gehorsam
Bene. Ihr hört, Graf Claudio, ich kann so geheimnisvoll wie ein Stummer sein. Ich möchte, dass ihr das denkt (aber bei meiner Treue, merkt euch das, bei meiner Treue) er ist verliebt. In wen? Nun, das ist Eure Aufgabe: Achtet darauf, wie kurz seine Antwort ist, in Hero, Leonatos lieber Tochter
Clau. Wenn das so wäre, wäre es ausgesprochen.
Bened. Wie die alte Geschichte, mein Herr, ist es nicht so, noch war es so: aber Gott bewahre, dass es so sein sollte.
Clau. Wenn sich meine Leidenschaft nicht bald ändert, Gott bewahre, dass es anders sein sollte.
Pedr. Amen, wenn du sie liebst, denn die Dame ist sehr würdig.
Clau. Damit möchtest du mich hereinlegen, mein Herr.
Pedr. Bei meiner Wahrheit sage ich, was ich denke.
Clau. Und bei meiner Wahrheit, mein Herr, sage ich das, was ich denke.
Bened. Und bei meiner doppelten Wahrheit, mein Herr, sage ich das, was ich denke.
Clau. Dass ich sie liebe, fühle ich.
Pedr. Dass sie es wert ist, weiß ich.
Bened. Dass ich weder fühle, wie sie geliebt werden sollte, noch weiß, wie sie es wert sein sollte, ist mein Standpunkt, den kein Feuer in mir zum Schmelzen bringen kann. Ich werde daran festhalten bis zum Ende.
Pedr. Du warst schon immer ein hartnäckiger Ketzer trotz der Schönheit.
Clau. Und du konntest nie deine Meinung halten, außer wenn du deinen Willen durchsetzen konntest.
Ben. Ich danke der Frau, dass sie mich empfangen hat. Dass sie mich aufgezogen hat, gebe ich ihr ebenso meinen demütigen Dank. Aber dass ich ein Horn vorne auf meiner Stirn tragen werde oder mein Horn auf einem unsichtbaren Koppel trage, wollen mir alle Frauen verzeihen. Weil ich ihnen nicht das Unrecht tun werde, ihnen zu misstrauen, werde ich mir selbst das Recht geben, niemandem zu vertrauen. Und das Schöne daran ist, (wonach ich mich besser kleiden kann) ich werde Junggeselle sein.
Pedr. Ich werde dich sehen, bevor ich sterbe, blass vor Liebe.
Bene. Vor Ärger, vor Krankheit oder vor Hunger, mein Herr, nicht vor Liebe. Beweise mir erst, dass ich mehr Blut durch die Liebe verliere, als ich durchs Trinken wiedererlangen werde, picke meine Augen mit der Feder eines Liedmachers heraus und hänge mich an die Tür eines Bordells als Zeichen des blinden Cupids.
Pedro. Nun gut, wenn du jemals von diesem Glauben abfallen solltest, wirst du ein bemerkenswertes Beispiel abgeben.
Bene. Wenn ich das tue, dann hängt mich in eine Flasche wie eine Katze und schießt auf mich, und wer mich trifft, soll auf die Schulter geklopft werden und Adam genannt werden.
Pedro. Nun gut, die Zeit wird es zeigen: Mit der Zeit legt der wilde Bulle das Joch ab.
Bene. Der wilde Bulle mag das tun, aber wenn der sinnliche Benedikte es je tragen würde, zupft die Hörner des Stiers ab und steckt sie auf meine Stirn und lass mich wild bemalt sein und in solch großen Buchstaben, wie sie schreiben, hier ist ein guter Hochzeitskandidat: Lasst sie unter meinem Zeichen davor wissen, hier könnt ihr Benedikte, den verheirateten Mann, sehen.
Clau. Wenn das jemals passieren sollte, wärst du verrückt vor Eifersucht.
Pedro. Nein, wenn Cupid nicht seinen ganzen Köcher in Venedig verschossen hat, wirst du dafür bald zittern.
Bene. Dann warte ich auch auf ein Erdbeben.
Pedr. Nun, du wirst mit den Stunden spielen. In der Zwischenzeit, guter Signor Benedikte, geh zu Leonato, grüße ihn von mir und sag ihm, ich werde ihn beim Abendessen nicht im Stich lassen, denn er hat sich große Mühe gemacht.
Bene. Ich habe fast genug Material in mir für eine solche Botschaft, und so übergebe ich euch.
Clau. Unter Gottes Aufsicht. Von meinem Haus aus, wenn ich eins hätte.
Pedro. Am sechsten Juli. Dein liebevoller Freund, Benedikt.
Bene. Spottet nicht, spottet nicht. Der Kern deiner Rede wird manchmal mit Bruchstücken geschützt, und die Schutzschilde sind nur oberflächlich befestigt, bevor du über alte Enden weiter spottest, untersuche dein Gewissen und so verlasse ich dich.
Ped. Warum brauchst du eine Brücke, die viel breiter ist als die Flut?
Die schönste Gnade ist die Notwendigkeit:
Was immer dient, ist passend: Es ist einmal, du liebst,
Und ich werde dich mit dem Heilmittel ausstatten,
Ich weiß, wir werden heute Abend feiern,
Ich werde deine Rolle in einiger Verkleidung übernehmen,
Und der schönen Hero werde ich sagen, dass ich Claudio bin,
Und in ihrem Herzen werde ich mein Herz entfalten,
Und mit der Kraft und dem starken Aufeinandertreffen meiner liebesvollen Geschichte ihre Aufmerksamkeit gefangennehmen:
Dann werde ich ihrem Vater gegenüber auftreten,
Und der Schluss ist, sie wird dein sein,
In der Praxis lassen uns dies sofort umsetzen.
Abgang.
Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Einleitung - Akt I, Szene 1 - Henry IV Teil 2 beginnt, wo Teil 1 aufgehört hat. Die Schlacht von Shrewsbury wurde gerade zwischen den Kräften des Königs und den Rebellen unter der Führung von Hotspur, dem Sohn des Earls of Northumberland, geschlagen. Das Heer des Königs triumphierte. Die personifizierte Figur des Gerüchts tritt auf. Gerücht verbreitet Gerüchte, dass die Schlacht tatsächlich anders verlief. Gerücht zufolge wurde Prinz Henry, der Sohn des Königs, von Hotspur getötet. Gerücht verbreitet auch das Wort, dass der König in der Schlacht von Douglas, dem Anführer der Schotten, getötet wurde. Szene 1 beginnt in Northumberlands Schloss. Lord Bardolph trifft ein und Northumberland verlangt, die Neuigkeiten von der Schlacht zu erfahren. Bardolph glaubt, dass die Rebellen gesiegt haben, und erzählt Northumberland, dass der König tödlich verwundet ist, Prinz Henry und andere hochrangige Herren tot sind und dass Prinz John, der ebenfalls auf der Seite des Königs kämpft, zusammen mit Westmoreland und Stafford aus der Schlacht geflohen ist. Bardolph gibt zu, dass er nicht in der Schlacht war; er hat nur mit jemandem gesprochen, der von dort gekommen war. Travers, Northumberlands Diener, tritt mit völlig anderen Nachrichten ein, die er von jemandem erfahren hat, der in Shrewsbury war. Er sagt, dass Hotspur, Northumberlands Sohn, getötet wurde. Bardolph macht sich darüber lustig und sagt, dass es nicht wahr ist. Dann tritt Morton ein. Er ist direkt aus Shrewsbury gekommen und bestätigt die schlechten Nachrichten, dass Hotspur tot ist. Er hat mit eigenen Augen gesehen, wie Prinz Henry Hotspur getötet hat, woraufhin die anderen Rebellen, bestürzt über den Verlust ihres Anführers, vom Schlachtfeld geflohen sind. Worcester und Douglas wurden gefangen genommen. Der König hat nun ein Heer unter dem Befehl von Prinz John von Lancaster und Westmoreland geschickt, um Northumberland anzugreifen. Northumberland ist bestürzt über die Nachricht vom Verlust seines Sohnes und gerät in eine leidenschaftliche, verzweifelte und kriegerische Stimmung. Bardolph und Morton versuchen, ihn davon zu überzeugen, nicht den Kopf zu verlieren, sondern ruhig zu bleiben. Morton weist darauf hin, dass Northumberland, als er das rebellische Heer aufstellte, wusste, dass die Chance bestand, dass sein Sohn getötet würde. Was jetzt geschehen ist, ist nichts mehr als vernünftig zu erwarten war. Morton bringt auch die Nachricht, dass der Erzbischof von York ein Heer aufgestellt hat, das an der Seite der Rebellen kämpfen wird. Dies verleiht der Sache der Rebellen mehr Kraft und Legitimität, da der Erzbischof die Unterstützung des Himmels anruft. Northumberland erholt sich und sagt, sie müssen planen, wie sie am besten dem Heer des Königs entgegentreten können. |
Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frage im Anschluss (am Ende). Sollten die Texte nicht in der Sprache des Nutzers sein, beantworte die Frage ungeachtet dessen in der Sprache des Nutzers bzw in meiner Sprache.
Chapter: Italy, Philip had always maintained, is only her true self in the height
of the summer, when the tourists have left her, and her soul awakes
under the beams of a vertical sun. He now had every opportunity of
seeing her at her best, for it was nearly the middle of August before he
went out to meet Harriet in the Tirol.
He found his sister in a dense cloud five thousand feet above the sea,
chilled to the bone, overfed, bored, and not at all unwilling to be
fetched away.
"It upsets one's plans terribly," she remarked, as she squeezed out her
sponges, "but obviously it is my duty."
"Did mother explain it all to you?" asked Philip.
"Yes, indeed! Mother has written me a really beautiful letter. She
describes how it was that she gradually got to feel that we must rescue
the poor baby from its terrible surroundings, how she has tried by
letter, and it is no good--nothing but insincere compliments and
hypocrisy came back. Then she says, 'There is nothing like personal
influence; you and Philip will succeed where I have failed.' She says,
too, that Caroline Abbott has been wonderful."
Philip assented.
"Caroline feels it as keenly almost as us. That is because she knows the
man. Oh, he must be loathsome! Goodness me! I've forgotten to pack the
ammonia!... It has been a terrible lesson for Caroline, but I fancy it
is her turning-point. I can't help liking to think that out of all this
evil good will come."
Philip saw no prospect of good, nor of beauty either. But the expedition
promised to be highly comic. He was not averse to it any longer; he
was simply indifferent to all in it except the humours. These would be
wonderful. Harriet, worked by her mother; Mrs. Herriton, worked by Miss
Abbott; Gino, worked by a cheque--what better entertainment could he
desire? There was nothing to distract him this time; his sentimentality
had died, so had his anxiety for the family honour. He might be a
puppet's puppet, but he knew exactly the disposition of the strings.
They travelled for thirteen hours down-hill, whilst the streams
broadened and the mountains shrank, and the vegetation changed, and the
people ceased being ugly and drinking beer, and began instead to drink
wine and to be beautiful. And the train which had picked them at sunrise
out of a waste of glaciers and hotels was waltzing at sunset round the
walls of Verona.
"Absurd nonsense they talk about the heat," said Philip, as they drove
from the station. "Supposing we were here for pleasure, what could be
more pleasurable than this?"
"Did you hear, though, they are remarking on the cold?" said Harriet
nervously. "I should never have thought it cold."
And on the second day the heat struck them, like a hand laid over the
mouth, just as they were walking to see the tomb of Juliet. From
that moment everything went wrong. They fled from Verona. Harriet's
sketch-book was stolen, and the bottle of ammonia in her trunk burst
over her prayer-book, so that purple patches appeared on all her
clothes. Then, as she was going through Mantua at four in the morning,
Philip made her look out of the window because it was Virgil's
birthplace, and a smut flew in her eye, and Harriet with a smut in her
eye was notorious. At Bologna they stopped twenty-four hours to rest. It
was a FESTA, and children blew bladder whistles night and day. "What a
religion!" said Harriet. The hotel smelt, two puppies were asleep on
her bed, and her bedroom window looked into a belfry, which saluted her
slumbering form every quarter of an hour. Philip left his walking-stick,
his socks, and the Baedeker at Bologna; she only left her sponge-bag.
Next day they crossed the Apennines with a train-sick child and a
hot lady, who told them that never, never before had she sweated so
profusely. "Foreigners are a filthy nation," said Harriet. "I don't care
if there are tunnels; open the windows." He obeyed, and she got another
smut in her eye. Nor did Florence improve matters. Eating, walking, even
a cross word would bathe them both in boiling water. Philip, who was
slighter of build, and less conscientious, suffered less. But Harriet
had never been to Florence, and between the hours of eight and eleven
she crawled like a wounded creature through the streets, and swooned
before various masterpieces of art. It was an irritable couple who took
tickets to Monteriano.
"Singles or returns?" said he.
"A single for me," said Harriet peevishly; "I shall never get back
alive."
"Sweet creature!" said her brother, suddenly breaking down. "How helpful
you will be when we come to Signor Carella!"
"Do you suppose," said Harriet, standing still among a whirl of
porters--"do you suppose I am going to enter that man's house?"
"Then what have you come for, pray? For ornament?"
"To see that you do your duty."
"Oh, thanks!"
"So mother told me. For goodness sake get the tickets; here comes that
hot woman again! She has the impudence to bow."
"Mother told you, did she?" said Philip wrathfully, as he went to
struggle for tickets at a slit so narrow that they were handed to him
edgeways. Italy was beastly, and Florence station is the centre of
beastly Italy. But he had a strange feeling that he was to blame for it
all; that a little influx into him of virtue would make the whole land
not beastly but amusing. For there was enchantment, he was sure of that;
solid enchantment, which lay behind the porters and the screaming and
the dust. He could see it in the terrific blue sky beneath which they
travelled, in the whitened plain which gripped life tighter than a
frost, in the exhausted reaches of the Arno, in the ruins of brown
castles which stood quivering upon the hills. He could see it, though
his head ached and his skin was twitching, though he was here as a
puppet, and though his sister knew how he was here. There was nothing
pleasant in that journey to Monteriano station. But nothing--not even
the discomfort--was commonplace.
"But do people live inside?" asked Harriet. They had exchanged
railway-carriage for the legno, and the legno had emerged from the
withered trees, and had revealed to them their destination. Philip, to
be annoying, answered "No."
"What do they do there?" continued Harriet, with a frown.
"There is a caffe. A prison. A theatre. A church. Walls. A view."
"Not for me, thank you," said Harriet, after a weighty pause.
"Nobody asked you, Miss, you see. Now Lilia was asked by such a nice
young gentleman, with curls all over his forehead, and teeth just as
white as father makes them." Then his manner changed. "But, Harriet, do
you see nothing wonderful or attractive in that place--nothing at all?"
"Nothing at all. It's frightful."
"I know it is. But it's old--awfully old."
"Beauty is the only test," said Harriet. "At least so you told me when
I sketched old buildings--for the sake, I suppose, of making yourself
unpleasant."
"Oh, I'm perfectly right. But at the same time--I don't know--so
many things have happened here--people have lived so hard and so
splendidly--I can't explain."
"I shouldn't think you could. It doesn't seem the best moment to begin
your Italy mania. I thought you were cured of it by now. Instead, will
you kindly tell me what you are going to do when you arrive. I do beg
you will not be taken unawares this time."
"First, Harriet, I shall settle you at the Stella d'Italia, in the
comfort that befits your sex and disposition. Then I shall make myself
some tea. After tea I shall take a book into Santa Deodata's, and read
there. It is always fresh and cool."
The martyred Harriet exclaimed, "I'm not clever, Philip. I don't go in
for it, as you know. But I know what's rude. And I know what's wrong."
"Meaning--?"
"You!" she shouted, bouncing on the cushions of the legno and startling
all the fleas. "What's the good of cleverness if a man's murdered a
woman?"
"Harriet, I am hot. To whom do you refer?"
"He. Her. If you don't look out he'll murder you. I wish he would."
"Tut tut, tutlet! You'd find a corpse extraordinarily inconvenient."
Then he tried to be less aggravating. "I heartily dislike the fellow,
but we know he didn't murder her. In that letter, though she said a lot,
she never said he was physically cruel."
"He has murdered her. The things he did--things one can't even
mention--"
"Things which one must mention if one's to talk at all. And things which
one must keep in their proper place. Because he was unfaithful to his
wife, it doesn't follow that in every way he's absolutely vile." He
looked at the city. It seemed to approve his remark.
"It's the supreme test. The man who is unchivalrous to a woman--"
"Oh, stow it! Take it to the Back Kitchen. It's no more a supreme test
than anything else. The Italians never were chivalrous from the first.
If you condemn him for that, you'll condemn the whole lot."
"I condemn the whole lot."
"And the French as well?"
"And the French as well."
"Things aren't so jolly easy," said Philip, more to himself than to her.
But for Harriet things were easy, though not jolly, and she turned upon
her brother yet again. "What about the baby, pray? You've said a lot of
smart things and whittled away morality and religion and I don't know
what; but what about the baby? You think me a fool, but I've been
noticing you all today, and you haven't mentioned the baby once. You
haven't thought about it, even. You don't care. Philip! I shall not
speak to you. You are intolerable."
She kept her promise, and never opened her lips all the rest of the way.
But her eyes glowed with anger and resolution. For she was a straight,
brave woman, as well as a peevish one.
Philip acknowledged her reproof to be true. He did not care about the
baby one straw. Nevertheless, he meant to do his duty, and he was fairly
confident of success. If Gino would have sold his wife for a thousand
lire, for how much less would he not sell his child? It was just a
commercial transaction. Why should it interfere with other things? His
eyes were fixed on the towers again, just as they had been fixed when he
drove with Miss Abbott. But this time his thoughts were pleasanter, for
he had no such grave business on his mind. It was in the spirit of the
cultivated tourist that he approached his destination.
One of the towers, rough as any other, was topped by a cross--the tower
of the Collegiate Church of Santa Deodata. She was a holy maiden of the
Dark Ages, the city's patron saint, and sweetness and barbarity mingle
strangely in her story. So holy was she that all her life she lay upon
her back in the house of her mother, refusing to eat, refusing to play,
refusing to work. The devil, envious of such sanctity, tempted her in
various ways. He dangled grapes above her, he showed her fascinating
toys, he pushed soft pillows beneath her aching head. When all proved
vain he tripped up the mother and flung her downstairs before her very
eyes. But so holy was the saint that she never picked her mother up, but
lay upon her back through all, and thus assured her throne in Paradise.
She was only fifteen when she died, which shows how much is within the
reach of any school-girl. Those who think her life was unpractical need
only think of the victories upon Poggibonsi, San Gemignano, Volterra,
Siena itself--all gained through the invocation of her name; they need
only look at the church which rose over her grave. The grand schemes for
a marble facade were never carried out, and it is brown unfinished stone
until this day. But for the inside Giotto was summoned to decorate the
walls of the nave. Giotto came--that is to say, he did not come, German
research having decisively proved--but at all events the nave is covered
with frescoes, and so are two chapels in the left transept, and the
arch into the choir, and there are scraps in the choir itself. There the
decoration stopped, till in the full spring of the Renaissance a
great painter came to pay a few weeks' visit to his friend the Lord of
Monteriano. In the intervals between the banquets and the discussions on
Latin etymology and the dancing, he would stroll over to the church, and
there in the fifth chapel to the right he has painted two frescoes of
the death and burial of Santa Deodata. That is why Baedeker gives the
place a star.
Santa Deodata was better company than Harriet, and she kept Philip in a
pleasant dream until the legno drew up at the hotel. Every one there was
asleep, for it was still the hour when only idiots were moving. There
were not even any beggars about. The cabman put their bags down in the
passage--they had left heavy luggage at the station--and strolled about
till he came on the landlady's room and woke her, and sent her to them.
Then Harriet pronounced the monosyllable "Go!"
"Go where?" asked Philip, bowing to the landlady, who was swimming down
the stairs.
"To the Italian. Go."
"Buona sera, signora padrona. Si ritorna volontieri a Monteriano!"
(Don't be a goose. I'm not going now. You're in the way, too.) "Vorrei
due camere--"
"Go. This instant. Now. I'll stand it no longer. Go!"
"I'm damned if I'll go. I want my tea."
"Swear if you like!" she cried. "Blaspheme! Abuse me! But understand,
I'm in earnest."
"Harriet, don't act. Or act better."
"We've come here to get the baby back, and for nothing else. I'll not
have this levity and slackness, and talk about pictures and churches.
Think of mother; did she send you out for THEM?"
"Think of mother and don't straddle across the stairs. Let the cabman
and the landlady come down, and let me go up and choose rooms."
"I shan't."
"Harriet, are you mad?"
"If you like. But you will not come up till you have seen the Italian."
"La signorina si sente male," said Philip, "C' e il sole."
"Poveretta!" cried the landlady and the cabman.
"Leave me alone!" said Harriet, snarling round at them. "I don't care
for the lot of you. I'm English, and neither you'll come down nor he up
till he goes for the baby."
"La prego-piano-piano-c e un' altra signorina che dorme--"
"We shall probably be arrested for brawling, Harriet. Have you the very
slightest sense of the ludicrous?"
Harriet had not; that was why she could be so powerful. She had
concocted this scene in the carriage, and nothing should baulk her
of it. To the abuse in front and the coaxing behind she was equally
indifferent. How long she would have stood like a glorified Horatius,
keeping the staircase at both ends, was never to be known. For the young
lady, whose sleep they were disturbing, awoke and opened her bedroom
door, and came out on to the landing. She was Miss Abbott.
Philip's first coherent feeling was one of indignation. To be run by
his mother and hectored by his sister was as much as he could stand. The
intervention of a third female drove him suddenly beyond politeness. He
was about to say exactly what he thought about the thing from beginning
to end. But before he could do so Harriet also had seen Miss Abbott. She
uttered a shrill cry of joy.
"You, Caroline, here of all people!" And in spite of the heat she darted
up the stairs and imprinted an affectionate kiss upon her friend.
Philip had an inspiration. "You will have a lot to tell Miss Abbott,
Harriet, and she may have as much to tell you. So I'll pay my call on
Signor Carella, as you suggested, and see how things stand."
Miss Abbott uttered some noise of greeting or alarm. He did not reply to
it or approach nearer to her. Without even paying the cabman, he escaped
into the street.
"Tear each other's eyes out!" he cried, gesticulating at the facade of
the hotel. "Give it to her, Harriet! Teach her to leave us alone. Give
it to her, Caroline! Teach her to be grateful to you. Go it, ladies; go
it!"
Such people as observed him were interested, but did not conclude that
he was mad. This aftermath of conversation is not unknown in Italy.
He tried to think how amusing it was; but it would not do--Miss Abbott's
presence affected him too personally. Either she suspected him of
dishonesty, or else she was being dishonest herself. He preferred to
suppose the latter. Perhaps she had seen Gino, and they had prepared
some elaborate mortification for the Herritons. Perhaps Gino had sold
the baby cheap to her for a joke: it was just the kind of joke that
would appeal to him. Philip still remembered the laughter that had
greeted his fruitless journey, and the uncouth push that had toppled him
on to the bed. And whatever it might mean, Miss Abbott's presence spoilt
the comedy: she would do nothing funny.
During this short meditation he had walked through the city, and was out
on the other side. "Where does Signor Carella live?" he asked the men at
the Dogana.
"I'll show you," said a little girl, springing out of the ground as
Italian children will.
"She will show you," said the Dogana men, nodding reassuringly. "Follow
her always, always, and you will come to no harm. She is a trustworthy
guide. She is my
daughter."
cousin."
sister."
Philip knew these relatives well: they ramify, if need be, all over the
peninsula.
"Do you chance to know whether Signor Carella is in?" he asked her.
She had just seen him go in. Philip nodded. He was looking forward to
the interview this time: it would be an intellectual duet with a man
of no great intellect. What was Miss Abbott up to? That was one of the
things he was going to discover. While she had it out with Harriet, he
would have it out with Gino. He followed the Dogana's relative softly,
like a diplomatist.
He did not follow her long, for this was the Volterra gate, and the
house was exactly opposite to it. In half a minute they had scrambled
down the mule-track and reached the only practicable entrance. Philip
laughed, partly at the thought of Lilia in such a building, partly in
the confidence of victory. Meanwhile the Dogana's relative lifted up her
voice and gave a shout.
For an impressive interval there was no reply. Then the figure of a
woman appeared high up on the loggia.
"That is Perfetta," said the girl.
"I want to see Signor Carella," cried Philip.
"Out!"
"Out," echoed the girl complacently.
"Why on earth did you say he was in?" He could have strangled her
for temper. He had been just ripe for an interview--just the right
combination of indignation and acuteness: blood hot, brain cool. But
nothing ever did go right in Monteriano. "When will he be back?" he
called to Perfetta. It really was too bad.
She did not know. He was away on business. He might be back this
evening, he might not. He had gone to Poggibonsi.
At the sound of this word the little girl put her fingers to her
nose and swept them at the plain. She sang as she did so, even as her
foremothers had sung seven hundred years back--
Poggibonizzi, fatti in la,
Che Monteriano si fa citta!
Then she asked Philip for a halfpenny. A German lady, friendly to the
Past, had given her one that very spring.
"I shall have to leave a message," he called.
"Now Perfetta has gone for her basket," said the little girl. "When she
returns she will lower it--so. Then you will put your card into it. Then
she will raise it--thus. By this means--"
When Perfetta returned, Philip remembered to ask after the baby. It took
longer to find than the basket, and he stood perspiring in the evening
sun, trying to avoid the smell of the drains and to prevent the little
girl from singing against Poggibonsi. The olive-trees beside him were
draped with the weekly--or more probably the monthly--wash. What a
frightful spotty blouse! He could not think where he had seen it. Then
he remembered that it was Lilia's. She had brought it "to hack about in"
at Sawston, and had taken it to Italy because "in Italy anything does."
He had rebuked her for the sentiment.
"Beautiful as an angel!" bellowed Perfetta, holding out something which
must be Lilia's baby. "But who am I addressing?"
"Thank you--here is my card." He had written on it a civil request
to Gino for an interview next morning. But before he placed it in the
basket and revealed his identity, he wished to find something out. "Has
a young lady happened to call here lately--a young English lady?"
Perfetta begged his pardon: she was a little deaf.
"A young lady--pale, large, tall."
She did not quite catch.
"A YOUNG LADY!"
"Perfetta is deaf when she chooses," said the Dogana's relative. At
last Philip admitted the peculiarity and strode away. He paid off the
detestable child at the Volterra gate. She got two nickel pieces and was
not pleased, partly because it was too much, partly because he did not
look pleased when he gave it to her. He caught her fathers and cousins
winking at each other as he walked past them. Monteriano seemed in
one conspiracy to make him look a fool. He felt tired and anxious and
muddled, and not sure of anything except that his temper was lost.
In this mood he returned to the Stella d'Italia, and there, as he was
ascending the stairs, Miss Abbott popped out of the dining-room on the
first floor and beckoned to him mysteriously.
"I was going to make myself some tea," he said, with his hand still on
the banisters.
"I should be grateful--"
So he followed her into the dining-room and shut the door.
"You see," she began, "Harriet knows nothing."
"No more do I. He was out."
"But what's that to do with it?"
He presented her with an unpleasant smile. She fenced well, as he had
noticed before. "He was out. You find me as ignorant as you have left
Harriet."
"What do you mean? Please, please Mr. Herriton, don't be mysterious:
there isn't the time. Any moment Harriet may be down, and we shan't have
decided how to behave to her. Sawston was different: we had to keep up
appearances. But here we must speak out, and I think I can trust you to
do it. Otherwise we'll never start clear."
"Pray let us start clear," said Philip, pacing up and down the room.
"Permit me to begin by asking you a question. In which capacity have you
come to Monteriano--spy or traitor?"
"Spy!" she answered, without a moment's hesitation. She was standing
by the little Gothic window as she spoke--the hotel had been a palace
once--and with her finger she was following the curves of the moulding
as if they might feel beautiful and strange. "Spy," she repeated, for
Philip was bewildered at learning her guilt so easily, and could not
answer a word. "Your mother has behaved dishonourably all through. She
never wanted the child; no harm in that; but she is too proud to let it
come to me. She has done all she could to wreck things; she did not tell
you everything; she has told Harriet nothing at all; she has lied or
acted lies everywhere. I cannot trust your mother. So I have come here
alone--all across Europe; no one knows it; my father thinks I am in
Normandy--to spy on Mrs. Herriton. Don't let's argue!" for he had begun,
almost mechanically, to rebuke her for impertinence. "If you are here to
get the child, I will help you; if you are here to fail, I shall get it
instead of you."
"It is hopeless to expect you to believe me," he stammered. "But I can
assert that we are here to get the child, even if it costs us all we've
got. My mother has fixed no money limit whatever. I am here to carry
out her instructions. I think that you will approve of them, as you have
practically dictated them. I do not approve of them. They are absurd."
She nodded carelessly. She did not mind what he said. All she wanted was
to get the baby out of Monteriano.
"Harriet also carries out your instructions," he continued. "She,
however, approves of them, and does not know that they proceed from you.
I think, Miss Abbott, you had better take entire charge of the rescue
party. I have asked for an interview with Signor Carella tomorrow
morning. Do you acquiesce?"
She nodded again.
"Might I ask for details of your interview with him? They might be
helpful to me."
He had spoken at random. To his delight she suddenly collapsed. Her hand
fell from the window. Her face was red with more than the reflection of
evening.
"My interview--how do you know of it?"
"From Perfetta, if it interests you."
"Who ever is Perfetta?"
"The woman who must have let you in."
"In where?"
"Into Signor Carella's house."
"Mr. Herriton!" she exclaimed. "How could you believe her? Do you
suppose that I would have entered that man's house, knowing about him
all that I do? I think you have very odd ideas of what is possible for
a lady. I hear you wanted Harriet to go. Very properly she refused.
Eighteen months ago I might have done such a thing. But I trust I have
learnt how to behave by now."
Philip began to see that there were two Miss Abbotts--the Miss Abbott
who could travel alone to Monteriano, and the Miss Abbott who could
not enter Gino's house when she got there. It was an amusing discovery.
Which of them would respond to his next move?
"I suppose I misunderstood Perfetta. Where did you have your interview,
then?"
"Not an interview--an accident--I am very sorry--I meant you to have the
chance of seeing him first. Though it is your fault. You are a day late.
You were due here yesterday. So I came yesterday, and, not finding you,
went up to the Rocca--you know that kitchen-garden where they let you
in, and there is a ladder up to a broken tower, where you can stand
and see all the other towers below you and the plain and all the other
hills?"
"Yes, yes. I know the Rocca; I told you of it."
"So I went up in the evening for the sunset: I had nothing to do. He was
in the garden: it belongs to a friend of his."
"And you talked."
"It was very awkward for me. But I had to talk: he seemed to make me.
You see he thought I was here as a tourist; he thinks so still. He
intended to be civil, and I judged it better to be civil also."
"And of what did you talk?"
"The weather--there will be rain, he says, by tomorrow evening--the
other towns, England, myself, about you a little, and he actually
mentioned Lilia. He was perfectly disgusting; he pretended he loved
her; he offered to show me her grave--the grave of the woman he has
murdered!"
"My dear Miss Abbott, he is not a murderer. I have just been driving
that into Harriet. And when you know the Italians as well as I do, you
will realize that in all that he said to you he was perfectly sincere.
The Italians are essentially dramatic; they look on death and love as
spectacles. I don't doubt that he persuaded himself, for the moment,
that he had behaved admirably, both as husband and widower."
"You may be right," said Miss Abbott, impressed for the first time.
"When I tried to pave the way, so to speak--to hint that he had not
behaved as he ought--well, it was no good at all. He couldn't or
wouldn't understand."
There was something very humorous in the idea of Miss Abbott approaching
Gino, on the Rocca, in the spirit of a district visitor. Philip, whose
temper was returning, laughed.
"Harriet would say he has no sense of sin."
"Harriet may be right, I am afraid."
"If so, perhaps he isn't sinful!"
Miss Abbott was not one to encourage levity. "I know what he has
done," she said. "What he says and what he thinks is of very little
importance."
Philip smiled at her crudity. "I should like to hear, though, what he
said about me. Is he preparing a warm reception?"
"Oh, no, not that. I never told him that you and Harriet were coming.
You could have taken him by surprise if you liked. He only asked for
you, and wished he hadn't been so rude to you eighteen months ago."
"What a memory the fellow has for little things!" He turned away as he
spoke, for he did not want her to see his face. It was suffused with
pleasure. For an apology, which would have been intolerable eighteen
months ago, was gracious and agreeable now.
She would not let this pass. "You did not think it a little thing at the
time. You told me he had assaulted you."
"I lost my temper," said Philip lightly. His vanity had been appeased,
and he knew it. This tiny piece of civility had changed his mood. "Did
he really--what exactly did he say?"
"He said he was sorry--pleasantly, as Italians do say such things. But
he never mentioned the baby once."
What did the baby matter when the world was suddenly right way up?
Philip smiled, and was shocked at himself for smiling, and smiled again.
For romance had come back to Italy; there were no cads in her; she was
beautiful, courteous, lovable, as of old. And Miss Abbott--she, too, was
beautiful in her way, for all her gaucheness and conventionality.
She really cared about life, and tried to live it properly. And
Harriet--even Harriet tried.
This admirable change in Philip proceeds from nothing admirable, and
may therefore provoke the gibes of the cynical. But angels and other
practical people will accept it reverently, and write it down as good.
"The view from the Rocca (small gratuity) is finest at sunset," he
murmured, more to himself than to her.
"And he never mentioned the baby once," Miss Abbott repeated. But she
had returned to the window, and again her finger pursued the delicate
curves. He watched her in silence, and was more attracted to her than he
had ever been before. She really was the strangest mixture.
"The view from the Rocca--wasn't it fine?"
"What isn't fine here?" she answered gently, and then added, "I wish I
was Harriet," throwing an extraordinary meaning into the words.
"Because Harriet--?"
She would not go further, but he believed that she had paid homage
to the complexity of life. For her, at all events, the expedition was
neither easy nor jolly. Beauty, evil, charm, vulgarity, mystery--she
also acknowledged this tangle, in spite of herself. And her voice
thrilled him when she broke silence with "Mr. Herriton--come here--look
at this!"
She removed a pile of plates from the Gothic window, and they leant out
of it. Close opposite, wedged between mean houses, there rose up one of
the great towers. It is your tower: you stretch a barricade between it
and the hotel, and the traffic is blocked in a moment. Farther up, where
the street empties out by the church, your connections, the Merli and
the Capocchi, do likewise. They command the Piazza, you the Siena gate.
No one can move in either but he shall be instantly slain, either by
bows or by crossbows, or by Greek fire. Beware, however, of the
back bedroom windows. For they are menaced by the tower of the
Aldobrandeschi, and before now arrows have stuck quivering over the
washstand. Guard these windows well, lest there be a repetition of the
events of February 1338, when the hotel was surprised from the rear, and
your dearest friend--you could just make out that it was he--was thrown
at you over the stairs.
"It reaches up to heaven," said Philip, "and down to the other place."
The summit of the tower was radiant in the sun, while its base was in
shadow and pasted over with advertisements. "Is it to be a symbol of the
town?"
She gave no hint that she understood him. But they remained together at
the window because it was a little cooler and so pleasant. Philip
found a certain grace and lightness in his companion which he had never
noticed in England. She was appallingly narrow, but her consciousness of
wider things gave to her narrowness a pathetic charm. He did not suspect
that he was more graceful too. For our vanity is such that we hold our
own characters immutable, and we are slow to acknowledge that they have
changed, even for the better.
Citizens came out for a little stroll before dinner. Some of them stood
and gazed at the advertisements on the tower.
"Surely that isn't an opera-bill?" said Miss Abbott.
Philip put on his pince-nez. "'Lucia di Lammermoor. By the Master
Donizetti. Unique representation. This evening.'
"But is there an opera? Right up here?"
"Why, yes. These people know how to live. They would sooner have a thing
bad than not have it at all. That is why they have got to have so much
that is good. However bad the performance is tonight, it will be alive.
Italians don't love music silently, like the beastly Germans. The
audience takes its share--sometimes more."
"Can't we go?"
He turned on her, but not unkindly. "But we're here to rescue a child!"
He cursed himself for the remark. All the pleasure and the light went
out of her face, and she became again Miss Abbott of Sawston--good, oh,
most undoubtedly good, but most appallingly dull. Dull and remorseful:
it is a deadly combination, and he strove against it in vain till he was
interrupted by the opening of the dining-room door.
They started as guiltily as if they had been flirting. Their interview
had taken such an unexpected course. Anger, cynicism, stubborn
morality--all had ended in a feeling of good-will towards each other
and towards the city which had received them. And now Harriet
was here--acrid, indissoluble, large; the same in Italy as in
England--changing her disposition never, and her atmosphere under
protest.
Yet even Harriet was human, and the better for a little tea. She did not
scold Philip for finding Gino out, as she might reasonably have done.
She showered civilities on Miss Abbott, exclaiming again and again
that Caroline's visit was one of the most fortunate coincidences in the
world. Caroline did not contradict her.
"You see him tomorrow at ten, Philip. Well, don't forget the blank
cheque. Say an hour for the business. No, Italians are so slow; say two.
Twelve o'clock. Lunch. Well--then it's no good going till the evening
train. I can manage the baby as far as Florence--"
"My dear sister, you can't run on like that. You don't buy a pair of
gloves in two hours, much less a baby."
"Three hours, then, or four; or make him learn English ways. At Florence
we get a nurse--"
"But, Harriet," said Miss Abbott, "what if at first he was to refuse?"
"I don't know the meaning of the word," said Harriet impressively. "I've
told the landlady that Philip and I only want our rooms one night, and
we shall keep to it."
"I dare say it will be all right. But, as I told you, I thought the man
I met on the Rocca a strange, difficult man."
"He's insolent to ladies, we know. But my brother can be trusted to
bring him to his senses. That woman, Philip, whom you saw will carry the
baby to the hotel. Of course you must tip her for it. And try, if you
can, to get poor Lilia's silver bangles. They were nice quiet things,
and will do for Irma. And there is an inlaid box I lent her--lent, not
gave--to keep her handkerchiefs in. It's of no real value; but this is
our only chance. Don't ask for it; but if you see it lying about, just
say--"
"No, Harriet; I'll try for the baby, but for nothing else. I promise
to do that tomorrow, and to do it in the way you wish. But tonight, as
we're all tired, we want a change of topic. We want relaxation. We want
to go to the theatre."
"Theatres here? And at such a moment?"
"We should hardly enjoy it, with the great interview impending," said
Miss Abbott, with an anxious glance at Philip.
He did not betray her, but said, "Don't you think it's better than
sitting in all the evening and getting nervous?"
His sister shook her head. "Mother wouldn't like it. It would be most
unsuitable--almost irreverent. Besides all that, foreign theatres
are notorious. Don't you remember those letters in the 'Church Family
Newspaper'?"
"But this is an opera--'Lucia di Lammermoor'--Sir Walter
Scott--classical, you know."
Harriet's face grew resigned. "Certainly one has so few opportunities
of hearing music. It is sure to be very bad. But it might be better than
sitting idle all the evening. We have no book, and I lost my crochet at
Florence."
"Good. Miss Abbott, you are coming too?"
"It is very kind of you, Mr. Herriton. In some ways I should enjoy
it; but--excuse the suggestion--I don't think we ought to go to cheap
seats."
"Good gracious me!" cried Harriet, "I should never have thought of that.
As likely as not, we should have tried to save money and sat among the
most awful people. One keeps on forgetting this is Italy."
"Unfortunately I have no evening dress; and if the seats--"
"Oh, that'll be all right," said Philip, smiling at his timorous,
scrupulous women-kind. "We'll go as we are, and buy the best we can get.
Monteriano is not formal."
So this strenuous day of resolutions, plans, alarms, battles, victories,
defeats, truces, ended at the opera. Miss Abbott and Harriet were both
a little shame-faced. They thought of their friends at Sawston, who were
supposing them to be now tilting against the powers of evil. What would
Mrs. Herriton, or Irma, or the curates at the Back Kitchen say if they
could see the rescue party at a place of amusement on the very first day
of its mission? Philip, too, marvelled at his wish to go. He began
to see that he was enjoying his time in Monteriano, in spite of the
tiresomeness of his companions and the occasional contrariness of
himself.
He had been to this theatre many years before, on the occasion of a
performance of "La Zia di Carlo." Since then it had been thoroughly done
up, in the tints of the beet-root and the tomato, and was in many other
ways a credit to the little town. The orchestra had been enlarged,
some of the boxes had terra-cotta draperies, and over each box was now
suspended an enormous tablet, neatly framed, bearing upon it the number
of that box. There was also a drop-scene, representing a pink and purple
landscape, wherein sported many a lady lightly clad, and two more ladies
lay along the top of the proscenium to steady a large and pallid clock.
So rich and so appalling was the effect, that Philip could scarcely
suppress a cry. There is something majestic in the bad taste of Italy;
it is not the bad taste of a country which knows no better; it has not
the nervous vulgarity of England, or the blinded vulgarity of Germany.
It observes beauty, and chooses to pass it by. But it attains to
beauty's confidence. This tiny theatre of Monteriano spraddled and
swaggered with the best of them, and these ladies with their clock would
have nodded to the young men on the ceiling of the Sistine.
Philip had tried for a box, but all the best were taken: it was rather
a grand performance, and he had to be content with stalls. Harriet was
fretful and insular. Miss Abbott was pleasant, and insisted on praising
everything: her only regret was that she had no pretty clothes with her.
"We do all right," said Philip, amused at her unwonted vanity.
"Yes, I know; but pretty things pack as easily as ugly ones. We had no
need to come to Italy like guys."
This time he did not reply, "But we're here to rescue a baby." For
he saw a charming picture, as charming a picture as he had seen for
years--the hot red theatre; outside the theatre, towers and dark gates
and mediaeval walls; beyond the walls olive-trees in the starlight and
white winding roads and fireflies and untroubled dust; and here in the
middle of it all, Miss Abbott, wishing she had not come looking like a
guy. She had made the right remark. Most undoubtedly she had made the
right remark. This stiff suburban woman was unbending before the shrine.
"Don't you like it at all?" he asked her.
"Most awfully." And by this bald interchange they convinced each other
that Romance was here.
Harriet, meanwhile, had been coughing ominously at the drop-scene, which
presently rose on the grounds of Ravenswood, and the chorus of Scotch
retainers burst into cry. The audience accompanied with tappings and
drummings, swaying in the melody like corn in the wind. Harriet, though
she did not care for music, knew how to listen to it. She uttered an
acid "Shish!"
"Shut it," whispered her brother.
"We must make a stand from the beginning. They're talking."
"It is tiresome," murmured Miss Abbott; "but perhaps it isn't for us to
interfere."
Harriet shook her head and shished again. The people were quiet, not
because it is wrong to talk during a chorus, but because it is natural
to be civil to a visitor. For a little time she kept the whole house in
order, and could smile at her brother complacently.
Her success annoyed him. He had grasped the principle of opera in
Italy--it aims not at illusion but at entertainment--and he did not want
this great evening-party to turn into a prayer-meeting. But soon the
boxes began to fill, and Harriet's power was over. Families greeted each
other across the auditorium. People in the pit hailed their brothers and
sons in the chorus, and told them how well they were singing. When Lucia
appeared by the fountain there was loud applause, and cries of "Welcome
to Monteriano!"
"Ridiculous babies!" said Harriet, settling down in her stall.
"Why, it is the famous hot lady of the Apennines," cried Philip; "the
one who had never, never before--"
"Ugh! Don't. She will be very vulgar. And I'm sure it's even worse here
than in the tunnel. I wish we'd never--"
Lucia began to sing, and there was a moment's silence. She was stout
and ugly; but her voice was still beautiful, and as she sang the theatre
murmured like a hive of happy bees. All through the coloratura she
was accompanied by sighs, and its top note was drowned in a shout of
universal joy.
So the opera proceeded. The singers drew inspiration from the audience,
and the two great sextettes were rendered not unworthily. Miss Abbott
fell into the spirit of the thing. She, too, chatted and laughed and
applauded and encored, and rejoiced in the existence of beauty. As for
Philip, he forgot himself as well as his mission. He was not even an
enthusiastic visitor. For he had been in this place always. It was his
home.
Harriet, like M. Bovary on a more famous occasion, was trying to follow
the plot. Occasionally she nudged her companions, and asked them what
had become of Walter Scott. She looked round grimly. The audience
sounded drunk, and even Caroline, who never took a drop, was swaying
oddly. Violent waves of excitement, all arising from very little, went
sweeping round the theatre. The climax was reached in the mad scene.
Lucia, clad in white, as befitted her malady, suddenly gathered up her
streaming hair and bowed her acknowledgment to the audience. Then from
the back of the stage--she feigned not to see it--there advanced a kind
of bamboo clothes-horse, stuck all over with bouquets. It was very ugly,
and most of the flowers in it were false. Lucia knew this, and so did
the audience; and they all knew that the clothes-horse was a piece of
stage property, brought in to make the performance go year after year.
None the less did it unloose the great deeps. With a scream of amazement
and joy she embraced the animal, pulled out one or two practicable
blossoms, pressed them to her lips, and flung them into her admirers.
They flung them back, with loud melodious cries, and a little boy in one
of the stageboxes snatched up his sister's carnations and offered them.
"Che carino!" exclaimed the singer. She darted at the little boy and
kissed him. Now the noise became tremendous. "Silence! silence!" shouted
many old gentlemen behind. "Let the divine creature continue!" But
the young men in the adjacent box were imploring Lucia to extend her
civility to them. She refused, with a humorous, expressive gesture. One
of them hurled a bouquet at her. She spurned it with her foot. Then,
encouraged by the roars of the audience, she picked it up and tossed it
to them. Harriet was always unfortunate. The bouquet struck her full in
the chest, and a little billet-doux fell out of it into her lap.
"Call this classical!" she cried, rising from her seat. "It's not even
respectable! Philip! take me out at once."
"Whose is it?" shouted her brother, holding up the bouquet in one hand
and the billet-doux in the other. "Whose is it?"
The house exploded, and one of the boxes was violently agitated, as if
some one was being hauled to the front. Harriet moved down the gangway,
and compelled Miss Abbott to follow her. Philip, still laughing
and calling "Whose is it?" brought up the rear. He was drunk with
excitement. The heat, the fatigue, and the enjoyment had mounted into
his head.
"To the left!" the people cried. "The innamorato is to the left."
He deserted his ladies and plunged towards the box. A young man was
flung stomach downwards across the balustrade. Philip handed him up the
bouquet and the note. Then his own hands were seized affectionately. It
all seemed quite natural.
"Why have you not written?" cried the young man. "Why do you take me by
surprise?"
"Oh, I've written," said Philip hilariously. "I left a note this
afternoon."
"Silence! silence!" cried the audience, who were beginning to have
enough. "Let the divine creature continue." Miss Abbott and Harriet had
disappeared.
"No! no!" cried the young man. "You don't escape me now." For Philip was
trying feebly to disengage his hands. Amiable youths bent out of the box
and invited him to enter it.
"Gino's friends are ours--"
"Friends?" cried Gino. "A relative! A brother! Fra Filippo, who has come
all the way from England and never written."
"I left a message."
The audience began to hiss.
"Come in to us."
"Thank you--ladies--there is not time--"
The next moment he was swinging by his arms. The moment after he shot
over the balustrade into the box. Then the conductor, seeing that the
incident was over, raised his baton. The house was hushed, and Lucia di
Lammermoor resumed her song of madness and death.
Philip had whispered introductions to the pleasant people who had pulled
him in--tradesmen's sons perhaps they were, or medical students, or
solicitors' clerks, or sons of other dentists. There is no knowing who
is who in Italy. The guest of the evening was a private soldier. He
shared the honour now with Philip. The two had to stand side by side in
the front, and exchange compliments, whilst Gino presided, courteous,
but delightfully familiar. Philip would have a spasm of horror at the
muddle he had made. But the spasm would pass, and again he would be
enchanted by the kind, cheerful voices, the laughter that was never
vapid, and the light caress of the arm across his back.
He could not get away till the play was nearly finished, and Edgardo was
singing amongst the tombs of ancestors. His new friends hoped to see him
at the Garibaldi tomorrow evening. He promised; then he remembered that
if they kept to Harriet's plan he would have left Monteriano. "At ten
o'clock, then," he said to Gino. "I want to speak to you alone. At ten."
"Certainly!" laughed the other.
Miss Abbott was sitting up for him when he got back. Harriet, it seemed,
had gone straight to bed.
"That was he, wasn't it?" she asked.
"Yes, rather."
"I suppose you didn't settle anything?"
"Why, no; how could I? The fact is--well, I got taken by surprise,
but after all, what does it matter? There's no earthly reason why we
shouldn't do the business pleasantly. He's a perfectly charming person,
and so are his friends. I'm his friend now--his long-lost brother.
What's the harm? I tell you, Miss Abbott, it's one thing for England and
another for Italy. There we plan and get on high moral horses. Here
we find what asses we are, for things go off quite easily, all by
themselves. My hat, what a night! Did you ever see a really purple sky
and really silver stars before? Well, as I was saying, it's absurd to
worry; he's not a porky father. He wants that baby as little as I do.
He's been ragging my dear mother--just as he ragged me eighteen months
ago, and I've forgiven him. Oh, but he has a sense of humour!"
Miss Abbott, too, had a wonderful evening, nor did she ever remember
such stars or such a sky. Her head, too, was full of music, and that
night when she opened the window her room was filled with warm, sweet
air. She was bathed in beauty within and without; she could not go to
bed for happiness. Had she ever been so happy before? Yes, once before,
and here, a night in March, the night Gino and Lilia had told her of
their love--the night whose evil she had come now to undo.
Sie gab einen plötzlichen Schrei der Scham von sich. "Dieses Mal - der gleiche Ort - das Gleiche" - und sie begann ihr Glück niederzuschlagen, wissend, dass es sündhaft war. Sie war hier, um gegen diesen Ort anzukämpfen, um eine kleine Seele zu retten - die noch unschuldig war. Sie war hier, um für Moral und Reinheit zu kämpfen und für das heilige Leben eines englischen Zuhauses. Im Frühling hatte sie aus Unwissenheit gesündigt; sie war jetzt nicht mehr unwissend. "Hilf mir!", rief sie und schloss das Fenster, als ob es Magie in der umgebenden Luft gäbe. Aber die Melodien wollten nicht aus ihrem Kopf verschwinden, und die ganze Nacht über wurde sie von einem Strom aus Musik gequält, von Applaus und Gelächter und wütenden jungen Männern, die das Distichon aus Baedeker riefen:
Poggibonizzi fatti in la,
Che Monteriano si fa citta!
Poggibonsi wurde ihr enthüllt, als sie sangen - ein freudloser, zerzauster Ort, voller Menschen, die vorgaben. Als sie aufwachte, wusste sie, dass es Sawston gewesen war.
Kannst du eine angemessene Zusammenfassung der obigen Absätze schreiben? | Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohärente und für den Nutzer einfach zu verstehende Zusammenfassungen zu schreiben. Hierbei beziehst du dich ausschließlich aus denen dir gegebenen bzw. vom Nutzer bereitstellten Texten. Du beziehst dich nur auf Fakten und von vorhandene Informationen. Du denkst dir keine Antworten aus und antwortest ehrlich, falls du eine Antwort nicht kennst. | Philip und Harriet machen die lange Zugreise von London nach Monteriano. Auf ihrer Reise bekommt Harriet "Ruß ins Auge", nachdem sie darauf besteht, das Zugfenster offen zu lassen. Als sie in Florenz ankommen, ist Harriet noch schlechter gelaunt als sonst. Im Gegensatz zu Philip, der gerne reist und Italien liebt, misstraut Harriet Ausländern zutiefst und hasst es, die Sicherheit ihres eigenen Zuhauses zu verlassen. An einem Punkt kritisiert Harriet ihren Bruder dafür, dass er keinen soliden Plan hat, was mit dem Baby zu tun ist, und beschuldigt ihn, sich überhaupt nicht um das Wohl des Kindes zu kümmern. Philip ignoriert sie, aber er weiß, dass sie recht hat - ihm ist das Baby völlig egal, aber er beabsichtigt, seine Pflicht zu erfüllen. Er hofft, dass Gino eine angemessene Geldsumme akzeptieren wird, um das Kind so schnell wie möglich zu lösen. Als sie endlich im Hotel ankommen, besteht Harriet darauf, dass ihr Bruder sofort zu Gino geht, um über das Baby zu sprechen. Philip protestiert und sagt, dass er seinen Nachmittagstee haben möchte, aber Harriet bleibt standhaft. In diesem Moment taucht Miss Abbott auf – wie es der Zufall will, ist sie im selben Hotel untergebracht. Um sich an Harriet zu rächen, weil sie ihm Befehle gibt, schlägt Philip vor, dass sie und Miss Abbott sich treffen sollten, da Harriet Caroline nun als Feind betrachtet. Philip macht sich auf den Weg, um Gino einen Besuch abzustatten, aber als er im Haus ankommt, informiert ihn Perfetta, dass Gino nicht da ist. Was für ein Pech! Philip gibt Perfetta seine Visitenkarte und kehrt zum Hotel zurück, wo er wieder auf Miss Abbott trifft. Miss Abbott gibt zu, dass sie als "Spionin" nach Monteriano gekommen ist, weil sie vermutet, dass Mrs. Herriton das Baby tatsächlich nicht zurückhaben will. Caroline erzählt Philip, dass sie einen Tag vor ihm angekommen ist und gestern Gino in der Rocca getroffen hat, die einen wunderschönen Ausblick auf die Stadt bei Sonnenuntergang bietet. Ihr Gespräch mit Gino beschränkte sich größtenteils auf das Wetter, und sie erwähnte das Baby überhaupt nicht. Mit nichts zu tun an diesem Abend schlägt Philip vor, dass sie alle ins Theater gehen sollten, um Lucia di Lammermoor anzusehen, eine Oper, die auf dem Roman The Bride of Lammermoor von Sir Walter Scott basiert. Obwohl die Italiener im Publikum laut sind, finden Philip und Miss Abbott sie charmant. Harriet hingegen bittet sie ständig leise zu sein und wird an einer Stelle in die Brust getroffen, als die Schauspielerin, die Lucia spielt, Blumen ins Publikum wirft. Philip hebt den Strauß auf und gibt ihn einem jungen Italiener, der sich als Gino herausstellt! Ja, wir wissen, dass dieser Roman voller zufälliger Begegnungen ist. Gino, der ihn als seinen "verlorenen Bruder" umarmt, stimmt freudig zu, sich am nächsten Tag mit ihm zu treffen. |
"Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frag(...TRUNCATED) | "Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohären(...TRUNCATED) | "Wie in den Teilen I und II bricht auch Teil III mit den vorherigen Abschnitten und führt völlig n(...TRUNCATED) |
"Nachfolgend findest du Texte aus unterschiedlichen Quellen. Merke dir diese und beantworte die Frag(...TRUNCATED) | "Du bist ein freundlicher und hilfreicher KI-Assistent. Deine Aufgabe ist es, faktenreiche, kohären(...TRUNCATED) | "Catherine und Isabella kennen sich seit etwa zehn Tagen. Sie treffen sich im Pump-room, dem beliebt(...TRUNCATED) |
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A german translation for the booksum dataset.
Extracted from seedboxventures/multitask_german_examples_32k.
Translation created by seedbox ai for KafkaLM ❤️.
Available for finetuning in hiyouga/LLaMA-Factory.
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